The Perils of Pauline by Collette Yvonne Page B

They instantly fell for the down-to-earth style of their new fresh-faced young advisor from Montreal. Mom said, “He’s smart as a whip,” and added the information—so many times I wanted to scream—“He’s so handsome. He won a scholarship to Harvard, you know. You have to meet him.”
    That was a dozen years ago. Now, a less than fresh-faced whip is snoring on the couch in the living room.
    “Whatever happened to Brian? I thought you really liked him?”
    “I do. We’re still friends. I’m not about to make a commitment. Not after being tied down with one man for thirty-seven years. Good Lord. You have no idea how dull that can get.”
    In my head I multiply ten years by three and add seven. The result is a vision of Donald stretched out on the couch, still snoring, still clutching the remote. His hair is totally grey. Worse, we still have the same couch.
     
    Where does the time go? I’m already three weeks into my courses and I’ve homework piled up to my ears.
    The kids have taken turns being sick with colds for the past week, causing me to miss classes and get further behind in all my courses. Both Olympia and Jack are home from school today, sore throated and feverish, but still upright and combat ready. I spent the whole morning at the doctor’s office and the drug store. Now the afternoon will be devoted to holding the line at home.
    After constructing a giant fort with the entire household supply of cushions, pillows, and comforters in the middle of the living room, Jack teases Olympia by singing over and over, “Elmo’s dead, Elmo’s dead” until she screams and punches him. His nosebleed creates convincing evidence of a massacre in the fort. I’ll clean up later. Right now I need a sandwich and a cup of tea. As I sit down at the kitchen table, Donald walks through the door, carrying a new golf bag.
    The bag looks expensive and has the Doubles logo on it.
    “All the advisors got one,” says Donald who goes on to extol the virtues of the amazing Lindsay Bambraugh, who is currently donating her personal time to set up a Doubles charity golf tournament. The proceeds will go to the Boston Children’s Hospital. According to Donald, Lindsay is “a big-hearted and generous woman,” not to mention “a visionary who knows how to do business.”
    I can feel my toes curling up inside my shoes at the thought of Donald and Lindsay teeing off together at the golf tournement. I break into Donald’s admiration fest. “I didn’t know you were coming home for lunch today.”
    “I’m not home for lunch. I came home to get ready for the conference, pack my things.”
    “Conference?”
    “The annual conference. That one I go to every year in June?”
    “I thought you already had it? A couple of weekends ago? When you went to Chicago?”
    “That was the divisional. This one is the main one, the national.”
    “You could’ve reminded me.”
    “It’s on the calendar.”
    “Sorry. My bad. I forgot to check.”
    Google calendar is our main artery of planning and communication. I haven’t checked it for weeks. Since losing my job, I’ve fallen right out of sync.
    “How’re the kids doing?” He peeks into the living room where Jack and Olympia are eating tuna sandwiches in their fort. “You’re letting them eat in the living room? I thought we made a rule about that.”
    “They both have colds. I decided to let the living room rule slide for today. Since they’re sick. They wanted to have a picnic. How am I? I’m exhausted, thank you for asking.”
    Donald glares at me and I glare back at him. “I was about to ask how you are. What’s wrong?”
    “The sitter called and she can’t babysit tonight so there goes my hockey game.”
    “Can’t you find anyone else?”
    “Are you kidding? On a Friday night?”
    “What about Serenity?”
    “She and Shae have concert tickets. Forget about it. I probably wouldn’t go anyway, with the kids sick.”
     
    An hour later Donald comes downstairs,