by Kelly Harms
And this being New York, no one bats an eye.
I collect my things and go back to the building. There is still no doorman, no mailboxes, no buzzers, no way in.
I wait ten minutes. No one so much as walks down this side of the street, much less opens the door.
I look harder for a buzzer, planning to start disturbing the neighbors. There is no buzzer. In what universe is there an apartment building with no doorman but also no buzzer? This cannot be the right place. I triple-check the numbers on the door against the numbers Talia sent me. This is the correct address. Could a person get her own address wrong? Could she have given me the wrong street name?
Who would do that, though?
For the tenth time now I scroll back to our minimal planning. She said to text before I came; I texted. She wrote back telling me to go straight to the apartment and that she’d “tell the people downstairs to watch for” me. I assumed that meant there would be a doorman. What other people downstairs could there be? Maybe a landlord or super? But there’s no basement apartment where such a person would be accessible, and no way to the back of the building that I can see either. Just a locked side door with no window that I presume is for trash removal.
Totally stumped, I step to the other side of the street and look up at the building. This is a big, amazing city. People work all kinds of hours. Someone must be home right now.
But the windows are all dark, reflecting the city back to me, and on this fine, sunny day, there is no way of knowing who is home. Or if anyone lives here at all. Or what the hell is going on.
I call Talia again. This voice mail is a little more panicky. When I hang up, I realize it is time for me to give up on this building and move on to plan B.
But what on earth is my plan B?
—
There was one moment after John left, not a long one but a real one, when I thought I was going to die.
It was money that did it. Money, a broken tooth, and bed-wetting.
Joe was eight years old. He was a late bloomer in everything, so different from Cori, who, after spending a day at her grandmother’s farm and playing with older kids from a neighboring farm with no indoor plumbing, asked them why they went into the tiny house with the moon shape cut into the door. They explained—quite clearly, I suppose—that tinkling in your diaper was for babies, and from that day on she peed in a little potty I had to put outside and rig a tarp around. I’m not sure what we would have done if it had been winter. A few weeks of that, and she came in, climbed up on the real toilet, pooped, and demanded a cookie, and that was toilet training.
Joe, not so much. For Joe I tried all culturally approved methods, including letting him toddle around the house naked from the waist down, which resulted in pee in all rooms of the house except for the bathroom. I had some decent success with bribing him with toy trains, but at night he used a pull-up diaper for a year longer than many moms might have tolerated. My mom, especially, was horrified by this, and I remember crying from the disapproval after every visit. Even after all that tolerance, though, when he was finally in “big-boy underpants” and completely housebroken by day, if he got sick, had a nightmare, or drank too much before bed, he’d wake up wet until he was almost five.
Then, three years later, his dad disappeared, and Joe took it out on his mattress pad.
I was already tired. Cori was so mad all the time. She called me names, said I was ugly and that was why her dad left, said she was ugly and that was why her dad left, said she hoped he would die. After any little normal frustration of life, like a lost shoe or a hard test, she’d rail and rail, and then after twenty minutes she’d let me put my arms around her, and she’d cry and cry. Joe had started sneaking into my bed, coming in silently around four a.m., tossing and turning and kicking me after he was out cold again, leaving me to choose between his twin bunk or the couch until the sun came up. We were out of money, but I refused to consider selling the house and was paying old bills out of the modest salary I got from Country Day and then putting new bills on one of three low-rate introductory cards I’d taken out the minute I’d realized I could. I hadn’t figured out how to be a working single mother yet. I was disorganized and grieving and wouldn’t surrender to the situation, too wedded to the idea that this all was temporary, that it was only a matter of time before John appeared back in our lives.
So we were surviving, but only just.
Then I got a cold. It was just a run-of-the-mill cold, but it was enough to destroy our precious balance. I couldn’t get myself to cook after a long day, so we ordered pizza, so we ran up more bills, so we maxed out a card. I was stoned on DayQuil all day and got reprimanded at work, and Cori caught me crying in the car. Then I caught her shoplifting a lipstick. Then Joe started wetting his bed. That added a half hour of awake time to my night, changing sheets and getting him back to bed, and hours of worry to my day. Then while he and I were visiting the child psychologist I couldn’t afford to deal with the bedwetting, Cori fell off some friend’s longboard and broke one of her front teeth in half. The goddamned moron mother of the friend called 911, of all things, instead of just calling me. It was a chipped tooth in a cul-de-sac ten minutes from the dentist’s office, but now I was paying for an ambulance.
Thankfully I was able to meet them at the ER before she was fully checked in. I turned her around, looked her over for other damage, took a pamphlet on concussion, and marched her right out of there before anyone took my credit card. The tooth was repaired, the child psychologist was reassuring, and the ER bills had been narrowly averted. The crisis was over. And yet, around two a.m. that night, I had a panic attack that felt like nothing I had ever experienced before.
In that moment, I knew I would die. Knew with certainty. Knew if I took one more step ahead in this hard life I had tumbled into, I would collapse. I had to stop everything. I sat up in my bed, wheezing, and the room began to go black. I was in a tunnel of light. The air stopped coming in. I was breathing, but air wasn’t reaching my lungs. I tried sniffing in through my nose and felt light. I thought, I am dying, but I didn’t feel afraid of that. It was another day like this one that scared me so. Another day like this was just not something I could survive. In the minute, the hour, however long this attack lasted, I made all the plans I could possibly make to escape my situation. My house would sell for enough. My mother would come and watch over the kids until John came back. Maybe I would be brave enough to kill myself for the life insurance—oh, that awful panic that made that seem like the best plan—or maybe I would just run away, as far as I could get, and be alone for the rest of my days and never feel true joy again.
In that moment, those were my only two choices. I believed that. I thank God I was so sleep deprived that night, because the only thing that won out over that deathly panic in the end was exhaustion, as well as confusion over which pills to take and whether I had enough to do the job.
The next morning, early, I called Lena. I didn’t tell her everything—but then, I didn’t have to. I said only, “It’s too much. I can’t.”
She didn’t say, “You can.”
Better still, she didn’t say, “But you have to.”
She said, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She was. She put me to bed with half a Benadryl and told me to sleep as much as I possibly could. I was barking orders about the kids, and then she pulled up the covers and said firmly, “Enough.” I was so tired I fell asleep the moment she turned out the light.
And so when the choices were sleep or die, I slept. I woke up two days later. The kids were told I had gotten really tired. They were told they had a new set of chores befitting their new status as equal members of a three-person household rather than two kids and two adults. Using one of those teacher-size note boards, Lena made a list of all the work needing done in a regular household and then asked Joe and Cori to put a tick next to everything they could possibly do. The first two were “earn money” and “drive.” The kids quickly figured out that since they couldn’t do those two high
ly vital tasks, they had better take on a lot of other things. They needed to be asked, and they always waited until two hours before allowance time, but they did their fair share from then on out. Lena used a lying-around pay stub to sign me up for Supplemental Nutrition Assistance—food stamps—and gave me a stern lecture about pride. The state started sending me almost $350 to pay for groceries each month. I caught up on my bills, rented out my garage to someone who wanted winter storage for his boat, canceled our streaming services, sold my stuff, got my shit together, threw a fit until our insurer paid for Joe’s therapy, and solved each problem in its turn until the crisis was over. And when it was, I told myself I’d never be as dependent on any one person again as I had been on John.
And I never will be.
So I’d better think of somewhere to sleep in New York City.
—
Plan B, it turns out, is to forget how to get back to the subway.
Once again I am juggling luggage and listening to turn-by-turn directions just to retrace my steps for six blocks. When I arrive at the station and am able at last to put away my phone and get myself together, I find myself sort of disappointed in this kinder, gentler New York where no one robbed the slow-moving target I made of myself. Then I wait for the train . . . ten, then fifteen, then twenty minutes before another packed Manhattan-bound train pulls up to the platform. Just as it does, I realize that I am on the wrong platform—worse, the wrong station—to get up to Columbia. And when I finally do straggle into the conference, I will be the dope wheeling my suitcase and wearing stretch pants. I cannot think of how I could possibly get into my cocktail attire between here and there. Even buying a cup of coffee in a Starbucks won’t get me the kind of bathroom where I could safely, say, take my shoes off without acquiring several diseases and maybe some cockroaches too.
I could look up the location of Talia’s offices and try her there, but there’s no indication that she’d be there (or is even still alive), and since the magazine she works for is part of an international multimedia conglomerate in midtown Manhattan, there’s no chance of me getting past the front lobby alone.
But then I think of the old St. Regis maneuvers Talia and I used to pull. Do I still have what it takes to pull a fast one on a hotel clerk?
I guess there’s just one way to find out.
The only time John and I came to New York together, we stayed the night at a lovely three-star boutique hotel on the Upper West Side. Right on the way to Columbia. It had a gorgeous French bistro with the prettiest, cleanest, sunniest dining room I had ever eaten in, with glass doors in lieu of walls that folded open in the warm afternoons so that tables spilled out onto the sidewalks and the glasses of white wine glinted in the sun.
The rooms were a small fortune per night—maybe double the nicest hotel I’d stayed in previously, and there’s no way I can swing that cost as a single mother. But I don’t need to actually buy a room to attempt a trick I learned from Talia in college.
I spend the whole train ride to the Upper West Side working up the guts to try it and simultaneously trying to make myself look like the sort of person who would succeed. After I switch trains twice I get a seat and dig around in my luggage for lipstick, mascara, and a very expensive gold necklace John bought me when I had Cori. I mess around with my outfit a bit and finally, feeling wildly self-conscious, change into Cori’s black slingbacks, stuffing my Dansko clogs into my bag and jamming it shut. Finally I switch my black nylon travel bag out for my ace in the hole—a real, honest-to-god Céline handbag Lena gave me to use for this trip. It’s beautiful, rich black leather, lambskin lining, gold chain, and iconic sprawling folded sides, with the stamped logo front and center for good measure. If I succeed, it will be because of this bag.
At Seventy-Ninth Street I come up to the street. It is still bright and sunny, though a little less light reaches through all the tall buildings and dense streets than it did in Brooklyn Heights. I put on my Target sunglasses, hope they don’t look quite as Targety as they probably do, and feel around the two blocks for the hotel, hoping it is right where I left it all those years ago.
There it is. The bistro is still there, too, with no sign of change. The doors are open, and a few early diners are at the sidewalk tables, enjoying the early evening glow. There’s a pleasant buzz about the place. Lots of people are going in and out of the hotel doors. That’s exactly as I want it. So here we go.
I take in a deep breath and try to channel Jamie Lee Curtis in A Fish Called Wanda. The Platonic ideal of a con woman. I push open the door and quickly size things up.
Ok, good, one person at the desk, a line to check in. This is going to be easier than I thought. I get in the line as if to wait, but I have no intention of reaching the front of the line. I check my watch—which I’m actually not wearing. I sigh loudly and look around. I spot a bellman who is already looking at me. I take my opening.
“Desculpe,” I say. “Necesito un favor?”
He replies in a quick tongue I can barely follow. Apparently I fooled him into treating me like a fluent speaker. That’ll teach me.
I smile meekly. “I’m waiting to check in, but the line is long, and I’m supposed to meet my husband for drinks in five minutes. Can I just stow my luggage with you and check in later?”
“Of course, ma’am,” he replies in English. “What is your last name?”
Knowing there’s a tiny chance he might try to connect it to a room number, I say, “Actually, if there’s a bathroom I might use first, I’ll freshen up quickly and then give you my bag. Could you point the way?”
The helpful fellow does just that. I rush to the ladies’, which of course is beautiful and clean and has all kinds of lovely toiletries. There I turn myself into the most presentable version of me I can be without a shower and dash out. I am wearing a skirt now, and a pretty cap-sleeved rayon blouse that wouldn’t wrinkle in an avalanche, and a little lightweight wool blazer. I feel like a person. A librarian person, but still. A person. I am so, so glad I shaved my legs this morning.
Five minutes later I come back out, find the helpful fellow, give him my bag, and act very rushed. It’s easy, because I am in fact very rushed at this point. I tip him ten bucks, and when he asks again for my name, I just holler, “Just write Sondra on it! Gracias!” and rush out the door before he can push the issue. I say Sondra because Sondra is the most elegant name in the world, and anyone named Sondra should be staying in a beautiful hotel like this whenever she travels anywhere. And then I burst out into the sunshine again and mentally give myself a high five and say to the city, “See, New York? I can still handle you. I can still handle you just fine.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Dear Mom,
I have a question for you when you do read this: Were you and Dad ever really happy? I look back and I don’t remember you guys being especially happy or sad. Now Dad seems incredibly happy, but I’m not sure if it’s forced happiness to make us think we’re all having tons of fun together or if he’s just a happy person or what. And I’m wondering, Was he like that when we were all together? Did you guys, like, dance around the kitchen while you were cooking together or hold hands at the park while Joe and I played or stuff like that? Sorry, I know those are both scenes from movies, but I don’t have a ton of real-life married love experience to go on. Trinity’s mom is getting another divorce, did I tell you that? Whenever I think my dad is an asshole, I just have to look over at her house and think, “Could be worse.” Sorry, Trinity, but Hashtag Truth.
So I guess I’m asking, Did Dad make you happy? Does being in love make you happy? Were you two ever in love? Super easy questions.
Brian makes me sort of happy. He’s, like, not that tall, as I’ve mentioned, but he’s still very cute, and he compliments me a lot. I like that. Other than that, I’m not so sure about the whole thing. He texts me more than even you do. His texts are moronic. Like, “Sup.” And then a poop emoji. I don’t really want to encourage that. So I don’t write back, and then ten
minutes later I get “U mad?” and another poop emoji.
It’s almost enough to make me lecture him about the lost art of letter writing, but then I don’t, because I am not an almost forty-year-old librarian. Unlike some people.
When I started hanging out with Brian, he seemed interesting. He had a lot of smart things to say about school and our futures. Like, I was talking about colleges—which ones had scholarships and good loans. He said we had to shape our dreams around the world as it would be, not as it was. Which at first, huh? And then he talked about how his dad went to school for being a newspaper reporter and he took out a ton of college loans and then when he graduated there weren’t any more newspapers left and now he hates his life, and how the most important thing is we don’t mortgage our futures to the past.
So that’s interesting, right? Like, you love your job, as you never stop telling us, but will there even be any libraries by the time I graduate from college? We talked for hours about other dying jobs, like writer or cab driver or mail carrier or store owner. We talked about a future where we just read social media posts in self-driving cars, and when we need something, we print it out on our 3-D printers.
So right, that’s Brian. A few weeks of kind of cool futurist theorizing and then, the second I agree to go out with him, poop emojis. Today I tried to get him into another one of his interesting conversations, and the whole time he was trying to make out, and then he said, like, “Forget the future. We have to live in the now!” and I was like, get off me.
But what can I do, Mom? You go into summer with a boyfriend, you are stuck with him until September, unless you want to be the third wheel for the rest of the entire summer. And I know that sounds heartless, but I had high hopes for Brian, and I don’t want to stay home every night while everyone else is coupled up. Trinity is madly in love with Dane, so we can forget about seeing anything besides the back of her head until that wears off. I guess if they break up, I’ll have a single friend and I won’t have to worry about being a social pariah, but if they don’t, it’s so nice to have a plus-one, and when we’re together, we do have fun, even if his texts are a drag. Plus, Brian is a good kisser.
