The Overdue Life of Amy Byler

by Kelly Harms

  “She’d better be pleased,” I say back. “She’s the one who has to buy me new underwear.”

  —

  Matt and I arrive at the salon, a surprisingly shabby-looking place in the East Village, exactly on time. A waif in a distressed denim belted jumper hands us little sake glasses full of some kind of green drink and tells us that Maeve is running a smidgen behind and we should sit tight for half an hour or so.

  “Half an hour?” I ask Matt when we settle onto the grubby velvet chaise in the waiting area.

  Matt shrugs. “I think she’s that good,” he says. “Talia said it had to be her.”

  “Well, you certainly don’t have to wait with me,” I tell him. “I brought my e-reader.”

  “Actually, I’m supposed to stick close today. Keep you moving through your itinerary smoothly.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t need a babysitter, Matt. I’m happy to tell Talia I sent you away.”

  “I really don’t mind. It’s a nice change from the regular office grind.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask him.

  “Very sure. My job can be very . . . intense. One day of helping out someone mellow won’t kill me.”

  I smile. Talia is loyal, brilliant, brave. But not mellow. “Very sweet of you. So what exactly is on this itinerary of ours?”

  Matt pulls out his enormous phone. “Hair today,” he says.

  “Gone tomorrow,” I respond like a dork.

  “Hmm?”

  “Never mind. Just hair?”

  “Oh no. Sushi for lunch with Talia at the office, and then nails. I think I will leave you alone on that portion. Nail salons give me hives. And then after the mani-pedi, you can choose between rooftop yoga or the turkish bath, and then I’ve just added in the, uh, intimates fitting at this place in Brooklyn, so we’ll want to cab it there and maybe grab you something good from the Farmacy. By then it will be sevenish, so Talia will take over. At which point you’re at her mercy.”

  “My goodness,” I say. “That’s quite a schedule.” I am wondering how on earth I will pay for all this. Even John’s card must have a limit. “Matt, do you have a guesstimate as to how much this haircut will cost?” In PA I usually go to a pretty nice place that charges thirty-five dollars per cut. But I have a feeling thirty-five dollars won’t get me a shampoo with a garden hose in the back alley of this joint. The shabby chicness of it is all fake. It’s just straight-up chic. The rug in the waiting room is a Turkish kilim, and the water in the glass-doored guest fridge is Voss. The green stuff seems to be some kind of spirulina kombucha.

  “Oh,” says Matt. “You don’t have to worry about that. It’s all on the magazine.”

  I furrow my brow. “Huh? That doesn’t seem right.”

  “Well,” says Matt reasonably. “We are getting a great story out of it. And the before and after pictures will be amazing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The trend piece. The momspringa.”

  “You must be joking. What trend piece?”

  Matt looks surprised by my question. “Talia didn’t tell you? This whole week is on Pure Beautiful. We got all those before pictures when you first came into the office and got your ID made with Jean-Peter. Now we do the makeover, the capsule wardrobe, and the story on your vacation from motherhood. I haven’t seen this anywhere else yet. I think it might be a reading line on the cover.”

  “You are kidding me.”

  Matt shrugs.

  “Matt. I did not sign up to be a trend piece. I don’t want the whole world reading about how I abandoned my kids for a week to get my nails done.”

  He laughs. “Why the hell not? Do you know how many people would trade places with you in a heartbeat? I do, because we get emails from them all the time. Furthermore, I am the child of a single mother. Based on that, I have the sense to know that a week off from single motherhood once every three years is not an indulgence—it’s a necessity. The fact that you’re getting time to yourself is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I think this over. I don’t appreciate getting this lecture from a kid young enough to be my son who I first met an hour ago. But then, he’s just saying exactly what Talia or Lena would say. Like, verbatim.

  And the common denominator? None of them have kids.

  “Matt. Listen. I don’t . . . I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. But I would have liked to have been consulted about this. For one thing, I would have looked cuter this morning if I’d known you were using me as a before picture. And for another, I don’t think this is a real trend. I think this is an anomaly. I think I have two very bossy friends who are well meaning but don’t have the visceral understanding of what it means to be a mother. The reality is that there are no breaks from that job. My real life is back home. This is all . . . just a momentary escape from reality.”

  “Exactly,” says Matt. “A fantasy week for mothers. Men do them all the time. Weeks at spring training camp with major-league teams, NASCAR driving school, dude ranches. You’re doing your version—claiming a new space for women. Momspringa.”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “It soon will be,” he says. “And all because of you!”

  “Sheesh,” I say with a frown. “You make it sound so reasonable. Like a feminist movement.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  “You should be the one writing the piece,” I say jokingly.

  “I am,” Matt responds.

  I blink at him.

  “This is my big break, Amy,” he tells me. “I don’t have any real glossy clips yet. No bylines to speak of. Just dumb pun heads and art captions. I could get promoted over this. Or . . . hired away . . .”

  “Ah . . . ,” I say.

  “So no pressure, but if you say no to this article, I will be making Talia’s coffee for the rest of my life.”

  I laugh. “No pressure.”

  “Consider it,” Matt says. But before I can answer, a tattooed youth with a ring coming out of her cheek and hair the color of a spring bouquet appears in front of me. “Oh, Amy,” she says, as though we are old friends. “Oh, poor, shaggy Amy. I’m Maeve. And I’m about to change your life.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dear Mom,

  Finally, Mom. A book I can get excited about. This only took you, what, like, eight tries?

  At first I wasn’t so sure. The girl, Eleanor, seems really weird, and socially not a superstar. But she was totally relatable and actually totally great and I want a time machine so I can be her friend. And the guy, Park, sounds premium quality. I would totally hit that. Except that he’s imaginary and also lived in the eighties. Otherwise, hot. Virginity worthy. After I get my scholarship. And build my time machine.

  Anyway it rained yesterday morning, and there was lightning right after we started, so practice was canceled, but Dad was doing a STEM thing with Joe, so I just sat in the employee lounge at the pool and read the book and drank free Diet Cokes. Just two, so calm yourself. I had no idea what the bands they were talking about sounded like, so I made an Eleanor & Park Spotify channel to play while I was reading. Suddenly I looked up and three hours had gone by and Dad was there to pick me up. And I was reading that whole time! Are you not the proudest librarian in the world?

  I hope you’re having a good time today in New York. I know Lena and Talia had something planned together, something to help you do actual fun things and not just be boring in a fun city. I do want you to have fun, because you’re going to be home soon, and we are hungry and need our laundry done.

  Har har. We do miss you and not just because Dad cannot seem to get the dinner situation under control. Last night he just put out some store-bought hard-boiled eggs. No. Wrong. I put the Jimmy John’s app on his phone right then and there.

  But missing aside, we are doing pretty well. Dad is . . . he’s ok. He’s very interesting. He is trying super hard, and that makes us all feel like we should be careful with him, but sometimes I do want to shout at him because when he’s nice to us or says
things he likes about us, I want to scream, “Well, if you liked us so much, why did you leave us?”

  But then also, I want to forgive him. Because he came back, and you can tell he really cares. When he apologizes for leaving us, he means it. I heard him crying last night after he thought we went to bed, and Joe said it was because he was stewed in regret. Isn’t that such a Joe thing to say?

  But, Mom, it’s true. He is stewed in regret. He’s like a big hot cup of feelings soup. He hugs us a lot and keeps buying us little “just because” gifts, and he likes to talk about what we were like as kids. He talks about “seizing every moment” and stuff like that. I asked him why he was crying last night, and he said it was because he knew he couldn’t stay in town indefinitely because of his work.

  I asked him if work was part of the reason he left us. He says he left because he was depressed and anxious and mistakenly believed he could run away from those problems. It sounds like a stock answer, Mom. Like what his media-relations person told him to say. I asked him the same question again. Because he left EVERYTHING in his world behind but work. He must really love his job, right?

  He said that his identity as a man was all caught up in his work. That’s what he told me this morning. I went to diving practice with that in my head. It wasn’t a good headspace. I kept thinking, his identity as a man. What the hell does that mean? I know a bunch of other dads, and I would say that they all have being a dad at the top of their list of identities. Like, you’re a librarian, and a teacher, and a friend, and a bad dresser, but most of all you’re a mom, right?

  Why did he keep his job but not keep us?

  I don’t know—I don’t want to think about it anymore. I’m going to go read Eleanor & Park. Sometimes a book about other people’s problems is way better than your own. I guess that’s what you’ve been onto with this reading thing all along?

  Love,

  Your literary late bloomer, Cori

  —

  On day two of the makeover process, while I am making my way back to the Pure Beautiful offices from a very long stretch at the colorist’s, I am whammied with the most powerful urge to call Cori. We’ve been texting at a quick clip, and I’ve called John’s landline at least once every day I’ve been gone, but it’s always Joe who claims the phone and patiently, painstakingly recounts the latest news for me. This means yesterday’s call revolved around Joe’s recent interest in geothermal heating systems. For reasons of equal parts self-interest and expediency, I call Cori’s cell directly. She doesn’t answer, and my heart tugs against the inner walls of my chest as I leave a “just thinking about you” voice mail. After a short while she texts me: “All good, Mom, Trinity says hi. Don’t worry, I’m doing my reading.” I sigh deeply. I assigned her that reading journal so she could process what she felt, have an outlet for her experiences with her dad, and not feel the need to censor herself or protect my feelings in the moment. But now I feel like I should have demanded to read it every day. I should have installed a webcam on her dresser that I could activate at will. I should have bugged her phone. I should have planted a spy on the dive team. I should have had a chip implanted in her brain that would alert me anytime her serotonin levels dipped below a reasonable baseline.

  “Good lord!” says Matt, interrupting me from my mom panic session. “I barely recognized you!”

  I look in one of the many office mirrors. I barely recognize myself. Here is what Matt, Talia, and Pure Beautiful have done to me in the last twenty-four hours:

  Changed my hair from dishwater blonde with a side part, perfect for everyday ponytails, to choppy, wavy sex hair with thick fringe bangs swept to one side. Oh yeah, and my hair is brown now. Rich chocolate brown with some reddish-blondish thing happening as it gets to the ends. It looks good. Like I stole a very beautiful woman’s wig, plopped it on my head, and announced, This is my hair now.

  Waxed and plucked my brows into such a shape that I actually look five pounds thinner. Did I have five pounds of extra eyebrows? I wonder with horror.

  Dyed my eyebrows to match my hair.

  And then combed my eyebrows. And put some gel in them. Is this something they think I’m going to do every day? I tell them four or five times I will not. They ignore me.

  Painted my fingernails with a kind of gel that changes color when it gets warm.

  Painted my toenails with a different kind of gel that just stays the same color all the time, but that color is jade green.

  Forced me to strip from the waist up and then wrestled me into a collection of bras best meant for the kind of prostitutes that charge $3,000 a night, in letter sizes I’m pretty sure they invented on the spot to spare my feelings.

  Bought me three bras that defy not just gravity but also time, putting my breasts back in the exact spot they were before I had Cori.

  Given me a stack of jeans to try on from the fashion closet that is so enormous I actually have to also borrow a wheeled YSL duffel to get them to Talia’s office.

  By the time Talia and I are having take-out Thai curry on the coffee table at her office that evening, I look ten years younger and a lifetime cooler. I’m wearing magic jeans with no gaping out the back and no pinching in the front. My beautiful, beautiful new hair keeps pulling me to the reflective glass window to gaze upon myself. Talia laughs at me every time I throw aside my chopsticks, pop up from the office couch, tousle my hair in the mirror, and widen my eyes.

  “Look at me, Talia!” I nearly shout. “Look upon me!”

  “I’m looking!” she says, laughing.

  “I’m not even wearing makeup! I am the prettiest woman in America!”

  She shakes her head. “Would you like to be wearing makeup?”

  I think for a moment. “No. Do I have to do makeup tomorrow?” It’s far too late now for me to be facing down any more makeover appointments tonight, and I’m pretty relieved about that.

  “Well, you don’t have to do anything,” she tells me.

  I tilt my head at her suspiciously. “I think I had to change out of my stretch pants. That look on your face when you saw them did not scream optional.”

  “Ok, fair enough. The makeup is more optional than the pants. I think Matt will want to do a bunch of camera-ready makeup for your ‘after’ photo shoot, but you can go barefaced the rest of the time and still look great, you lucky dog.”

  I smile. “Awww, thank you!” This may be the first beauty-related compliment I’ve ever received from Talia.

  “By barefaced,” she elaborates, “I mean with mascara, crème blush, and lipstick. You understand that, right? You are a white woman from Pennsylvania. That means you look like you were embalmed during the winter solstice and only now have been unearthed by archeologists. You’re so pale that Han Solo had more color when Leia first defrosted him. You could tell me you just got off the International Space Station, and I would believe you. You look like an animated character from The Polar Express. You could—”

  “Ok,” I interrupt. “Message received. I am pasty.”

  “You are pastier than the fondant frosting on a Hamptons wedding cake. You look like—”

  “I will wear mascara,” I interrupt, to stop the tirade.

  “And blush.”

  “And lipstick,” I capitulate. “However, I will not comb and style my eyebrows every morning. That’s a bridge too far.”

  We shake on it.

  “So what’s next for me, then?” I ask her. “Modeling classes? Botox? Lessons in deportment?”

  Talia smiles and shakes her head. “Nah, you’re pretty enough. Now we work on what’s on the inside.”

  I furrow my brow. “I can totally see how this makeover was called for. But on the inside, I’m totally fine. Happy, busy, great kids, great job, great house, great life . . .”

  “Mmmmmm,” says Talia.

  “No ‘mmmmm,’” I scold her. “Just yes.”

  “Mmmmmm,” she adds.

  I give her some side-eye. “I let you paint my fingernails taupe,” I sa
y with a warning tone.

  “What color do they get when you get hot? Oh, wait, we’ll never know, because you’ve apparently sworn off sex.”

  My mouth drops. “I did not swear off sex! I just had sex! It was great!”

  Talia’s face cracks open. “You didn’t tell me it was great.”

  I blush. “Well, I mean. I don’t have much to compare it to. But he was great looking, and we both . . . you know.”

  “I do.”

  I shrug. “So I was happy with the experience. I give it three and a half stars.”

  “You should try doing it again. Go for five stars.”

  “With Daniel?” I ask. Did I just ask that excitedly?

  “Sure. Or with anyone.” She taps one chopstick on her lips in thought. “How about Matt?”

  I gasp. “Your assistant Matt? That’s like . . . like suggesting I sleep with your son!”

  Talia makes a sour face. “Yeah, that is gross somehow. Sorry. I guess I just figured it would be a good way to nail down whether he was straight or not once and for all.”

  “He’s straight. Isn’t he?”

  “Maybe bi?” says Talia.

  I think for a moment. “We’re all a little bit bi,” I say. “Or so Lena tells me.”

  “I love that nun,” Talia says. “You could sleep with her.”

  “Talia! Stop. I don’t need to sleep with anyone. That’s not the be-all and end-all of life, you know.”

  “Spoken like someone who has never had five-star sex.”

  Privately I contemplate Talia’s life, not for the first time. No kids. Very few friends. Little by way of family. Work is her life. No wonder sex is such a focus for her. For me, I have other fish to fry.

  “Wrong,” she says out of the blue.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Whatever you’re thinking that makes you dismiss any hope of having a satisfying love life. The idea that you’re not good enough, or you don’t have time, or it’s not important, or you should wait around for John to come back . . .”

  I twist my lips. “He’s not coming back. I mean, he came back, but not for me,” I tell her sadly. “He came back for the kids.”