The One That Got Away (20 page)

“Where are the pumpkins?” she said, glaring. “You were supposed to get pumpkins!”

“Gloria, calm down. You’ll just use the canned stuff. It’s fine.”

“What? The Native Americans didn’t have cans!”

Well, they probably didn’t make pies either,
I wanted to say. But I bit my tongue. Never in my life had I seen her so irate. Not the time I accidentally threw out her prized shell collection. Or when I told her she couldn’t go with Roberta to the dog track. Not even the time Sam threw up on her beloved Lambie.

This was white-knuckled, teeth-baring, five-year-old fury.

I knelt down and tried to pull her close, whispering, “It’s okay, GloWorm. It will be just as fun. And honestly, a whole lot easier.” But she pulled away from me, her face growing redder, her little arms and legs taut with frustration. By now the class was silent, watching. Even the local pastry chef they had brought in to help was staring, his floured rolling pin poised in midair.

Gloria sucked in a deep breath and shouted “No!” so loud it reverberated around the room. Then she raised her hand and slapped me.
Slapped
me. So hard it took my breath away. And by the sound of gasps around the room, everyone else’s, too. I think even Sam understood, his mouth opening in a silent “WTF.”

It was one of those moments, like in the seconds just after a car crash, where the world stops turning. Where you are floating, and have time to notice things you wouldn’t normally notice. Like a row of cherry-red mixers on the counter. The expensive bamboo flooring beneath your feet. How long and black your daughter’s lashes are.

It’s where the most painful reality—usually tucked away with old photographs and graduate school catalogues—finally escapes from its hiding place and confronts you head-on. Where you can see your child for what she is: spoiled, uncontrollable, and spiteful. But also a victim. A victim of indulgence, overscheduling, and a terrific case of “everything she wants but nothing she needs.”

And where you recognize yourself, as the mother, as the main perpetrator of that crime.

With that clarity comes a strange exchange of emotion. You do not feel mad, as you would have thought. You do not even feel embarrassed. You feel sadness, to the point of heartbreak. So much so that you no longer feel the soreness in your feet and arms, or the stinging of your cheek.

It’s the thinking about your daughter as Gloria van Holt—and the five and a half years of her life that have passed without you—that really hurts.

I
nside the bathroom of a West Philadelphia electronics store, I could hear the noise of the crowd gathering for the rally. It got louder by the second, much like Sam’s whining as he tried to wrestle himself out of my arms. I wouldn’t let him down, though, the place dirty and cluttered, and his costume overalls suit so pristine and white. I looked for a changing table or any kind of shelf but found only a tall radiator too thin and rickety to hold Sam. I gauged the width of the plastic toilet seat and the back of the toilet but ruled them out as well. I cringed, knowing I had no other choice. The rally was about to start.

I tugged a cream cashmere wrap out of my purse and spread it out on the dirty tile floor, then laid Sam on top of it. Six minutes and forty wipes later—me sweating through my blouse, pieces of my hair freeing themselves from the tight chignon—I looked around for a trash can. There was none. Knowing Alex was waiting for us, probably growing desperate, I did what I had to do: bundled the dirty diaper in the cashmere wrap and shoved it deep into my purse. “Sorry, Yves,” I whispered.

Half an hour earlier, when we’d met up with Alex under a tent near the rally, he’d acted like the phone call about Father Fergie had
never happened, greeting us with hugs and kisses and telling me I looked “hot.” I wanted to apologize, but we were surrounded by Frank and Calvin and a bunch of supporters, so I took Alex’s lead and pretended everything was fine. I tried to read his eyes, to see if he was still mad and just playing nice for the cameras, but I couldn’t tell. Either I didn’t know him well enough or he was a really good actor. Or worse, he didn’t care.

Or maybe he was just distracted. This event was huge. The main spectator area was the parking lot of a now derelict hospital, already so full that people spilled over into the surrounding lots, even onto the street. Television trucks pushed up satellite feeds on one side of the road while newspaper reporters paced and chatted on cell phones by the raised metal stage. Police rerouted angry commuters around the block.

A few people were there to hear Alex, but most were waiting for incumbent senator Doug Blandon, Philadelphia’s hometown hero. Blandon was known as a salt-of-the-earth type, with a résumé that read like a political consultant’s dream: Gulf War veteran, son of a waitress, college football star, and father to six—four natural and two adopted. He was a personal hero of Alex’s, and I knew my husband was honored to be Blandon’s opening act. But as the proud wife, and given the headway Alex was making lately, I couldn’t help but think Blandon should have been honored too.

When Sam and I returned from our bathroom misadventures, we found Alex posing for photos with groupies, and this time not the creepy Gerald type, but the young, female, and “ready to do anything for their country” variety. I walked over and handed Sam to his father, hoping a messy, fussy toddler might scatter them like Kryptonite. But my plan backfired: seeing the handsome possible congressman cuddling a pudgy toddler in overalls made them practically ovulate in unison. Alex pretended to be oblivious, but I
caught him stealing a few looks. Luckily, Blandon’s aide pulled us away toward the stage, and the girls dispersed back into the crowd.

Ten minutes into the speech, sitting on the stage in a folding chair between Mrs. Blandon and a still pouting Gloria, Sam heavy and sweaty in my lap, I started to tune out what Alex was saying, listening only for certain words and phrases. I knew Alex’s speeches so well by this point, I could clap on cue, nod at big moments, smile shyly and wave when he mentioned me, and feign indignation at the state of the nation’s economy, unemployment rate, or educational malaise. I knew it was almost over when Alex took off his jacket—he always did this for dramatic pause before the big crescendo—so I prepared myself to stand. I placed my heels squarely beneath me on the metal stage and rearranged Sam, using my arm to hide the stain on his tummy.

Sure enough, the jacket came off, the sleeves went up, and ten seconds later we were standing and basking in the adoration of the crowd. Alex stepped over to us and picked up Raggedy Ann and then leaned over to kiss Raggedy Andy on his head. When he leaned over and kissed not-so-Raggedy me full on the mouth, the applause got even louder. Only Sam was unimpressed. Somewhere between “let’s give our children the future they deserve” and “the American dream is still alive and well in Philadelphia,” he had fallen asleep in my arms.

It was an overwhelming moment, one I wasn’t likely to forget. The entire crowd was on its feet, and the chants of “van Holt” drowned out the sounds of the city. I could feel Alex beside me fill with pride and excitement and relief; it was becoming apparent he had a shot at winning this. I felt my own relief, too, that my screw-up with the check seemed to be completely forgiven and forgotten.

I looked out and smiled at the crowd as they began to sing along to the music spun by a local DJ. I read the signs and waved to kids on their parents’ shoulders and let myself enjoy the warm October sun. Eventually we all sat down again for the senator’s speech. Alex
had been introduced by the local party chair; the senator was introduced by the Eagles’ current cornerback.

Sam snored peacefully on my chest and my thoughts began to drift, when about two-thirds back into the crowd, I saw a face I recognized. I could just make out his head above the others, but I would know those eyes, that cap, and that white beard anywhere.

It was Miles.

I sucked in air in surprise and fought the urge to stand up and start waving. Instead, I simply stared, my eyes locked on his face, urging him to step closer.

Dear, sweet Miles. He was looking right at me. But what did he see? His daughter-in-law or Mrs. Alexander van Holt? Did he wonder why his grandchildren were up onstage? Was he confused that his beloved Sam was introduced as “Van”? Did he miss me as much as I missed him?

Then his eyes moved past us and back to the podium, and my heart sank. He didn’t recognize us. His expression seemed to read like everyone else’s—“When is this guy going to wrap it up?”

I leaned down to whisper in Sam’s ear. “I just saw your Pop.”

Alex looked over at me and put a hand on my thigh. He smiled a tight-lipped smile, but his eyes gave him away.
Shush,
they seemed to say.

As soon as the speeches ended and we filed off the stage and down the creaky metal steps, I shoved Gloria’s little hand into Alex’s big one. With Sam bouncing on my hip, I plunged into the crowd, heading in the direction of where I’d seen Miles. Alex called my name, confused, but I ignored him, losing myself in the human tide.

As we weaved through the crowd clumsily, I scanned faces, desperate for a glimpse of a wool cap, a limping walk. I squeezed around backpacks, stepped over strollers. Luckily, a few people recognized me and paused to let us pass.

I saw a black hat and rushed toward it, but the face that turned
belonged to a much younger man. I ran after a fluff of white hair, but it, too, belonged to a stranger. I paused, and with my free hand, I shielded my eyes from the late afternoon sun, scanning the rivers of people as they moved across the concrete lot and onto the sidewalk. I was about to give up when I noticed a crowd of people funneling into the trolley station—and realized that Miles would likely be among them, taking the Route 100 line home. Slinging Sam onto my opposite hip, I started to run toward it.

Inside, the trolley platforms were shoulder to shoulder with people, all trying to force themselves inside two small silver cars. Sam and I pushed toward the doors of the one marked “Delaware County.” As I got closer, my head straining over the sea of people, I saw Miles through the window. He was reading the paper, clueless.

“Miles,” I shouted at the trolley. “Miles Lahey, please wait. Miles!”

Sensing my desperation, people parted to let me pass. But just as I reached the trolley, the doors slid shut and the conductor announced the first stop. I reached out, but my hand only grazed the cold, dirty metal.

He didn’t hear me, didn’t know that his precious grandson was just a few feet away. “Miles,” I said again, but softer, as the trolley rolled away. I caught my breath, adjusted Sam, then turned and started back, fighting the current of bodies.

As we walked back to the lot, I laughed at myself. What would I have said to him? Miles was an old soul and a practicing Catholic with a healthy respect for fate and chance and the mysteries of life. But alternate universes? That would be hard, even for him.

By the time we made it back to the rally, only a handful of supporters lingered, and both Alex and Gloria were frantic.

“Where did you go?” they asked in stereo, Gloria desperate to start trick-or-treating and Alex worried.

“Sorry. I saw someone I used to know.”

“Jesus, Abbey,” Alex said. “You can’t just run off like that. There could be nutjobs around. Seriously.” I looked at my feet, contrite, and fell in step behind them as we made our way back to Oscar and the Suburban.

But we’d made it only a few yards when we were stopped again, this time by a pretty petite woman in a black shirtdress and giant witch’s hat. Her skin was caramel colored and luminous, her hair long and dark, and her figure curvy in all the right places. But it was her smile that delighted above all: wide, warm, and genuine.

Which is why I was surprised when she spoke so bluntly.

“Van Holt! That was one bullshit speech,” she barked at Alex, not caring who among the straggling supporters heard.

“Larry!” Alex’s eyes flung open in surprise. “How are you?” He hugged her hard, almost lifting her off her feet, then stepped back. “Nice language in front of my kids, by the way.”

She clapped her hands to her face in embarrassment and looked at me apologetically. Alex laughed, then introduced us.

“Abbey, this is Larry Liebman,” he said. “Larry, this is my wife, Abigail.”

“Actually, we met at your wedding,” she explained. “But there were about a million people there, so I understand if you don’t remember.” For once, an easy out.

We exchanged pleasantries until I noticed the identification badge dangling from her neck. “Are you with the press?” I asked.

“I write for the
Inquirer
,” she said. “City desk.”

“You’re that Larry Liebman!” I exclaimed. “I’ve seen your byline. I try to read your stories. But I always thought you were a man.”

“Yep, everyone does. It’s part of my cover,” she said, pulling the brim of her hat down over one eye and winking at Gloria. “Only my mother still calls me Lawrencia.”

“Are you covering this rally?”

“No. Since Alex and I went to school together, I recused myself. I just came by to enjoy a little sun. Certainly not those ridiculous speeches. Honestly, van Holt, you can do better.” She punched him in the arm and he winced.

“The ladies sure loved it, though,” she continued. “I’ve never seen so many women at a Blandon rally before.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, rolling my eyes.

We all laughed, except for Gloria, who was pulling my other arm out of my socket and glaring at Larry for holding her up.

When we made it to the car, Alex turned and hugged Larry again, then told her he’d call after the election and we could all get together for dinner. I hugged her too, even though we had just met.

“Nice to meet you, Larry,” I said, before sliding into the car.

“Nice to see you again, Abbey,” she corrected. And then, with another tip of her hat to Gloria, she was off.

On the ride home, I was curious. And maybe even a little jealous. Alex seemed to light up when he saw her, and they had such easy camaraderie. I asked him to “refresh my memory” of who she was and learned she was the daughter of a Jewish real estate tycoon from New Jersey and a beautiful Haitian artist who had come to Philadelphia in the late 1960s with no coat, forty-two dollars, and a scholarship to Bryn Mawr College. They lived on the Main Line in the 1980s while Larry’s dad developed the Granite View Mall, and later half of Newtown Square. Larry and her twin older brothers were sent to Mercersburg Academy, the same rural Pennsylvania prep school as Alex, and they all shared a ride home to Philadelphia one spring break.

And though Alex was the boys’ age and they played lacrosse together, it was Larry and Alex who became best friends. They bonded over their mutual love of early hip-hop, skiing, and social justice. They also both grew up with immense wealth and never had to be embarrassed by it with each other.

She and Alex lost touch during college, when she went off to Columbia and he stayed behind to go to his safety school, the University of Pennsylvania. (“Safe” for Alex, whose grandparents endowed the library.) But recently she had come back to Philadelphia, discovered Alex was running for Congress, and reconnected with him via e-mail. He hadn’t had a chance to see her in person—until today.

“Larry helped get the press off our back when you were in the hospital,” he explained.

“How nice of her,” I said, remembering the e-mails I’d snuck a peek at. “It’s always good to have someone on the inside, someone you can trust. Some reporters would do anything for a good exclusive. And don’t even get me started about bloggers…”

“Larry’s not like that,” he said, cutting me off. “She’s one of the good guys. She’s always helping people.” He sighed and looked out the window.

“Last time I checked, congressmen help people too.”

“Yeah, but not like she did. Does.”

“Well, let’s not exaggerate reporting. I mean, it’s one of the noblest of professions, but it’s not the Peace Corps.”

“It is when you do it from Afghanistan.”

Before I could catch myself—“She was in Afghanistan?”

Alex coughed an annoyed laugh. “Uh, yeah? Remember she sent that woven blanket thing when Gloria was born.”

“Oh, right.”

“Abbey?”

“Yeah?” I braced myself for a question about why I was so forgetful. But, thankfully, he asked something easy.

“What’s that smell?”

It was the diaper, deep inside my bag, swaddled in cashmere, where it had been cooking for hours in the afternoon sun.