The One That Got Away (19 page)

“So what do we do?” asked Jimmy.

“We’ll continue to monitor the fetus via ultrasound for the next few weeks and hope for some progress. But if we don’t see any, we’ll get the baby out early—thirty-four or thirty-five weeks—and put him or her on a feeding tube. We see good results with this in cases of IGR.”

“IGR?” said Jimmy.

“Sorry. Intrauterine growth restriction. A condition where the fetus isn’t getting proper nutrition—and no, Mom, it has nothing to do with what you are eating or not eating. It could be a problem with the umbilical cord, could be a placenta issue. Sometimes we never find out why. So again, we’ll monitor it closely and schedule a C-section if we have to, okay?”

“But thirty-four weeks is so early. Too early,” I pleaded.

“Having the baby early isn’t the risk. We deal with preemies all the time. What we can’t ascertain at this point is if the nutrient deficiency has affected development, in particular the baby’s cognitive function.”

This time he didn’t finish his sentence by asking us if we were “okay?” We weren’t.

Jimmy continued to ask a stream of questions, but I stopped
listening, overwhelmed. Had I not been eating right? Or enough? The panic I felt was physical, my skin tingling, my stomach churning, and my lungs working double time. It didn’t help that the room was small and dark; now it felt like it was filling with water.

Jimmy looked over at me, saw my face, and began overcompensating as a way to distract me. He spoke louder and louder and became weirdly cheerful. It was like we had switched personalities: me now silent and stoic, Jimmy talkative and awkward.

In the waiting area, me trying not to look at the other women with their perfectly normal pregnancies, the receptionist patiently helped us book five appointments and fill out some forms. She tried to calm us with smiles and two plastic cups of water, but to this day, whenever I use a pen attached by a silver chain to a clipboard, I feel sick.

Back home in our house in Grange Hill, I lost it. Jimmy held me as I cried and rambled, stopping me only when I started blaming myself. Together, we analyzed every word the doctor had said; the words “functioning adequately,” “nutritional deficiency,” and “cognitive function” repeating like the CNN scroll across our kitchen walls. That night, when I couldn’t sleep, Jimmy came downstairs with me to watch
Project Runway
reruns. He held me in his arms on the couch, both our hands on my belly, both of us secretly willing the baby to grow.

The next five weeks were terrifying. I spent all day Googling “intrauterine growth restriction” until Jimmy finally had to confiscate the computer and hide it in the basement. I told total strangers at the grocery store about my baby’s condition but kept it from my closest friends, too afraid of their looks of concern and pity, too afraid of making this nightmare an irreversible reality. I sleepwalked through work, my mind busy bargaining with fate for just a few more ounces, a few more centimeters. And I ate and ate and ate, gorging on avocadoes and mashed potatoes and Greek yogurt,
hoping that the more I consumed, the better chance the baby would have to be normal.

If anyone asked me today what we did that winter, whom we saw, or what we gave each other for Christmas, I’d still have no idea. The only memories I have are of the five ultrasound appointments, two of which showed progress; three did not. My weight ballooned while the baby’s stayed frustratingly the same. At the final appointment, at thirty-four and a half weeks, our anxiety having grown to near hysteria, Dr. Z asked us, “Time for the baby to come out, okay?”

“Okay,” we replied in unison.

And then the strangest thing happened.

The next morning—up early and getting dressed, ready to leave for our scheduled C-section—I went into labor. It started as soon as I woke, an unmistakable twinge that progressed steadily. By the time I got out of the shower, I was into full-blown contractions. I waddled to the stairwell and called down to Jimmy that we’d better leave earlier than expected. Gloria, already smarter than both of us, knew it was time to come out.

And boy was she in a rush. By the time we made it to the hospital at a quarter past seven, I was eight centimeters dilated, too late for the operation or even an epidural. After half an hour of me clawing at air and screaming until I had no voice, she slid into the doctor’s arms with barely a whimper.

Holding her birdlike body, barely heavier than a Diet Coke, was infinitely frightening. She was trussed up in a heating pad and foam neck support, her little blue-tinged face the only part of her visible. But looking into her wide eyes, and feeling her little fingers wrapped around my thumb, I felt her strength and her determination. Something inside told me she would be fine.

Gloria’s first two weeks of life were spent in the crowded, noisy NICU at Delco Memorial, where we watched her suck milk from
a syringe and cast irritated glances at her noisy roommates. When we were finally discharged, she slept the whole way home but then woke with a start as we stepped into the house. She looked around the kitchen, stacked with dishes and mail from weeks of neglect, then at each of us, haggard and unshowered, then at the large black Labrador who would be her childhood pet. Her expression was one of resignation and exasperation, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d gotten herself into. But I couldn’t have been happier… after months of agonizing worry, our journey was over. And we had a small, but healthy, daughter.

In the days that followed, it was Jimmy’s turn to lose it. He had held his own emotions back—in order to be what Dr. Z called “positive and supportive for the mother”—and now they burst forth like a violent summer storm.

“Why is she crying?” “Is she hungry?” “Is she still breathing?” “Is that a rash?” “What’s that thing on her belly button?” “Why does she need
another
shot?” he asked, his questions peppering me wherever we went: the hospital, the pediatrician’s, on a walk, in the middle of the night. I allowed the overprotective new father bit to continue as long as he needed, knowing it was my turn to be the strong one.

Only after she began putting on weight—slowly, but surely, half ounce by precious half ounce—did we allow ourselves to relax a bit. Jimmy turned his attention back to Lahey Landscape, which he hoped to launch by Labor Day, meeting with potential clients and researching zero-turn mowers. I was back at work too; my home life of sleeplessness, diapers, and onesie snaps interspersed with days in the now irrelevant and irresponsible world of public relations. And though it wasn’t the perfect life portrayed in diaper commercials, it was still wonderful, each day electric with the heightened emotions and countless surprises that first babies bring.

And then later that summer, our relief about Gloria was overshadowed
by another catastrophic event. But this time, we would wait for death, not life.

On a hot August Sunday, just weeks before Jimmy officially launched Lahey Landscape & Design LLC, his mother, Jane, announced that she had just months to live. After the lasagna, while dishing out slices of her famous key lime pie, she told us that the stage three breast cancer she had successfully fought four years before had returned with a vengeance. It had metastasized from her breast to her lymph nodes and finally found its way to its ultimate goal, her liver. She dutifully got her two scans per year, but this cancer had hidden from the technician, silently moving from organ to organ in the most devious and elusive way. The odds of beating it, she said, were slim.

As she broke the news, Miles kept his eyes on her face and held her hand. I was nursing Gloria under a baby afghan, unable to move. Jimmy and his brothers listened with their heads down, as if they were being punished.

After a few seconds of heartsick silence, Jane spoke again. “Now, boys. It’s going to be all right. Really it is.”

No one responded, so I ventured, “There are some amazing experimental therapies out there. I just read about this Temple doctor who invented this thing that helps target tumors. And there’s holistic healing and herbs and—”

“Abbey,” said Miles, but I kept talking. He said my name again, still gently but much louder, and I shut my mouth.

My father-in-law looked around the table, all of us crammed into the small daisy-papered dining room where the Laheys had eaten thousands of family meals. He took a deep breath. “We’ve been through this before. We know how hard it is even when you have a good prognosis. And we had a second opinion, a third, even a fourth. They all say the same thing. Surgery won’t help, and if we did chemo again, well, at this point, that in itself might kill her.”

The words “kill her” rang out. Patrick frowned, angry. “What? That’s ridiculous. Of course you’re going to fight this.”

“I know it’s quite a shock, my darling,” said Miles, addressing his youngest son as if he were still a baby. “But try to understand. This is cancer, and try as we might to fight it, it fights harder. And dirtier.”

Now Jane spoke. “I want my last days to be spent in peace with the ones I love, not on some fool’s errand.”

“How long have you known?” asked Jimmy, with hurt in his voice. “Why didn’t you tell us before now?”

“You had enough to deal with, with Abbey and the baby, and the new business,” Jane explained. “And there is nothing—absolutely nothing—any of you could have done. Now, someone please hand me my granddaughter.” End of discussion. She was a sweet woman, but stubborn, and her boys knew when it was pointless to argue.

I passed her Gloria and she held the tiny pink face to her own. She breathed deep, taking in the smell of talcum powder and regurgitated breast milk. The smell of new life. Gloria let out a little gurgle and Jane laughed and looked around to see who else had heard the delightful sound.

She died five months later, four days before her granddaughter’s first birthday. It was the same day we found out Gloria had actually made it to one percent on the doctor’s height/weight chart, as if Jane had sent her that extra ounce as a parting gift.

Again, I found myself nursing my husband’s heart back to health, but this time instead of questions, I got silence. He spent more and more time at work, leaving before sunrise and poring over paperwork late into the night. He was a new business owner with a lot to prove, toiling over lawns and shrubs and mulch, coming home grubby and exhausted and distant. I helped as much as I could. But I was a working parent myself, and time was a luxury that was becoming harder and harder to share.

Jimmy and I were still in love, and we were as happy as the next couple, but the sadness and stress of the past year filled our house with shadows. And the invisible chalkboard in the sky—the one that keeps track of who got up with the baby last, who unloaded the dishwasher, who folded the laundry—began to get marked more often, wiped clean less. We no longer watched the sunset from the front porch; instead, we texted updates on car repairs and day care schedules from different floors in the same house.

It was sometime during that year, with a one-year-old, two client-focused careers, and an eighty-year-old house in constant need of attention, that life started to get away from us.

Like millions of other families across the country, we went from living for today to simply getting through it.

Now, six years later, walking down the thickly carpeted hallway to this apartment in the sky, the pain of that pregnancy and Jane’s death felt so far away, as distant and muted as the traffic outside. How different life was here with the van Holts. Instead of clogged drains and recycling schedules and late fees, and multitasking and running late and barely making ends meet, I didn’t have to take care of anything; it was all done for me. My only responsibilities were to attend a few events, manage the help, decorate, and occasionally see the kids. And I had a handsome, charming husband who not only appreciated the few tasks I did manage to accomplish each day but rewarded me with anything I could possibly desire.

What a civilized way to live, I thought.

O
wwwwww!!!
” screamed Gloria as I accidentally jabbed her with a bobby pin. After twenty minutes of trying, I still couldn’t get the red yarn Raggedy Ann wig to stay on right.

“Sorry, Glo,” I told her. “This thing just won’t lay right.”

“It’s stupid, anyway,” she said, tugging her white pinafore down over the blue printed dress. “Why can’t I be a vampire? I really want to be a vampire, Mommy.”

“These are the costumes we were told you should wear,” I said, eyeing Sam in his blue overalls, oversized buttons, and sailor cap. “I’m not going to argue about it anymore. Now, stand still.”

Gloria might have felt miserable, but she looked adorable. And the pair of them, with her brother in a matching Raggedy Andy costume, were off the cute chart: two tiny dolls with red circles of rouge on their cheeks, shiny buttons, striped knee socks, and black patent shoes. These costumes might not have been what the kids wanted, but they were one hundred percent cotton and campaign approved.

Frank didn’t believe in leaving anything to chance. Monsters were “too violent,” witches “sexist,” movie characters “too liberal
Hollywood elite,” and ninjas or toy soldiers would highlight the fact that Alex had not served in the armed forces. That left us with animals, fairies, or dolls. Personally, I thought Depression-era Raggedy Ann and Andy were ridiculous for a wealthy family like ours, but Frank liked that they were red, white, and blue. May’s sister had made them by hand, and Oscar had picked them up late last night.

The plan was for us to join Alex at a political rally after Gloria’s school Halloween party, then have dinner and go trick-or-treating together as a family. May usually worked Fridays, but since we had the debate tomorrow, her day off had been switched. I was glad she wasn’t with us. I was looking forward to spending time, just the four of us. After today, there were only three days left until the election, and we probably wouldn’t see much of Alex again until it was all over. I made sure I looked good: a gray Lanvin suit with a dotted, white-on-white silk blouse, diamond studs, black leather boots, and bright red lips. The rally was outside, so I twisted my hair into a chignon and sprayed it until it shone.

With minutes to spare, I grabbed the kids’ candy bags, my giant white YSL purse, and a pink cardboard box containing four dozen dark chocolate and buttercream cupcakes, each topped with a marshmallow ghost dipped in edible white glitter, with two mini-chips as eyes. Thank God for city bakeries; they’d honor any last-minute request if you didn’t mind the rush charge. We didn’t.

Downstairs in the lobby, the kids’ patent leather shoes squeaked on the glossy black floor. When they spied Oscar waiting outside in a Darth Vader mask, they squealed with delight and ran faster, the doorman barely getting the door open in time.

I caught up and Darth wedged the giant cupcake boxes into the trunk while we waited on the sidewalk. Passersby oohed and aahed at the old-fashioned costumes, but Gloria ignored them, still fuming about the vampire costume veto. At least Sam seemed pleased,
touching his head and repeating “hat” over and over.
Word number twelve,
I silently whispered to Jimmy.

He had always loved Halloween, as all landscapers do. It’s the holiday that marks the end of their busiest season and kicks off the short lull before they start plowing snow and hanging holiday lights. He celebrated each year by going all out: decorating the yard with bales of hay, potted mums, and black bats hung from invisible wire. He also always insisted on full-size candy bars for the kids and a keg of pumpkin ale for the parents. Friends from high school or work would stop by with their kids, and the party would stretch well into the night, neighbors putting their sugar-crashed kids to bed and slinking back for one last beer.

Halloween in the city was sure to be different. The van Holts didn’t even have a pumpkin.

In the car on our way, my phone rang. It was Alex.

“Please tell me you didn’t write a check to Ronald Ferguson for ten thousand dollars,” Alex said, clearly annoyed.

“Yeah, I did. Why?” My heart moved up into my throat.

“Are you kidding? Abbey, we’ve talked about this.”

“We did?” Uh-oh.

“Didn’t we have a whole conversation about him a few weeks ago?”

“I guess we did.”

“You guess we did? Well, then, why the hell did you write him a check? I thought I made myself clear. If I can help Holy Rosary, I will do it
after
the election.”

“Right. Sorry.”

I heard voices in the background and Alex telling someone he needed a minute. “I swear, Abbey, I don’t know why you do this. Are you trying to sabotage the campaign? I thought this is what
you
wanted.”

“It’s just a donation. To help them with food and electricity and stuff. How can it hurt the campaign?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because your friend Father Ferguson has been doling out birth control to teenagers and Rome has him on some sort of watch list. Or maybe because he’s rumored to have a girlfriend up in Kensington. And here I am—
right now!
—on my way to meet with the Catholic Coalition to ask for their support.”

I felt sick to my stomach. “Don’t worry; I’ll call him and tell him not to cash it until after the election.”

“He’s already posted it. How do you think I found out? I know ten grand is just another day at Neiman’s to you, but for most people, it’s noticeable. Thankfully Randall at the bank is going to stop payment.”

“Stop payment? Alex, please don’t. Let it go through. I swear no one saw me. No one will know.”

“I’m running for Congress, Abbey,” he snapped. “
Everyone knows everything.
”

Five minutes later, as we pulled up to the children’s school, picture-perfect with its trees of orange, gold, and maroon against gray stone, I was still shaking. And trying not to cry. I forced a smile, though, and thanked Oscar, then ushered the children through the gate while carefully balancing the cupcake boxes. Inside, as we walked through the noisy, bright hallway, the familiar smells and sounds of an elementary school calmed me. I began to feel a little better.

Gloria, Sam, and I dodged glitter wings and plastic swords to find her classroom and unload the treats. Gloria ran off to join her friends while Sam and I found seats in the child-sized chairs in the back of the room where we could wait. Sam wanted to run to his sister, but I distracted him with a lollipop I grabbed off the treat table. He sucked happily as I looked around, admiring the colorful
rugs and decorations, as well as the wide windows that overlooked a lovely stone courtyard, a vegetable garden, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, an Alexander Calder sculpture.

After a few minutes, a teacher just seconds out of college approached, so naturally pretty that even her Harry Potter wig, glasses, and painted-on scar didn’t diminish her perfect features.

“Good morning, Mrs. van Holt,” she said with a wide smile. “Gloria looks so cute.”

“Thank you, Miss Regan,” I said, proud of myself for learning her name before we came. “I’m sorry we have to leave early, but Gloria’s dad has a campaign event and really wants her there.”

“Of course,” she said, pushing her costume glasses up her nose. “I understand.” She stood smiling expectantly, as if waiting for something. After a few more seconds, she asked, “So is your driver bringing the pumpkins?”

“Pumpkins?”

“For the pies.”

“I thought I just had to bring the cupcakes.” I felt that same anxious feeling I’d had last week when I realized too late it was “pajama day” at Gloria’s school.

“The cupcakes are for
this
class,” she explained. “I believe you also signed up to bring pumpkins for the ‘alt trackers.’”

“What?”

“The twelve pumpkins for her alternate track. For the ‘snow leopards.’”

“But I thought Gloria was a ‘manatee,’” I said, exasperated. Last night, I had painstakingly reviewed all of Abbey van Holt’s e-mails yet again and had figured out that Gloria’s classmates were nicknamed the manatees, that her teacher’s name was Miss Regan, and that for Halloween, I was assigned “ghost-, ghoul-, or witch-themed cupcakes” for the party. What was this “alt track” business?

Miss Regan continued: “On Fridays she has her other track, too. And for their party, they are going to make pumpkin pies. Bryant’s mother already brought the gluten-free flour for the crust. And Kennedy’s mother brought the organic butter from Shepperton Farms.”

I would have been annoyed at all the dietetic pretense if she didn’t look like she was about to cry. I had no choice: I had to find some pumpkins. And fast.

“Don’t worry. I’ll just run out and get some. I’ll be right back,” I told her in an overconfident tone. Then I grabbed Sam’s hand and rushed out the door. So I needed twelve locally grown organic pumpkins. How hard could it be? It was Halloween after all.

But outside, I paused, not knowing which way to turn. If this had been Grange Hill, there would be pumpkins at every grocery store and corner market, but here in the city, I hadn’t seen any stores, let alone pumpkins. I pulled out my phone to check for a Trader Joe’s or any other grocery store, but the nearest one was north of Market Street, a mile away. I searched for a bodega or produce shop, but the only one I found and called didn’t have any pumpkins. I even looked up and down the street, for a moment thinking of “borrowing” some from the steps of the nearby brownstones. But there was only one, and it was already carved. I stamped my foot in frustration.

A little Ninja Turtle—Donatello, I think—passed by, escorted by two fathers. I asked them if they knew of a place to buy pumpkins and they directed me to a farmers’ market in Fitler Square, just a few blocks away.

“You’re in luck,” said the older man, his arms full of candy apple–making supplies. “This is the last weekend before they close for winter.”

I thanked them profusely, swung the baby up onto my hip, and trotted off in the direction they had indicated. In my high heels, I limped a little as I jogged, like a sulky on its last lap.

My luck continued at the farmers’ market, which was in full swing when I arrived. Moms with strollers vied with aging hippies for five varieties of kale, home-brewed kombucha, vegan soups, and apples ranging from light pink to deep red to lime green. One table held pyramids of handmade soap, another displayed hemp onesies, while another offered pamphlets for a Green Party candidate running against Alex. I picked it up and shoved it in my purse even though I knew the guy didn’t have a chance; I’d never heard Alex or Frank even mention him. Finally, in the back corner near the bear statue, I found a young man selling beautiful green and orange “heirloom” pumpkins.

“I’ll take
all
of them,” I told him. “Provided they are organic. And that you deliver.” He looked up from his guitar and smiled, his teeth bright against his long black beard and red-and-black-checked shirt.

“Yes to both, milady,” he said, jumping up. “As long as it’s not far. I only have an oxcart.” He pointed to a rickety wooden contraption in the corner. It would work.

“It’s just three blocks away,” I assured him, then opened my purse. “How much?”

He did the math in his head and, with all seriousness, told me, “Two ninety-five.” I almost fainted. But then again, thinking of Miss Regan’s worried face, and given my new circumstances, I would have paid double that.

I set Sam down among the gourds, stretched my back, and pulled out my wallet. I had nine dollars. That wouldn’t even get me one pumpkin, let alone twelve.

“Do you take credit cards?” I asked sweetly.

“Nope.”

“Personal checks?”

“Sorry.”

“Do you think you could just take a check just this once? I
promise I’m good for it… I’m married to Alex van Holt, the guy running for Congress.” I was not above playing the husband card if it meant fulfilling my parent-teacher duties, especially now that I had no full-time job and no excuse for flaking out.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a big smile. “I’m sure you’re good for it. But I don’t have a bank account.”

I stared at him. He continued: “I’m cash only. Or barter.”

Cash only? Barter? Was he serious? Did he not understand that there were twelve little alt trackers waiting eagerly to clean, cut, scoop, pulverize, mix, and bake these pumpkins into low-sugar, gluten-free organic pies they would take one bite of and then reject? Looking at his expression, blissful and somewhat vacant under his Fidel Castro–style hat, I realized he didn’t. Nor did he care. Unless he was willing to exchange these pumpkins for a cute toddler with a really wet diaper, I would need to find some cash.

“Fine. I’ll go to the ATM. But
please
don’t sell these pumpkins. I’ll be back in five minutes.” I swung Sam back up onto my hip and shuffled off again.

I found a money machine outside a bar on the next block. I slipped in what looked like a debit card and entered my pin number, but it was rejected. I looked at the screen in confusion, then remembered. Of course. My anniversary date was different in this world. I remembered the date engraved on that heavy wedding album—June 19, was it?—and entered 0619 next. But no luck. I then tried my two kids’ birth dates, also a favorite pin, but the machine spit my card back out. And worse—a message told me I had to wait twenty-four hours before I could try again.

I’d have to find where the van Holts did their banking and make a withdrawal from the teller. Surely “Randall at the bank” wouldn’t have a problem with me buying my daughter some pumpkins on Halloween. I pulled out my checkbook to find the institution’s name,
only to have Google tell me the nearest location was ten blocks away, on the fourteenth floor of building across from city hall.

I was so tense, I didn’t realize that I was holding Sam’s hand in a death grip. He looked up at me with a pouty lip, whimpering.

“Oh, Mr. Magoo, I’m sorry,” I said, picking him up and hugging him close. “This is ridiculous. The snow leopards are just going to have to get over it.”

And they did. Except for one. Mine.

Finding Gloria and her classmates in the school’s kitchen, each with a ball of dough at the ready, Sam and I attempted to slip in and nonchalantly explain to Miss Regan that we had an epic pumpkin fail but were able to find nine cans of Libby’s easy pumpkin pie mix at the local bodega (which, thankfully, was happy to take a credit card). Miss Regan actually took the news better than I expected, but Gloria was furious. She stomped over to me with balled fists and narrowed eyes.