Don't Wait Up

by Liz Astrof

  This paint stain bore an uncanny resemblance to a wise-looking woman complete with a strong jaw, a small upturned nose, deep-set eyes, and hair that billowed behind her, falling just below her long, elegant neck, after which the rest of her disappeared into the wall. She resembled Wilma Flintstone . . . after she took the bones out of her hair. Like Wilma, she conveyed a serenity and wisdom, and I knew instantly I could trust her advice and I would continue to appreciate her company. Until they painted over her.

  I was comfortable with her from the start. I would stand in Warrior Two for eight breaths and telepathically ask my paint stain image of a mother if it was okay to drug my kids to knock them out when I wanted to watch a movie, and by the time I’d move into Downward Dog, she would not only give her blessing but praise my stance. I’d move into a headstand and share my concerns about perimenopause, asking if she knew when I could expect to start the change. My paint stain mother had no answer for that one, of course, as she was a paint stain and therefore never went through menopause. But from her perfect little mouth came no scorn or dismissal, as I’d been used to with all my other parental figures. All she offered were sympathy and support—like Wilma Flintstone offered to Pebbles.

  One time as class was winding down, I asked my paint stain mother if Todd and I should take our kids on a trip to Hawaii with my best friend Amy and her family.

  It was no easy decision. First, we’d never indulged in a family vacation, not counting the time we went back east for four days, staying in a cousin’s finished basement on Long Island. I wasn’t sure if five-year-old Jesse and three-year-old Phoebe would even know how to appreciate a tropical paradise and poolside snacks. What would be the point of doing something extravagant if I couldn’t hold it over their heads and threaten to cancel it or use it against them later in life?

  Second—which probably should have been first, because it was a bigger deal—I sort of hated my best friend Amy.

  My hatred didn’t mean I wouldn’t die for her, because I would. I would give her the shirt off my back if she needed it. But it would look so much better on her that I’d be mad, though I’d swallow the anger because I love her so much—and with good reason.

  Because even though I often need to take a muscle relaxer and eat a jar of peanut butter before I start my car after spending time with her, Amy is and has always been the person who makes me laugh the hardest—that silent kind of laugh where I can’t breathe and almost pee and then when I do pee, she doesn’t call attention to it. I hope everyone has a friend like her. The friend who’ll look at something on your back and tell you if it’s a zit or maybe cancer, and if it’s a zit, squeeze it. The one who will come with you to a liposuction consult, convince you that you totally don’t need it, and then bring you frozen yogurt after the surgery.

  So, I love her.

  That said, her nose job is subtler than mine. Also, her knee skin hasn’t been subjected to gravity and probably never will be. Even after babies, her stomach doesn’t look like Munch’s Scream every time she bends over. Her hair is thick and beautiful, whereas I’ve had a receding hairline since the age of fourteen.

  There’s more. Like me, she’s also a comedy writer. She’s been at it for as long as I have. Unlike me, however, she’s achieved every TV writer’s ultimate goal—the near impossible—getting her own show on network television. Twice. The characters and worlds she created were good enough to reach millions on network television.

  With her success had come a beautiful, giant, 1920s house with an intercom and a staircase that was once used for servants. Her wedding—to her handsome, sweet, smart, charismatic, not one bit narcissistic even though he’s an actor husband—was covered by InStyle magazine. The very edge of my arm can even be seen in one of the photos.

  And where the rubber meets the road, I have to say it—she simply has better kids. Thanks to the fact that Amy has read every parenting book, they use “inside” voices when necessary, they self-soothe, they go to sleep when told, and they don’t steal. Not that my kids steal—though if they’re anything like me, they will eventually. In short, Amy is better than anyone I know on all fronts. Including me. Especially me.

  On top of all of it, she had a helpful, loving mother who would fly to LA on a moment’s notice if Amy had an emergency or even just needed to take a nap, one who’d drive her grandkids to all their after-school shit and pick up dinner for Amy on the way home. A mother who loved her unconditionally. Who supported her in every way. An angel mother.

  So. I hate her.

  I wasn’t proud of hating my beloved friend so much. My paint stain mother knew this, and understood how loaded the proposition of vacationing with Amy and her perfect family was, how extended proximity to her platinum life risked tarnishing my own.

  Do I go? I asked my paint stain mother.

  Of course you do, she told me.

  Even though she’ll be walking around in a bikini, and I’ll be in a Spandex burqa?

  I love your sense of humor. Yes. You go and enjoy yourself, my paint stain mother insisted.

  So, we went, surviving the flight and getting to our hotel, where Jesse and Phoebe were greeted by hula girls with leis. Jesse refused his, and I made the requisite jokes to Todd about Phoebe getting lei’d before Jesse, then shouted at them to “please, act like people” when they ran, shrieking with joy, through the lobby. It was as if they’d never been anywhere nice. They hadn’t.

  We got settled in our room, which was so small, containing two king-sized beds that took up so much space, we couldn’t open the dresser drawers all the way.

  But I couldn’t get down about it. It was paradise, after all.

  Well, a slice of paradise. A small slice.

  While I tried to find a place for my suitcase in the bathroom, Todd unpacked all the cameras we would ruin and ultimately lose, and the kids fought over who was going to sleep where and with whom.

  “Jesse rubs his toes on me when he sleeps!” Phoebe whined.

  “Phoebe makes mouth sounds!” Jesse whimpered.

  “How about we go home right now?! I’m calling the airport!” I said, making my first empty threat of the vacation.

  Amy texted that she’d arrived. They had checked into their villa. I hadn’t known they were staying in a villa. How cool? Good for her. Before long, I finally found myself sitting in a shallow lagoon talking with my best friend about life while our sons splashed in the water together and our daughters waited on us from the pretend restaurant they’d set up in the sand, our husbands off doing whatever husbands do. And as Amy’s four-year-old handed me the imaginary peanut butter sandwich with pickles on it that I ordered, I was grateful to my paint stain mother for insisting I go on this trip.

  Amy complained about the hotel’s exorbitant prices—especially for a place that wasn’t nearly as nice as her go-to (the Four Seasons). Fortunately for me, I’d never had a Four Seasons to compare our current digs to, and the accommodations seemed really nice—definitely worth using all of our miles getting there.

  The Four Seasons comment was my first vacation reminder of the fact that Amy is better. Her standards were higher. What’s fancy for me was slumming for her. I fished around for a muscle relaxer in my beach bag with one hand, accepting a cup of imaginary coffee from Phoebe with the other.

  We had already made a plan to all meet up in the evening at our hotel restaurant, but Amy suggested that we just come to her place for dinner instead—that way the kids could run around and play while we hung out.

  I chalked up her suggestion to the fact that having complained about the cost of the hotel, she probably didn’t want to spend money on dinner.

  I didn’t want to sit in her gorgeous villa with the terrace and the view of all of Hawaii and field questions from my kids about why we were staying in a room with just two beds and a view of a parking lot instead of a mansion with several extra bedrooms. I didn’t want to have to explain to them that Mommy’s career wasn’t as good as Amy’s, how Amy wrote for a wider au
dience and Mommy’s writing was too “specific” for the masses, after which my kids would judge me. Plus, I knew any meal at Amy’s would require me to eat organic food because in addition to running a network TV show, Amy finds the time to make sure her kids don’t ingest anything containing chemicals or nitrates. Whereas I buy food with the word “product” listed in the first ingredient or a warning that says, REMOVE PLASTIC FILM BEFORE HEATING. Just another example of how she has her shit together and I don’t. And now, I would have to smuggle in a Diet Coke, like a junkie.

  I didn’t need that.

  But mostly, I didn’t want to be reminded of my own jealousy. I was on vacation, for fuck’s sake.

  Eating at a restaurant would clearly have been much better for my anxiety—especially as I’d taken my last muscle relaxer at the lagoon. But being a people pleaser—and more specifically, an Amy pleaser—I shoved my resentment down deep, said “Sure!” chirpily, then quietly seethed.

  Later, on our way over, I had Todd stop at a store, so I could get Diet Coke and a hostess gift (organic avocados). Todd, Jesse, and Phoebe waited in the rental car. While in line I texted Amy to see if she needed anything, then immediately texted another friend back in LA to touch base. Amanda’s life was pretty much in the shithouse. With three kids under the age of five, a true douchebag of a husband, and a herniated belly button that made it unbearably painful for her to laugh, her network of friends—myself included—were on high alert support-wise.

  In an effort to downplay the good time we were having, I texted Amanda that the weather was bad, our hotel was kind of gross but nonetheless annoyingly expensive, and that even Amy was freaking out about how much we were all paying for the trip.

  Amanda didn’t believe me for a second. She shot back, There’s no way Amy is freaking out about the price. She’s rich, isn’t she?

  By now it was my turn at the register. While the checker rang me up, I texted back, Please. She’s making us have dinner at her villa instead of going to a restaurant to save money. Cheap snob! I pressed Send, feeling a small sense of relief that I could complain to someone.

  Back on the road, I briefed the kids on good behavior at our friends’ villa. I told Jesse to respect people’s “bubble space” and that the other kids may not want to hear animal facts and to get them out of his system now. This was his cue to list enough moray eel characteristics to make me want to strangle myself with one. I told Phoebe that if she got angry and needed to bite something, don’t let it be a person—or I WOULD call the airport and we WOULD go home (my second empty threat). I then went to text Amy to let her know we were en route. I looked at my phone and, under Amy’s name, I saw the text: Please. She’s making us have dinner at her villa instead of going to a restaurant to save money. Cheap snob!

  Somehow, I’d sent Amy the text meant for Amanda.

  Oh, Jesus Christ. No. No. No.

  I turned my phone off, turned it back on. A fresh start?

  But there it was. Right under Amy’s reply that I’d missed about not needing anything from the store.

  I started to feel my face get hot.

  “I just sent Amy a text calling her a cheap snob,” I told my husband.

  Todd shook his head and sighed. “Why would you do that?” he asked.

  “Because I have no attention to detail—you know that!” I choked out the words. My body was on fire as I was transported in an instant back to my first (brief) job after college, when I stood outside my office at Bridal Guide magazine in New York, where I was assistant to the Creative Affairs director. It was four degrees outside, but I was stripped down to a camisole and still burning up as I stared into the back of a truck stacked with two thousand copies of our magazine that were supposed to have gone to a convention center in Atlanta for the Hotlanta Bridal Expo but instead, because I’d gotten the return and send-to addresses mixed up, they’d shipped to our Lexington Avenue office instead.

  Twenty-one years later, I was filled with the same feeling of dread and hot-faced panic I’d had then.

  Only now, I wasn’t going to lose my job. I was going to lose my best friend, who I hated. But also loved.

  Maybe I could intercept the text, I thought. Maybe she hadn’t read it yet. I frantically called Amy to beg her not to read her texts. Once, twice, three times I was sent straight to voicemail.

  I looked up and saw Todd was looking at me instead of at the road. “Why did you call her a cheap snob?” he asked.

  “Because I was being nice to Amanda,” I said.

  Ignoring Todd’s confused look, I went back to redialing, and got through.

  “Hey Amy,” I said, bright and cheery though my throat was closing. “I sent you this cuh-razy text. Obviously, it’s not about you . . .”

  I pressed 3, deleted, and rerecorded. “Hey! It’s me. I got you avocados!”

  Press 3, delete, rerecord. “Amy . . .”

  My voice trailed off—what could I say? I hit Delete and hung up.

  From the backseat, Phoebe asked when we’d be there. I told her Mommy was busy.

  Jesse said, “Pretend I’m a zero-year-old German shepherd and you’re my mother.” I told him to pretend with his father. I had no time to be a German shepherd. I was in crisis mode. My best friend was about to see the real me. And it wasn’t even true. I didn’t even mean it!

  Todd pulled into the steep driveway. I barely waited for him to stop the car before I got out. I told him to grab the laundry I’d brought—in case she hadn’t gotten the text, it would be great to throw a load in while we were there.

  I rang the doorbell. I was shaking and still on fire, not knowing what to expect, as the kids and Todd joined me on the porch. Maybe she’d been too busy cooking to check her phone or switched her phone off because she was in Paradise Mode. Or died.

  Amy’s husband, Matthew, finally opened the door, their kids Sam and Lily bounding down the stairs behind him. His giant smile made me think I was in the clear, that she hadn’t seen the text. I searched his face for clues, but it remained blank and handsome.

  “Welcome,” he said as, overcome with a wave of hopefulness and relief, I kissed him way too hard and a little on the lips.

  “Hiii!” I heard Amy happily call from somewhere. Suspicious as to what she could sound so happy about, aside from her life in general, I followed her voice to the second floor, past the elevator (the elevator) and into a breathtaking living room/dining room/kitchen situation with the views of the Hawaii I was afraid of.

  I was so frantic I didn’t even get jealous.

  “Hey . . .!”

  Showered, hair back in a low ponytail, and dressed in skinny jeans and a T-shirt, Amy was at the center island in the kitchen pouring a glass of wine. In my coffee-stained pink sweatpants and a T-shirt, my flyaway frizzies failing to conceal the fresh scar I gave myself picking a zit on the way over, I dropped my provisions on the counter.

  “I brought organic avocados,” I said, trying to match her enthusiasm. It couldn’t be matched.

  “Oh, that’s so nice, thanks!” Amy gushed. “Want some wine?”

  I don’t drink, because when I lose inhibitions, I binge eat and get sad—really sad. Amy knows I don’t drink and knows why. Did this mean she’d seen the text and figured inhibitions were in the trash anyway? That sadness was already on the horizon?

  “I’d love some,” I said. I knew sadness was on the horizon.

  She handed me a glass and said the kids’ dinner would be ready in a few minutes. I seized the moment and, telling her I’d take the time to give myself a tour of their house, set out in search of her phone.

  I needed to delete that text.

  I walked past Todd and Matthew chatting on the balcony and headed for the private wing and the master bedroom, where I immediately spotted Amy’s phone on a nightstand. I rushed over, heart racing, and woke it.

  There it was, right on the home screen. My text. I could save this, I thought, praising the lord and my dead grandmother Ethel, who I’m pretty sure revers
ed a possible HPV diagnosis a few years ago and stopped me from getting hit by a truck once.

  But the phone was locked. I needed the passcode. Dammit! So close and yet so far.

  Knowing we love all our children equally but that there’s always a favorite, I guessed that Lily was Amy’s favorite. I tried to remember Lily’s birth date and of course failed. I remembered that she was born exactly seven weeks after Phoebe, but my brain was frying along with my body. I had five minutes, tops. I needed math. I needed memory.

  I needed my husband.

  “Todd?!” I called out at the top of my lungs. “Todd, you HAVE to see this bedroom! It’s insane!”

  “What are you doing?” Amy called.

  “Freaking out over your room,” I shrieked, “It’s a-mazing!”

  Todd appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing?” he said.

  “When was Lily born?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he answered.

  “Then what’s seven weeks after Phoebe’s birthday?” I pressed him.

  “When’s Phoebe’s birthday?” Todd asked.

  I turned my scream of terror into a forced squeal of delight as, for Amy’s benefit, I shouted, “Isn’t this room SO nice?!” before turning back to Todd, waving the phone at him.

  “There’s a code,” I said. “How do I unlock this without her code?”

  “If there’s a code, there’s nothing you can do,” he replied.

  I broke out in a whole new sweat. “Can’t you do something to bypass it?” I hissed. “You work in editing, Todd!”

  “You’re just proving you don’t know anything about my job,” he said.

  “Please do not make this about you!” I whisper-shouted.

  Matthew called up that dinner was ready. Todd headed for the door, but I pulled him back by his shirt. “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To feed the kids,” he said.

  I’d forgotten them. Why did they always need our help eating? Shouldn’t they have been able to feed themselves by now?