Say Never (16 page)

I turn on my heel and head for the Camaro. The two moms are still eyeing me suspiciously. I know I should ignore them. I should bite my tongue and get in the car. But I just can’t help myself. I jerk my head around and glare at them, and using my best New York accent, I ask, “What are you looking at?” They quickly avert their eyes as I stuff my nephew back into his car seat.

* * *

South Coast Plaza, one of Orange County’s most chichi shopping malls, is bustling on this Tuesday morning. And although I’m dressed in workout gear, and although my hair is frizzy and my makeup is most likely Maybelline (although I can’t be sure because most of the labels were so old as to be illegible), and I’m pushing a stroller for the first time in my life, I feel my shoulders relax as soon as I step inside.

The holiday decorations are less garish than those at the airport, but far more ostentatious, and I’m certain the huge glass ornaments suspended from the ceiling are worth more than my apartment. Within each enormous crystal sphere lies a holiday-themed object: a reindeer, an ornately wrapped present, a Christmas tree, a glowing candle, a token Menorah. Sparkling lights line the railing for as far as the eye can see, twinkling on and off rhythmically. As we move down the walkway, Tebow grabs for them and makes noises of delight.

“Yes, very pretty,” I say with little enthusiasm. “South Coast Plaza could feed an entire country for what these decorations cost.”

My first stop is Sephora. Praise the Lord. In a short time I spend a small fortune replacing all of the items in my makeup bag and toiletries case, adding a wrinkle cream made with shark fetuses that promises to take ten years off my skin. Tebow starts to fuss in his stroller, so I hand him a cleansing facial brush, which he immediately sticks in his mouth. (Guess I’ll have to buy it.) The salesgirl, an exuberant waif who stands about four foot eleven, gives me the hard sell on a new line of eye cream.

“I use it myself!” she exclaims, gesturing toward her Ivory Girl complexion. “I’ll bet you’d never guess I’m almost twenty-five! But it works for women your age as well.”

I resist the urge to smack her and snatch the cream from her fingers, then hand her my credit card. I hang my two Sephora bags over the stroller handles, then make my way out of the store and head for my favorite place in the entire world. Bloomingdales. The SoCal store doesn’t have the same charm and panache as the one on 59th and Lex, but it’ll do in a pinch.

I push Tebow past the jewelry counters, hearing him gasp at the shiny, sparkly rings and bracelets and necklaces housed within the glass cases.

“Glrompel!”

“That’s right, Mister Stinky Pants. Jewelry!”

At the makeup department, a battalion of over-botoxed, perfect looking young women descend upon me, makeup brushes at the ready, all of them chattering about the ‘holiday gift with purchase’ that I absolutely must have. I know I need a makeover in the worst way, however my clothing is much more of an issue. I hold up my Sephora bags to them and continue on to apparel.

I stop at the first Theory rack I see, and as I reach out and stroke the fabric of the black peplum shell, I sigh contentedly. Within seconds, my peripheral vision detects the approach of a Bloomies employee.

“So cute!” I hear her exclaim behind me.

“It is,” I agree. “Do you have it in any other colors?”

When she doesn’t answer, I turn to see her kneeling in front of the stroller, smiling brightly at my nephew.

“Yes, you are just the cutest little thing in the world, aren’t you?” she coos. Her straight auburn hair is cut in a severe bob with sharp angles around her face, her eyes are thick with liner, making her resemble Cat Woman, and her lips are Angelina Jolie-thick and generously painted with blood-red lipstick. I’m surprised my nephew isn’t shrieking in fright.

“Fremslap!” he says with a giggle. Then he farts loudly enough to be heard in Macy’s.

“Oh, my.” The salesgirl laughs and presses her manicured hand against her mouth, then she stands up to her full height of six feet. I recognize the Kensie pencil skirt and animal print blouse she wears. Her nametag reads Bianca. Of course. “Your son is adorable.”

I shake my head. “No, no. He’s not my son. He’s my nephew.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet!” She bends over to his level and makes a funny face. “A day out with your auntie? How fun! Isn’t it, little man?”

Geez. I’m the customer here. Shouldn’t I be getting some attention?

She straightens again and smiles at me. “Such a handsome boy. His eyes! My God! Amazing. And those dimples! He’ll be a heartbreaker for sure.”

Yeah, yeah, my nephew is cute, but I am here to shop. I don’t really have time to discuss his dimples when there are literally thousands of ensembles I want to slide my body into.

“Right. So, as I was saying, do you have this top in any other colors?”

Ten minutes later, Bianca shows me to a fitting room. Hanging inside are several pairs of AG jeans, various BCBGMAXAZRIA tops, the Theory ensemble, as well as a metallic open knit sweater, and a slew of other items Bianca saw fit to add to my collection. Tebow’s eyes are starting to droop, and if I remember correctly from my brother’s instructions, we are nearing nap time. Bianca stands just outside the private changing room, hands on hips.

“It’s going to be a bit tight in there with the stroller,” she says. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a family fitting room, like at Target.”

I should hope not.
And anyway, there’s no chance I’m going to disrobe in front of my nephew, what with the whole ‘booby’ thing.

“I think he might fall asleep,” I say. “I’ll just park him here. He’s not going anywhere.”

“I can keep an eye on him, too,” Bianca offers.

“Baba,” Tebow mumbles, so tired that his words barely make it past his lips. I reach into the diaper bag beneath the seat of the stroller—which my brother loaded this morning—and withdraw the half-bottle of milk. I uncap it and hand it to Tebow. He pulls his pacifier out of his mouth with one hand and shoves the bottle in with the other, then begins to suck vigorously on the nipple. Two seconds later, his eyelids flutter closed.

“Good. Great.” I hold my hand out to Bianca, and she rewards me with an armful of designer clothing. “And, Bianca, whichever pair of jeans fits the best, I’d like to wear them out of here.”

Her eyes rove over my ensemble and she nods with understanding. “I don’t blame you one bit.”

* * *

The AG jeans are a must, although the Citizens of Humanity fit pretty well, too. I’ve already decided on a couple of Splendid tops, and the Magaschoni open knit sweater. I’m trying to be conservative because I know my suitcase will show up eventually. But I don’t ever want to go near Caroline’s closet again, so I may have to buy a few extra items, like two pair of P.J Salvage pajamas—one striped, the other with polka dots—and the Theory jacket and skirt set, which will be perfect for my interview with Eileen Buchanan, and obviously some Cosabella underthings, which I’ll pick up on my way out.

Bianca has been kind enough to grab several pairs of shoes to match the many ensembles, and they are lined up in front of me. Just the sight of them makes me want to squirt lighter fluid all over Caroline’s sneakers and light a match.

I am not a serial shopper. I don’t spend half my life and half my income on my wardrobe. I don’t tear through fashion magazines hunting for the latest trend. But I like to look good and I’ll pay a reasonable amount of money to do so. And I admit, after wearing my brother’s sweats and Caroline’s clothes for the past twelve hours, it feels damn good to slip into quality clothing made with quality fabric, designed by people who really know a woman’s body.

I pull on a pair of VINCE flat front skinny pants and admire myself in the mirror. They fit fine, although I see that my normally firm stomach is slightly more convex than it was yesterday, and not because of the granny panties I’m wearing, but likely because I haven’t been on the treadmill in three days. An errant thread sticks out from the faux zipper and I tug at it only to feel the stitching come loose.
Uh oh.
I call to Bianca over the door of the fitting room.

“Do you have another pair of the VINCE’s in a six?” I ask her.

“Aren’t those fabulous?” she breathes. “I’m sure we do. Just a sec.”

I slide out of the pants and return them to their appropriate hanger, then spend a moment sorting through the rest of the clothing, separating it into two groups: the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots.’ This is going to be an expensive little excursion, but what the hell? I simply must have the Burberry Herringbone Bouclé cape. It’s November, and I can’t very well wear Danny’s UCLA sweatshirt to keep warm, even if the latte stain comes out. Anyway the cape is on sale. I pull the hanger from the hook and press the cape against myself and gaze at my reflection. Definitely a ‘have.’

“Okay,” comes Bianca’s girlish voice. “I found you another six.”

I open the fitting room door and hand the cape to her. “I’m taking this for sure.”

“Good choice,” Bianca agrees, passing me the VINCE’s.

“How’s the little guy?” I ask, gesturing in the direction of the stroller. I can only see the wheels from where I stand.

Bianca’s mouth forms an ‘o’ of surprise. “Isn’t he in there with you?”

My heart has never skipped a beat before in my life, but at this moment, it skips five.

“What? No! He’s not in here!”

“He’s not?”

I scramble out of the dressing room wearing only Caroline’s granny panties, clutching the VINCE pants to my chest. Sure enough, the stroller is empty. My stomach shoots up to my throat and I have the distinct urge to vomit.

Bianca rushes to the main floor, calling my nephew as though he is a cocker spaniel. “Here boy, here boy.” Kiss noise, whistle.

“Tebow!” I cry, dropping the pants in a heap. “His name is Tebow!”

She nods and we both start calling him by name, weaving through the nearest clothing racks. My nephew is nowhere in sight. I crouch to the carpeted floor and scan the area at toddler level. Nothing. I stand up, my pulse as loud as a jackhammer in my ears, and turn three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, desperate to catch a glimpse of a towheaded boy. An older man and woman saunter past, arms linked, carefree as a summer’s day. I roll up on them, catching them completely off guard.

“Have you seen a little…a boy…a toddler? He’s almost two, blond hair, wearing a…you know…a t-shirt with that stupid red monster on it!”

They both look at me with wide eyes, and simultaneously shake their heads. Then the man puts his arm around the woman and pulls her away from me as though I’m an escaped lunatic. I glance over at Bianca who is swiping at clothing, hoping to reveal my nephew hiding under the racks.

“Tebow! Tebow!” I holler, zigzagging through the area, totally oblivious to the fact that I’m practically naked.

“Ma’am. You have to put some clothes on,” Bianca exclaims. “I’m sure he didn’t get far, but you can’t look for him like that!”

Her words bring me up short. My heart is pounding and I can hardly take a breath. This is not merely an
Oh fuck
moment. This is
Oh fuck
times a million.

“I’ll call security and keep looking while you get dressed,” Bianca says, and I admire how calm she seems under pressure. Of course, it’s not
her
nephew wandering around in Bloomindales unsupervised. She won’t die if something bad happens to him. Whether we find him or not, at the end of her shift, she gets to go home and have a glass of wine and watch bad TV.

“I’m sure he hasn’t gotten far,” she assures me. I blink at her, then bob my head up and down a couple of times in rapid succession. “Go. Get dressed,” she instructs. “The AG’s and the pink Joie. Now.”

My ability to speak has taken a powder break, but I do as she says and manage to clothe myself in two-point-five seconds. Then I’m back on the floor, hollering Tebow’s name and trying not to think about all of the possible scenarios that could be happening at this moment, like, for example, Tebow in the back of van with no windows or Tebow teetering on the second floor ledge of the overhang of the mall or Tebow swallowing dangly peace-sign earrings and choking on them.
He has little legs
, I tell myself. Bianca’s right. He can’t have gone far.

By the time I find Bianca in the adjacent accessories section, all floors have been alerted and a young security guard is taking notes onto a steno pad. Bianca babbles to him about Tebow, and I listen impatiently, my eyes moving back and forth across the expanse of the store.

“…cute little dimples when he smiles, and a cleft chin, and, um, blue-grey eyes with tiny specks of gold, and he has a small birthmark in the shape of a pear right above his left eye…”

He does?
I think.
I didn’t notice the birthmark. Or the exact color of his eyes. Or the cleft chin.
My throat swells with shame as I realize that during the time I’ve been in Southern California, I haven’t really taken a good look at my nephew. And now he’s…
Do not say it. Do not even
think
it.

“…Elmo t-shirt and grey cotton pants with little fire trucks on them and Tretorn sandals.”