Lauren Takes Leave (12 page)

But then I wonder, if he doesn’t notice any change, does
that mean the procedure was successful? Or, isn’t the whole point of getting
Botox done to have people gushing about how fabulous you look?

See, I’m already self-obsessed, and I haven’t even had botulism
injected under my skin yet.

I enter the elevator in Dr. Grossman’s office building and
hit “3.” The back wall is covered with mirrored panels, so I turn and stare at
myself some more.

I never really thought about my forehead much. If I do go
through with this today, I know I’ll examine my face all the time. I’ll have to
watch my forehead change, and then worry about it, and then run back to the
doctor’s office to maintain the perfection of it. Maintenance is expensive, and
it’s perpetual.

As it is, I have hair color to maintain, and we all know
how well I’ve done at that. And let’s not even talk about my bikini area.

I’ve heard that if you don’t keep up with the Botox
schedule, your face morphs dramatically overnight. Like, for a few months
you’re all smooth and glowy like a freshly picked apple and then, boom! You
wake up on the morning after the expiration date looking like an apple-head doll.
Wear a cloak and people will start asking you to perform voodoo.

Plus, there’s cost to think about. I keep some of my
teaching salary for fun splurges. Would I rather have new clothes or a
wrinkle-free brow?

If I started tutoring kids after school, maybe I could
afford both.

Tutoring for Botox? Is that crazy or inspired?

Though I’m still undecided when I reach the receptionist’s
desk, I give my name and wait to hear what Dr. Grossman’s opinion will be.

In the waiting room, I check my e-mails and see that there
is a follow up from Lenny. I am expecting it to be another group message, but
this one’s personal.

So, what did you think? I’m waiting.

My heart lurches a little. I scold myself, but I write back
immediately:

Not bad.

I’m about to write more, but a woman in teddy bear scrubs
opens the glass partition and calls, “Lauren Worthing? The doctor’s ready for
you,” so I hit “send” and take a deep breath.

As we walk the pale hallway, I imagine meeting Lenny for
drinks in the city sometime in the near future. As I swivel toward him on my
bar stool, he tells me that I look as great as I did in high school. No!
Even
better than ever, Lauren, like you haven’t aged a day.

In the examination room, I hop up onto the giant reclining
chair and wait. “Change into this backless paper gown,” the teddy bear
assistant directs. “And the doctor will be with you in a few moments.”

“But I’m just having him look at my face,” I explain.

“Still. We like to embarrass everyone. Please put on the
gown.” As she pulls open the door to leave the room, I catch a glimpse of the
next patient being taken down the hall.

The woman is frumpy and in late middle age, with drab
brown hair styled like the queen of England’s.

Oh my God, I know a woman with hair like that. It’s
Martha, my principal! She turns her head toward the nurse walking beside her,
and in that moment my worst suspicions are confirmed. She’s here. I quickly
close the door and duck out of sight.

By the time Dr. Grossman comes into the room I am an
emotional wreck. “I can’t do this!” I say, the tears welling up in my eyes.
“It’s just crazy! It’s not who I am!” I tuck the paper gown under my butt.

“It’s okay, Lauren,” Dr. Grossman begins, sitting down on
his leather-covered stool and then wheeling over to my side. “So many women
feel the way you do when beginning treatment with Botox or other fillers.” He
scratches his balding head, displacing a tiny tuft of white hair, and smiles up
at me. “But I think you’ll find that, while the decision-making part of the
process can be difficult, the rewards will immediately make up for any
conflicted feelings you are experiencing right now. In only two days, results
may be visible!”

“I’m such a liar,” I sob.

“
Lying
is a strong word for the most popular
cosmetic procedure in America. I prefer to view this as an aesthetic fib.”

“It’s not just the Botox,” I try to explain. “It’s
everything. I’m having some honesty issues. At home, at work, in general.”

“Ah, I see. A midlife crisis, perhaps?” He opens my file
and takes a look. “You’re thirty-nine. Sounds like you are right on schedule
for yours.” He smiles wanly.

“Let me guess. If I just get Botox, all my problems will
be erased?” I joke.

“Well, no. These lines right here will
be erased.”
He hands me a tissue and gently examines the crease between my eyebrows. “But
the rest is much harder to smooth over. Why do you think I became a
dermatologist instead of a psychiatrist?” He shrugs, moving across the room to
prepare the syringe. “I wave my magic wand and miracles happen. In many cases,
I can instantly make my patients happy. Not so with psychiatry.”

“So you’re saying I should quit seeing my shrink and just
come to you?”

The intercom beeps and a voice fills the room. “Dr.
Grossman, call from Columbia Presbyterian on line two.”

He puts down the supplies and takes off his rubber gloves.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to take this. We’ve been playing phone tag all
day. It’ll just be a minute.” He leaves me alone with my paper gown and some
thoughts.

I haven’t seen my psychiatrist, Dr. Joan, for about a year
now. Maybe I should have gone to her office today instead of here, I consider,
fighting off the nausea building in my throat. But then I remember: I always
leave her office crying, and there are never any visible results. It’s an
endless loop.
Time’s up, come back next week and we’ll keep talking about
your lame, upper-middle-class problems.
For years and years and years!

Time to try something new.

That’s what Dr. Joan always wanted for me, after all, to
break out of my rut. What would she say?
You suffer from Good Girl syndrome.
Don’t always worry about what other people will think of you, if they will
approve of your decisions, your clothing, your actions. All those competing
voices are keeping you from shaping your life your own way. Dig deep and decide
what’s right for you. Then you can go out and find it.

Dr. Grossman coughs as he re-enters the room. He crosses
to the counter to get a new pair of gloves from the box, then adjusts the
glasses on the bridge of his nose. “So. Are we ready to do this?” he asks,
handing me a mirror and scooting to my side on his wheelie stool.

“Indeed!” I chirp, doubts erased, looking at my face as he
continues. It comes out perhaps a bit louder than necessary, making Dr.
Grossman jump a little.

“Okay, then. I’d like to start by just injecting this area
between the eyebrows, called the glabellar lines. They are creating this number
eleven you’ve got right there, and they tend to make one seem angry. Botox is
really good at freezing these muscles and smoothing them out. You’re young,
still, so this treatment might be enough. If not, as a second line of defense,
I’d have you come back and I’d use a filler like Restylane to plump it up.
Okay?”

To me it sounds like
blahblahblahblahblah
, followed
by a cash register opening, cha-ching!

“Yup!” I gush. “Okay!” My heart is beating wildly. This
decision has released so much adrenaline that I have to mentally try to slow my
insides down.
Deep breaths, Lauren. In and out.

The needle advances.

“Now, you’re going to feel a pinch. There. And another,
there. And one more. And…done.”

He hands me some gauze soaked in alcohol and tells me to
hang tight for a while, holding the swab over the sight of my former elevens.
“Remember, these are surface changes, Lauren. They will help, but they won’t
solve what’s really bothering you. I’ve been removing those warts from your
feet for thirty years.” Dr. Grossman removes his gloves and clasps his hands
together. “And so
I
know that
you
know what really matters.
You’ll figure it out,” he adds, opening the door and waving a good-bye.

A mellow old sage, with all the confidence in the world
that I will do right.

Dr. Grossman is like my very own Yoda.

I try to pay the (very expensive) bill quickly and
without bumping into Martha. I locate a pair of slightly crooked sunglasses in
the bottom of my handbag and put them on. Martha’s voice carries down the hall,
and, just as it gets louder, she turns the corner and I pass through the wooden
office door and out of sight.

I hope there is some confusion about Martha’s insurance
that significantly delays her exit.

I consider taking the stairs to ensure a fast departure,
but get sidetracked by my appearance in the elevator bank’s wavy silver doors.

My forehead looks pretty normal, though there is some
stinging at the precise points where the toxin was injected. It’s hard to tell
exactly how much bruising there is, since it’s kind of dark in the hallway.
When the doors open, revealing the mirrored back wall of the elevator, I press “L”
and go stare at my reflection under the fluorescent light.

A voice calls “Hold that door!” just as it’s closing. It’s
Martha, goddammit! Her sensible right shoe is about to encounter the sensor.
The doors will push back to let her in.

And if that happens, I shall be screwed.

I frantically hit the “close” button and try to push the
doors shut with sheer mind strength.

And, magically, it works.

But not before Martha gets a good, clear look at me and I
at her. “Lauren?” she whisper-asks. Her brow wrinkles in a way that mine may
never do again.

And then she’s gone.

I collapse against one wall and cough out nervous laughter
that ricochets around the empty elevator, making me sound like a mentally
unstable cartoon villain. My heart slows to a gallop.

Martha was so surprised and confused to see me out of place
like this just now that she actually used my first name. Unheard of!
Revolutionary!

This cannot be good.

I start moving as soon as the doors separate. I’m across
the lobby and pushing around the revolving glass doors when I hear her behind
me.

Damn you, stupid revolving doors! You are a death trap for
errant schoolteachers everywhere.

“Mrs. Worthing?”

Lauren
, I coach myself,
be invisible
.
Be
deaf, blind,
and
invisible. And pretend to talk on the phone. Yes! Be
deaf, blind, invisible
and
distracted, and move your ass as fast as you
can across that parking lot and into the safety of your vehicle.

I move my ass, move my ass, move my ass across the parking
lot.

Using the remote start button on my keychain, I prepare my
minivan for immediate takeoff and hop inside.

I put my foot on the gas and accelerate quickly, only to
be stopped by a red-and-white-striped gate at the end of the parking lot.
“Hurry, hurry!” I say, searching through my wallet for the white paper ticket
and inserting it into the credit card slot. I inspect my rearview mirror,
scoping for signs of Martha, feeling very much like Marty McFly when his flux
capacitor isn’t fluxing. Time is running out. “C’mon…c’mon!” I pray.

The barrier pulls up and lets me through. “Yes!” I exhale,
bumping my palm against the steering wheel in a sort of high five. The victory
music from
Back to the Future
plays in my head like my very own
inspirational soundtrack. As I make a left turn, I check the rearview mirror
once again. Martha’s car pulls up to the exit kiosk, just as the arm of the
gate drops in front of it.

Ha! Take that, lady! You and your moles are no match for
Team Worthing.

I’m figuring it out, Dr. Grossman.

Really.

At a red light, I take a deep breath, letting go of any
tension from my narrow escape. I need to mentally toughen up before driving the
next half mile back to my house.

I wonder what today’s welcome-home surprise will be. No
baths? Homework not done? Piano teacher pissed off? Something on fire?

My phone vibrates, letting me know that a text has come
in. It’s Georgie.

Glad to hear from you! I’ll be in my usual place,
11:00.

I write back quickly, before the light changes to green.
It’s
been a long time.
C u soon.

Looking forward to it
bubbles back her response.

My house is unnaturally still when I enter. “Ben?” I call
out. “Becca? Laney?” I move cautiously into the kitchen, hoping my family
hasn’t been massacred.

Sometimes I get macabre.

A yellow Post-it is attached to the refrigerator, reading
Gone
to park 3:30
.

Huh. Laney took my kids outside. For physical activity.
Some vitamin D. Astonishing.

She must want something.

A raise?

Complete ownership of my ceramic straightening iron?

I riffle through the possibilities while heading back out
the front door and down the block. At the curve in the road, I take the shady
dirt path through the woods, which opens onto a baseball field and playground.
There, on the blacktop basketball courts, with their bicycles (their
bicycles
!),
are my children. Laney is standing by, cheering them on. She’s not texting on
her phone, listening to her iPod, or even chatting it up with another
babysitter in the park. She’s actually paying attention to my kids and having
fun with them.

It’s been a while since she’s done that.

Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve done
that.

“Mommy!” Becca calls, seeing me emerge through the trees.
“Look!”

I watch as she pushes down hard on the petals and gets the
bike to move steadily forward without needing a shove from behind. “That’s
super-duper, puppy!” I call, feeling warmth spread through me. Who knew such a
small action could inspire me to cheer so loudly? And when did Becca get so
big?