The Overdue Life of Amy Byler

by Kelly Harms

  “No,” I say.

  “The kids are doing great, Amy. And I think this is good for them. I read in a book about coparenting that children who have a strong relationship with their father are seventy-five percent less likely to get a divorce when they’re adults. And Joe needs this nerd time. Do you have any idea how talented he is? There’s a Tech Scouts group here, father-son STEAM stuff; we could build robots, go up to Boston for the Cambridge chess tournaments. And don’t take this the wrong way, but the kids are having fun here at the condo.”

  “They have fun with me,” I say.

  “Of course they do. But. You know. They’re overachievers, and you work hard, and they do too. They need, like, the kid sort of fun. Not grown-up fun. The pool in my building. Drone-flying time. Taking the diving team out for pizza after the meets. I can give them a lot of, you know . . .”

  “Stuff? Money?” I say, feeling my temper rise.

  “And time. It doesn’t make up for everything,” he says. “I am not pretending it does.”

  “Good.”

  “But don’t they deserve a summer off? Instead of detasseling corn at the crack of dawn—the only gig kids around here can do to beat minimum wage—Cori can work at the public pool with her friends a few hours a week. I can take her to diving camp for a week and then send Joe to Space Camp—you know I have that friend Andy from college who can get us in last minute. I’ve thought it all through. I won’t let them be couch potatoes, but these kids need . . . a break.”

  I bristle. “Don’t tell me what my kids need.”

  He is obediently silent. I want to throttle him. After all, if the kids have had to work a little harder these last few years, he’s the reason. I am angry and so hurt. And annoyed, too, because though I would never say such a thing to John, it’s not just my kids who have been long overdue for a break all this time.

  “Amy?” he says into the phone after a long silence.

  “Yes. I’m here. I’m just processing. Coping, I suppose, with the strange sensation of a near stranger telling me how to raise my own kids.”

  He sighs. “I may feel like a stranger, but I’m not one. I’m their father.”

  I snort.

  “We had fifteen years together.”

  I say nothing. I think of the ways he wasn’t there when I needed him in those fifteen years. How alone I felt when I was hurting. When I felt lost. I think of the darkest moment of our marriage—when what I was going through by myself should have been our burden to share. I say nothing.

  “You don’t have to decide right now. Think about it. Come home Sunday, and we can regroup then.”

  “I will think about it,” I tell him honestly. “And after I do, the answer will still be no.”

  “Fine, as long as you give it some real consideration. That’s what I’m asking. Figure out what’s right for you and the kids, and be honest. If it’s to shut me out and go back to struggling ahead without any hope of a break, what can I do but bow out?”

  I fight the urge to make a roaring noise into the phone. “I am having a break right now!” I say.

  “Terrific,” he says huffily.

  “It’s wonderful!” I lie.

  “I’m so glad to hear it!”

  “Just nonstop buying lingerie and getting waxed,” I snark.

  But he doesn’t get the reference to his girlfriend’s credit card habits, and I immediately feel like a jerk for the passive-aggressive slam.

  “Uh?” he says curiously. “I’m happy for you? Look, whatever makes you happy. You don’t have to prove what a great mom you are to me. These are wonderful kids, because of you. But you’re quite clearly frazzled all the time, and all kids need to blow off steam. No matter how perfect their mother tries to be, another parent is a good thing for them. Just consider that this might actually be the right thing for all of us.”

  “Because that’s always what you’ve kept at the front of your mind,” I say bitterly. “What’s best for everyone.”

  He sighs. “I’m sorry. I can say it as much as you like.”

  “Tattoo it on your forehead,” I say angrily.

  “If I honestly thought it would help,” he says, “I would. But you’re determined to be a martyr no matter what I do or say. So what’s the point?”

  “The point is you’re an asshole,” I say quickly, before I can think too hard about the truth of what he’s saying.

  “We should stop talking now,” he replies.

  “I agree,” I say.

  “Let’s give each other some space. We can revisit this Sunday.”

  “My answer will still be no.”

  “Fine. Then I will learn that on Sunday.”

  “Sunday,” I threaten.

  “Goodbye, Amy,” he says.

  I hang up. “Goodbye, asshole,” I say to the dead phone. But the anger is a front. Inside, I am not angry. I am broken up.

  Because I know he is completely, exactly right. I have been a martyr, and I’ve come to like it that way.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Dear Mom,

  Dad told us what he asked you.

  He said you are thinking it over.

  Are you really? I wish I knew.

  Love,

  Your daughter who actually does kind of want to work at the pool and go to diving camp but is trying not to sell you out, Cori

  —

  I don’t answer the phone the rest of that day except for a few texts from Cori and my daily call from Joe. As subtly as I can, I try to sound them out about how they feel about the summer plans. I try desperately not to give away how opposed I am to the very idea. How threatened. I think about John staring down Cori’s beau, then spending hours with Joe and his new drone. Diving camp. Space Camp. How much John has to offer my children. How little he has to offer me.

  I skip Matt’s schedule of aerial yoga, Chelsea Market lunch, museum tour, and oxygen therapy for no reason other than to spite myself and avoid talking to anyone. I’m hurting, but since the reason I’m hurting is because I feel at once replaced and rejected by John, I tell myself I don’t know why I’m upset. Therefore I am not allowed to be upset. Therefore I hide. When Talia comes home around eight to fetch me, I tell her I’m in for the night.

  Talia seems out of sorts as well. She is disappointed in me; that much is clear. I am sure in college I seemed tougher. Made of stronger stuff. Maybe I was tougher—I don’t know. But something else is wrong with her too. I feel around for it over takeout but get nowhere. Around nine thirty, she gets a call and tells me she’s going back to work. A car picks her up ten minutes later, and I am alone for the rest of the night. I finish the thriller. I drink a glass of red wine. I go to bed.

  Thursday starts the same. Bagel, coffee, book. I’m getting the week I wanted after all, and my friends were right—it’s lame. A couple of calls come in from Pure Beautiful, and I let them go to voice mail. Cori sends me a selfie in this year’s swim cap, which is gold and has wings on it. She is sticking out her tongue, and the caption reads, “The face of a winner.” So I send her a picture of a dachshund wearing a top hat and type, “The face of a wiener.” Then she sends back a collection of emoji that surely means something to her, and I send back the shrugging-mom emoji, and we leave it at that. The interaction is shaping up to be the highlight of my day when Talia calls me from her cell phone. Seventeen times in a row. I pick up on call eighteen.

  “You get your butt in here,” is what she says to me when I do.

  “I don’t wanna,” I tell her.

  “Matt’s up my ass. Get in here; do an after pic. He can do filler for the rest of the piece. It’ll only be a one-pager, but he deserves a byline. Get in here.”

  I sigh heavily into the phone. “Talia.”

  “I have to go manage a stupid photo shoot full of stupid people in stupid Florida. You’re going to be stuck here in New York City all alone with no one to nag you for the rest of your wasted week. Just do this one last thing for me. I bought you nice bras.”

  �
�I thought that was the magazine!”

  “I bought them metaphorically,” she says. “Wear the jeans we picked out and the white blazer. Matt will put you in heels, but you don’t have to walk anywhere, so just suck it up. A makeup artist will meet you here in an hour.”

  “Talia,” I start. “I don’t feel like a photo shoot. I know I’m being a brat, but I feel—”

  “Lena says you’re facing down the painful realization that your children need other people in their lives besides you, that soon you’ll be relegated to the sidelines of their adult lives and have no idea who you are anymore.”

  “Jesus! No, that’s not—”

  “And she said you’re still wondering if you’d be better off with John.”

  “This is all crazy.”

  “She said you’d deny it. She said to take pity on you and let you come to it in your own time.”

  “I don’t need your pity. I am perfectly fine.”

  Talia laughs. Menacingly. “That’s what I told her. I said she had it all wrong and you were perfectly fine. And since you’re perfectly fine, I know you’ll come do what you promised me and Matt. So we’ll see you in an hour.”

  “Talia—” I start. But she has disconnected. And now not only do I have to go smile for the camera, I have to do it while facing the fact that everything Lena said is absolutely true. I do still have feelings—albeit extremely mixed-up feelings—for my ex. After all, we were married for many years, some of them wonderful. He was my best friend. There was, once, a lot of love there.

  And yes, it makes me crazy to think that my kids can go days—or maybe weeks—without me. If I’m not needed, if I’m not busy, if I’m not an overstretched, overwhelmed, underslept, underpaid single mother . . .

  What exactly am I?

  I guess I’m a well-dressed lump of self-pity, sitting around alone, moping over my ex-husband and feeling petulant in the greatest city in the world.

  Damn that Talia and Lena. The two of them have to be the most annoying friends a girl could ever wish for.

  —

  I have some serious thinking to do. And as I soon learn, there is plenty of time to think when you’re getting two hours of hair and makeup done on the set of a photo shoot.

  First I get a blowout. A New York City blowout is a thing of beauty. A hair wash. A scalp massage. A conditioner. Another scalp massage. The gentle, plush pampering of hands drying your hair with a towel in delicate scrunching motions, wiping a drop of water off your brow, running a wide-toothed comb through your perfectly colored strands.

  Then there are thirty minutes of blow-drying sections of my hair with a paddle brush. My locks get straighter and fuller and more glamorous with every chunk of hair. I start to look expensive. My head gets misted with the sweetest-smelling spray, and then the dryer starts up again, and I just let my eyes close and feel the hairbrush, the heat, the repetition lulling me into a trance.

  Next, makeup. The artist barely talks to me. She gives me directions: “Look up,” “Close your eyes softly,” “Relax your lips,” in a soft, heavily accented voice, with her pencils and wands fluttering around my face purposefully. For a long, wonderful spell I am just dusted with a giant kabuki powder brush, and I very nearly fall asleep.

  Matt comes in and says “Nice!” and holds up a mirror for me. To me I look like a circus-clown version of myself. My cheeks are extra pink, my eyelids are downright ocher, and I seem to have stripes of contour paint down the sides of my nose. My hair is the size of a hot-air balloon. I shrug and say, “You’re the boss.” This whole process is strangely relaxing.

  Then the photographer arrives. Her assistant moves toward a Bluetooth speaker, and I start to fear club music, but instead we get a supersmooth mix of Latin acoustic guitar that seems to further the dreamlike atmosphere. The photographer puts me in a chair, then on a sofa, then perched on a stool. I change outfits four times. They put a huge fan on me and adjust three different sets of lights. She takes endless photos, and after about an hour Talia comes in, walks past me to a laptop, points to the screen several times, and tells the room, “We got it. Thanks, everybody.”

  Then she gives me a funny little wink and saunters back out. Matt trots up to me and hands me my tote of clothes, books, and wallet I brought along today. “You are gorgeous,” he tells me.

  I look up from my perch and beam. “That was very fun!”

  “And to think you almost skipped it.”

  “I know! I was being an idiot. Do I get to see?”

  He shrugs. “I can show you the raw files, or you can wait until the finals are back. I promise you will be thrilled. You look like . . . like the perfect version of yourself.”

  “Oooh! Show me the raw files!” I cry excitedly, but just then my phone starts to ring. Chicago area code. “Hello?”

  “Oh, good, I got you on the phone!” says a distinctly sharp, vaguely familiar voice.

  “Kathryn? Is that you? How did the trip home go?” Matt gives me a wave and trots away.

  “Both of my kids are alive, and my husband is worshipping the ground I walk on,” she says. “I call that a successful trip!”

  “I agree!” I tell her. “And meanwhile here in New York I just got a total makeover, and I seem to be a fashion model now. So I guess we both are killing it.”

  “Huh? Ok . . . ,” she says, clearly thinking she got me after a couple of strong cocktails. “Listen, I have amazing news. I am doing a Flexthology trial at my school!”

  “What?”

  “I was so excited about your idea—it’s so perfect for us because we are battling a huge achievement gap. So I went to my principal and sold her on a pilot program in our school. We’ve got a budget for the e-readers and four complete books per kid starting this fall! We’ll repeat the reading assessments at the end of the program and get some metrics on how it works. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  My mouth drops open. “What?” I say again.

  “We’re rolling out your reading curriculum at my school,” she says. “Remember? Did the fashion industry melt your brain?”

  “No! I mean, maybe it did, but I understand what you’re saying now. This is unbelievable, Kathryn!”

  “It’s totally unbelievable. I couldn’t believe it myself when my principal said yes, but I think our meeting last weekend was kismet for this idea, because it’s so perfect for my students. So I just couldn’t let it go, and here we are! Now I will be able to get you all the information on public school performance that you would need to get a big money grant to do a rollout in dozens of schools! After the program, if it works, we can start petitioning the entire school district, or sell it to charter schools first and work from there, or—”

  “This is just a pet idea I had for my little private school,” I tell her in wonderment.

  “Not anymore, it’s not. I’m sending an email to you in ten minutes, spelling out some of the areas where I’ll need your guidance on implementation. Can you work with me to get this started? I’m going to need a ton of help this summer.”

  “Of course! I’d be honored!”

  “I have a good feeling about this,” says Kathryn. “I think we could get some really good books to some really great kids.”

  I think of Cori and her reading project. Of how many books I try out to find just one that excites her—and how worthwhile that effort is. “I will do whatever it takes to make that happen,” I tell her.

  “Ok, more to come. Enjoy your fashion show!” She disconnects. I stand there stunned.

  “Everything ok?” asks Matt, who has reappeared at my side somewhere along the line.

  I blink at him in a daze for a few moments, but then I smile. “Everything is very ok. In fact, I am suddenly in the mood to celebrate. Remember that Chelsea Market lunch I blew off yesterday? And the rest of the things you had scheduled for the article? Do you think I could cash a rain check for those today?”

  Matt’s grin is infectious. “I believe you could. Let me go look up the rest of your itinerary
and figure out what I can rebook.”

  Matt slips off, and the moment the door closes behind him, four young women sort of creep into the studio where my shoot was just held and start adjusting the lighting. Then one steps forward, walks away from the others, and then stops and turns back, looking fetchingly over her shoulder. Another takes a photo of her with an iPhone. This repeats in many different variations.

  They take turns photographing each other, adjusting the lights, gussying up their hair and makeup, comparing the results. I watch them with obvious curiosity. My head is swimming with thoughts about the reading program, the last several days, my upcoming return home, the summer sprawling out before me. I lose all track of time.

  When Matt comes back, the young women all scuttle away. “Ok,” he says, giving them no notice. “You’ve got yourself a wonderful schedule for the rest of the day. We’re going to make good use of all that hair.”

  “Matt, what was that?” I ask, gesturing to the spot where the women have just been.

  “What?” he asks.

  “There was just a gaggle of twentysomething women in here, taking a jillion pictures of themselves. Are they models?”

  Matt laughs. “Ha! Models, no. Not at all. They are editorial assistants.”

  “Then why . . . ?”

  “All the pictures? They were taking advantage of the unlocked art studio while the lighting was all perfect, I expect.”

  “But why do they need so many pictures of themselves?” I ask, feeling like I’m missing some very big piece of the puzzle. “Is this just how people behave nowadays?”

  “Oh! Well, yes, probably. But the assistants were taking each other’s photos for online dating, of course!” He laughs. “You’ve got to have some great photos if you want to have any luck on the dating apps. They can’t all be dimly lit selfies in crowded bars!”

  I look at him blankly. “All those gorgeous, young, employable women are . . . online dating?” I ask. “Why can’t they just meet men the regular way?”