The Overdue Life of Amy Byler

by Kelly Harms

  Because of my kids, of course. But why then did I ever have kids?

  Laughing at myself, I grab my phone and text a picture of my still-not-empty coffee cup to Cori and Joe. “Breakfast in bed! Your mom could get used to this . . .”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” pops back Cori right away. Good. It is seven a.m., and she is awake. There is consistency happening.

  I text John.

  How is it going?

  He writes back right away too: “Same as it was last night at ten p.m. Cori’s leaving in ten for chlorine breakfast”—this is what her summer swim coach calls the crack-of-dawn practices they have in the outdoor community pool during the summer—“and Joe and I are going to watch her swim and then have actual breakfast.”

  “With fruit,” I text back.

  “Aye aye, Cap. Do lime Jolly Ranchers count as fruit? :P”

  I send back the thumbs-down emoji because I know I’m being annoying and I don’t think he needs to remind me that I’m being annoying. Being annoying is a huge part of a parent’s job description, and he would know that if he had been around once or twice in the last few years. He responds by calling me.

  “Sorry for the snark,” he says when I pick up. “Keep sending the tips—I need them!”

  There. That’s better. I soften back into the bed.

  “Are you guys having fun?” I ask him.

  “So much fun. Last night we each picked one of our own favorite movies and did a marathon, talking through what we loved. Joe can really put away the popcorn. It was a good icebreaker. I already feel like I have a better grasp on who they are. Miles to go, of course.”

  I feel a twinge of jealousy, then look back at my breakfast spread and my beautiful hotel room. Sweet peace, I remind myself. No dishes, no rushing, no chlorine breakfast.

  “What did the kids pick?” I ask, privately making my own guess. Joe picked Empire Strikes Back—his favorite of all the Star Wars movies. And Cori, disgusting brute that she is, picked . . . Wedding Crashers? Anchorman? maybe Bridesmaids?

  “Joe picked Raiders of the Lost Ark. I was kind of surprised. It’s weird to think of him as a little innocent kid and then see him cheering when Nazi faces melt off. I mean, that is a great part of the movie. But it’s so grown up. Just another reminder that I have a lot of catching up to do.”

  Huh. Ok, I was pretty close there. Stephen Spielberg instead of George Lucas, but same star, same vintage, same genre. “What did Cori pick?” I ask.

  “Do you even have to guess? The Notebook. My god. I guess it has to happen to every teenage girl at some point.”

  “The Notebook?” I repeat dumbly. When she and I watched that together, we made fun of it nonstop. Why is Ryan Gosling so against shirts? Can’t all this be fixed with a couple of reasonable conversations? Why don’t they just go inside and kiss where it’s dry?

  The romance we both love is Notting Hill. “I’m just a girl . . . standing in front of a boy . . .” Mother-daughter swoonfest. Or so I thought.

  “She sort of clutched her heart and teared up at the end. I don’t get it.”

  I catch myself, not wanting to admit this is total news to me. “What about you?” I ask. Maybe to be polite. Maybe because I want to know.

  “Oh, that’s easy. MILFs Take Manhattan. It’s a classic—have you seen it?”

  “Please be joking.”

  “I’m joking. I didn’t do my actual favorite, since it’s extremely R, and you and I hadn’t discussed it first. I did Fletch. Funny and dumb and old enough that there’s no way they’d seen it already.”

  “Fletch. Good call. What was your actual favorite . . . no, wait, I know, don’t I?”

  “It’s been years. You might have forgotten.”

  “No Country for Old Men,” I announce.

  “Yep. A movie about manhood. Sometimes I think I didn’t watch it enough before I left you guys.”

  I drop my fork. Am I annoyed or pleased to hear him show contrition? Either way, it makes me incredibly uncomfortable. “I’m trying to enjoy my breakfast here.”

  “Sorry. The point is we are all doing great. Keep enjoying yourself, and stop worrying about the kids so much.”

  “Yep. Because I’m going to be the first mother in the history of the entire universe who stops worrying about her kids when she’s told to.”

  “Fair enough. Worry your heart out. But we’re good.”

  I nod. “Yeah,” I say miserably, “it sounds like you are.”

  After we say goodbye, I look down at my breakfast and feel ten times less smug about it. It’s just breakfast. I could fix it for myself any day of the week, and it would probably cost ten times less. I have a nice bedroom at home too. I could take a nice breakfast up to my nice bedroom in my nice house while my nice kids are still sleeping if I want to eat in bed so badly.

  Of course, then I would be the one washing the dishes. And washing my sheets to get the bacon grease off of them.

  Still. Then my kids would be with me, not off with a man who feels in many ways like both my long-lost best friend and a total stranger.

  The John I married never ever showed regret for anything he did. It just wasn’t in his coding. I saw it as confidence at first, but like in all long-term partnerships, what first drove me wild came to drive me nuts. I learned that small setbacks—a career dip, a few nights of bad sleep—felt personal to him and were anyone’s fault but his. I found that under the veneer of self-assuredness was a small but dangerous current of entitlement. I discovered that when life got well and truly hard—and it did get hard, almost unbearably hard, about two years before he left—John had no idea how to cope. He certainly didn’t know how to ask for help or say he was sorry.

  Post–Hong Kong John has done nothing but.

  Which makes me wonder—is he a new man, with his contrition and his sudden interest in parenting and his “in case of emergencies” credit card? Oh shit, the credit card! I forgot to warn him about the exorbitant cost of my housing in New York. And I still haven’t heard from Talia, so there’s no end in sight. My god, what if I don’t hear from her for the entire week? Is that a possibility? What then? Do I just go home with my tail between my legs and admit I don’t have a week’s vacation in me?

  My phone rings just as I’m falling down the rabbit hole of rumination, and I flail for it excitedly. Maybe it’s Talia.

  Or it’s the kids.

  Or it’s John saying the kids are missing.

  I look at the screen. It’s an 888 number. Cripes, I had too much coffee. I tap the answer button and listen for what I expect will be a robocall from my pharmacy or something.

  “Heh-low,” says a relaxed, sexy robot-lady voice. “This is the fraud-prevention department for your”—pause—“American Express ProGold family card. Please hold for a representative.”

  Oh. Of course. Using a new card in a new city for an expensive hotel. Guess I have to verify it’s really me.

  A woman comes on the line, her voice low and friendly. She introduces herself as Marlene and asks to verify the last four digits of my Social Security number and “secret code word,” which I guess is presto because that is what John always picks. And then she tells me that my account has been flagged because of suspicious activity.

  “Oh,” I say cheerily. “Nothing suspicious here. I’m staying in New York for the week.”

  Marlene cuts me off. “Actually, ma’am, the charges are coming from multiple locations. So I’m going to review them with you, and if the charge is legitimate, say ok.”

  “Ok,” I say, slightly confused. I’m thinking this call would be better suited to John, who must be using the card in Pennsylvania, but maybe it’s just a matter of going through the motions. “Go ahead.”

  “The first charge is for a Hotel la Provençe, Seventy-Ninth Street, New York, New York? The charge says king deluxe accommodation, $292.40. Charged at 6:45 p.m. yesterday, eastern time.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And then the next charge was
at 10:44 p.m. eastern. The charge says Sphinx Hair Removal Salon, 2, 2 Wellington Street, Central Hong Kong, in the amount of $92.65?”

  “Uhhhh . . .” Huh? John was definitely not getting waxed in Hong Kong yesterday. I’m pretty sure my kids would have mentioned it.

  “And then the one after that is the Hotel la Provençe again, hospitality, $26.00 charged at 7:02 this morning.”

  “Ok, that one is definitely legitimate. I’m not so sure about the other. Let me think of what it could be . . .”

  “And here is the last charge: Adorables Gifts dot com. Women’s fashion, $482.96. It’s an online store, but the ordering address came from a Hong Kong IP number, according to our fraud-prevention department. Was this charge made by a cardholder on your account?”

  “No, no, definitely not. Well, wait. Hang on,” I say and try to puzzle this out. John definitely is in PA with my kids. I’m in New York. Did John order something online from Hong Kong? Since my laptop is in reach, I grab it and type in AdorablesGifts.com. Up comes the most elaborate, exotic lingerie I’ve ever seen in sizes I will never be. It is the pictures of the gorgeous young models that make the penny drop.

  “Marlene?” I ask cautiously. “Do you know how many cards have been issued to this account?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she says. “Two cards. One in your husband’s name and one in yours.”

  My heart sinks.

  “Do you have the shipping address for the flagged charge?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s going to a Ms. Marika Shew.”

  “Then, I guess . . .” I think about telling her that the charges are fake. That the card should be canceled and Marika Shew should be hoisted on her own expensively waxed petard. But instead I say, “I’m sorry for the confusion. The charges are all legitimate.” I sigh. “Is there a way to put a note on the account that we’ll be using our cards in different locations for a little while?” I ask her.

  “Of course, ma’am. It’s simply protocol that we flag an account if it’s being used in a new location, like New York, while still being used in the previous location, where it’s been in service for a few years. Now that we’ve checked it out, you won’t be bothered by us again.”

  “Thank you, Marlene,” I say as nicely as possible, because it is not Marlene’s fault John is still keeping his . . . well, she must be thirty-three by now . . . his thirty-three-year-old bit on the side waxed and laced up just waiting for his return.

  I sink back into the bed and wrinkle up my face, trying not to cry. Marika Shew is the woman John took up with after me. I must have online stalked her for an entire year straight before Lena found out what I was up to and got me to stop. All I know about her is that she works at his company and lives in Hong Kong and her social media use is exclusively related to French bulldogs and Yorkshire terriers.

  Somehow I had come to the conclusion that their relationship was long dead. But why? Why did I assume that they were broken up? Maybe because I thought that was why John came home.

  Maybe I thought he wanted me back.

  Of course I thought that. What an idiot I’ve been.

  Look at me. I’m as far as a human woman can get from professionally waxed and decked out in high-end lingerie. I’m soft and mom shaped, in an old T-shirt, eating carbs in bed with a novel and CBS on TV in the background. In no universe would a man leave his gorgeous mistress for this. No, he’s just getting a week of parenting out of the way before he goes right back to business as usual.

  And to think I felt guilty for taking his credit card! While he has been buying Marika $500 worth of black teddies and marabou slippers this whole time!

  I punch my pillow, throw off my covers, and stalk to the shower. Breakfast in bed is officially ruined. I’m going to take an angry shower and get angry dressed and storm up to Columbia and try to focus on my very important presentation even though I am full of fury over my duplicitous ex-husband—who isn’t even my ex-husband—and then I’m going to—

  The phone rings again. My traitorous heart lifts. It must be John calling to explain. Maybe he broke up with Marika but didn’t have the heart to take away her credit card? Or maybe she stole a card from him when he left? Or maybe . . .

  It’s Talia.

  “You’re alive,” I say angrily. Anger is spilling out all over; I have to think Talia deserves a smattering of it.

  “Barely. And then I see your messages, and oh em gee, I nearly started crying. I’m so sorry,” she starts. “I can’t believe you were homeless last night. You found a hotel—tell me you found a hotel?”

  “I found a hotel. And then I put it on my ex’s credit card. And then I just got a call from the credit card company verifying five hundred dollars’ worth of waxing and lingerie purchased by someone in Hong Kong. Someone thirty-three and size two, and oh my god, that bleeping bleephole!”

  Talia has the good sense to remain quiet for a moment.

  “He has my kids right now. That bleephole has my kids.”

  “Um,” Talia gently interrupts. “You have John’s credit card?”

  I take a beat. “I do.”

  “I mean. You see the opportunity for revenge here, right?”

  Anger is quickly replaced by shock. “I could never do that.”

  “No. Of course not. You’re a good, kind, thoughtful, and honorable person.”

  “Well,” I say, because I’m not feeling any of those things right now. “Thank you?”

  “I am less of those things,” she says. “Keep that in mind in case you have the urge to ‘accidentally leave the card lying around’ in my apartment.”

  In spite of my mood, I laugh. “I absolutely will. And honestly, I’m in a gorgeous hotel on the Upper West Side, and I just finished up breakfast in bed on his dime,” I tell her. “So I guess things aren’t all bad. Maybe tonight, instead of checking out, I’ll buy an in-room movie and not even watch it.”

  “You wicked woman.”

  “Yeah, I’m not doing that. Can I come stay with you tonight?”

  “Um . . . no. Because I can’t get back into my apartment until Sunday night. Apparently there was a little murder.”

  “What now?”

  “See, I have kind of a good excuse for screwing you over last night.”

  “I am beginning to understand that! What happened?”

  “It’s a long story. Key point is that the murder itself did not happen to anyone I know, and it did not happen in my apartment.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” I say, feeling very much like a small-town bumpkin.

  “But my phone was in the apartment at the time of the . . . slaying? I forgot it at home and was out all day on location, and then I couldn’t get any of the dummies to let me in to retrieve it until this morning. I guess there was, like, forensic evidence in the hallways? I was like, ‘Who do I have to kill to get my phone back?’ And let me tell you, that one dropped like a stone with all those super serious beat cops.”

  I laugh again, more of the rage trickling away. “So how long do you have to stay away, and where are you staying?”

  “Oh, you know. There’s a guy.”

  “Really? A serious guy?”

  Talia just answers by laughing. “Let’s just say that I’ll be glad when I can get back home on Sunday.”

  “Does this mean I can still stay with you after the conference?”

  “Yes. I swear on a stack of my own magazines that you can count on me for housing from Sunday on. How long are you staying? Two months?”

  I laugh. “Try a week. I do have children, remember?”

  “And they do have a father, remember?” she quips back. “Oops—art direction starts now. Ciao!”

  “Bye?” I say, but the phone gives its three bloop-bloop-bloop hang-up tones while I say it. Which is fine because my brain has pretty much short-circuited in the last twenty minutes, and I have no idea what I was even going to do next.

  Oh shit! The presentation! I look at the clock and see I have thirty minutes to get showered, dre
ssed up, and to Columbia. It’s going to take a small miracle to get there on time. A miracle, or a cab.

  Luckily I have plenty of room on this credit card for cab fare.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dear Mom,

  Dad gave me three hundred bucks.

  In cash. He told me to use it to buy clothes and go on dates with Brian. Mom. He is the worst.

  I’m using the money.

  Is that cool with you? I will buy a book, too, just to be sure.

  Love,

  Your money-grubbing daughter, Cori

  —

  Cabs are wonderful things because they give you time to do your makeup in transit. I don’t wear much—why bother? I look like a mom no matter what I do—so it’s just lipstick, moisturizer, and mascara, and I feel truly gussied up. I’ve got my presentation on my laptop, and it’s a good one. One I’m pretty invested in, actually. It addresses a problem that I noticed cropping up when I started with a class that had a higher-than-usual number of what educators like to call “reluctant readers.” Not every student—not even every bright student—comes to books like a thirsty camel to an oasis. And generally speaking, English teachers and librarians have no personal experience with reluctance toward reading. If we weren’t voracious readers, we would be teaching social studies or even, you know, doing a job that pays well. So typically there’s this sort of unintentional downgrading of students who don’t gobble up every reading assignment thrown their way.

  I know because I got caught with my pants down on this very issue. With, of all people, my own daughter.

  Cori was never supposed to be my student. That was kind of a big deal to me. I’m a librarian, not a classroom teacher, so it seemed utterly reasonable that even at our very small private school, I should not be personally responsible for grading my own offspring at any point. But the reading curriculum in Cori’s seventh-grade English class—a curriculum I personally had designed for the school—was kicking her butt. Every night, the homework was reading a chapter and journaling about it. And every night she would whine, procrastinate, wheedle, and do everything but read her chapter. I couldn’t figure it out. The book—Lord of the Flies—wasn’t hard reading. In fact, Cori was in the lowest reading group for her age, so it was the easiest choice available without dropping back a grade. The subject matter was relatable to a seventh grader. It was a classic that every kid read, and in fact, lots and lots of my students really connected to it.