The One That Got Away (22 page)

His only flaw was organization. His office—first in our kitchen and later at the renovated barn that became his company’s headquarters—was a mess. Stacks of invoices, mail, tax documents, and newspapers joined tools and product samples to create hills and valleys all over his desk. Shelves that started out holding neat rows of maintenance binders now stored a little bit of everything, including year-old magazines, half-drunk Snapple bottles, clumsily folded maps, and dusty snapshots of the kids. Jimmy’s accountant said he was one of the most disorganized clients he’d worked with, even worse than the baker and his wife, with their shoeboxes full of sticky, flour-coated receipts.

I tried to help, but it only ended up in an argument. I sent Jules in, too, her tolerance for messes much higher than mine, but even she left perplexed and annoyed. Jimmy argued that he hated being indoors and that he didn’t have the time for paperwork, but I think the real reason was his mother.

Originally, the plan had been for Jane to handle the books, but now that she was gone, Jimmy couldn’t bear to deal with them. Every time he looked at a ledger book or mailed a set of invoices, he was reminded of her and how she hadn’t lived to see him become a success.

And what a success he was becoming. Those first few years, it seemed he could do no wrong. The economy was good; home prices were rising; and business seemed to fall into Jimmy’s lap. Most of it was suburban homes and estates, not the coveted corporate accounts every landscaper dreams of, but as word of mouth spread, he added bigger renovations and installations. And armed with a shiny new landscape design degree, he now had the knowledge to back up his creativity. His reputation, and confidence, grew.

In two years, Jimmy was able to pay off his start-up loan, and soon after, he had enough to rent the barn, purchase two new trucks, and
hire four staff. He was so enamored of small business ownership, he even suggested I quit my job and work with him, or better yet, start my own public relations agency with Jules.

“You can have half the barn,” he joked.

“Gee, thanks,” I said. “I always wanted to work somewhere with a dirt floor.”

He threw a sweaty towel at me and I ducked.

“You could call it the PR Farm,” he replied. “Where ideas grow and grow.”

“Don’t quit your day job.”

“Seriously, Ab,” he said. “You guys could do it. Then you wouldn’t have to commute; you’d have a more flexible schedule. And you could pick and choose the clients you want.”

“I’ve definitely thought about it,” I said. “But with the baby, and if we have another, I just don’t know. Having clients is a twenty-four-hour thing.”

“You think? I had a guy call me this morning at five because there were acorns in his birdbath.” He dropped the teasing tone and touched my hand. “But in the long run, it’s worth it. And if anyone can make it work, you can.”

Starting my own business had always been intriguing to me, but now the pull wasn’t quite as strong. It was just easier to let someone else find the clients, okay the plans, and tell me what to do and where to be. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking, but I heard myself tell Jimmy, “I think we’ve had enough big changes in our lives lately.” Then I pretended to hear Gloria in her crib, scurrying off before I could see his disappointed look.

Jimmy never mentioned it again, and neither did I. Instead, we enjoyed taking Gloria to Disneyland, renovating the kitchen, and paying off Jimmy’s school loans. That Christmas I gave Jimmy a new computer; he gave me a gold locket with a photo of Gloria inside.

While I pulled the dainty chain over my neck, he said, “I know it’s not the thing you really wanted, that fancy army watch, but—”

“Army watch?”

“You know, army or armor or something like that?”

It took me a moment to figure out what he meant. “A tank watch? From Cartier?”

“Right,” he said. “That’s what I meant. I priced it, but I’m gonna need a couple years on that one. Actually, a couple decades.”

“Deal,” I said, and kissed him.

Little did we know, just a few months later, the economy would crater, dragging thousands of small businesses like Jimmy’s down with it. By the following Christmas, the Laheys would barely be able to pay the mortgage, let alone save up for some fancy watch with a funny name.

The debate ended with a round of applause. Onstage, Alex shook hands with Amanda and I said good-bye to her partner, Lori, and then went in search of a bathroom. I queued up behind some college students and took out my phone, switched the volume back on, and checked my messages. I saw five missed calls: one from the apartment, two from May’s cell phone, and two from an unknown number.

Oh shit.

Shaking, I hurriedly dialed the apartment number, but no one answered. When I tried May’s number, the call went immediately to voice mail, as if the phone were uncharged. I called the unknown number and got a recorded greeting from the Children’s Hospital of Pennsylvania.

Oh God,
I thought, my chest constricting in panic.
Gloria. Bike. Something has happened to Gloria.

I ran over to Alex and tugged at his sleeve. He was talking with a voter but stopped mid-sentence when he saw my ashen face.

I blurted out what I knew: missed calls, May, hospital.

He grabbed my hand and we started running.

Eight agonizing minutes later, Oscar screeched the SUV to a stop outside the entrance of CHOP and Alex and I leapt out, charged inside, and sprinted for the admissions desk—where a heavyset nurse moving in slow motion searched for any patients named “van Holt.”

We stood frozen, our eyes locked on her face as she clicked and waited, clicked and waited. Finally, the computer blinked blue with a new screen, reflected in her glasses.

“Room 413.”

She started to give us some instructions, but we didn’t hear them, already racing toward the silver elevators, narrowly missing a bloody bike messenger. Alex kept pressing the up button over and over, but nothing happened.

“Stairs,” he said, pointing. I followed.

He made it up the four floors in a few bounds, but I trailed behind in my heels. As he opened the door to the hall and looked down at me on the stairwell below, I waved him on while I took off my shoes. My mind repeated
please, please, please
over and over again as I made it to the top and started running down the fourth-floor hallway.

Inside Room 413, I saw Alex, Mirabelle, and a nurse surrounding the bed. I braced myself and pushed my way in. Looking incredibly tiny in the large hospital bed, with bright lights illuminating the sheets and metal rails, was my twenty-month-old son.

Not Gloria. Sam.

He was awake and alert, and he smiled weakly when he saw me approach. I rushed to him and grabbed his little hands, then stood back and examined him like a lioness with her cub, running my hands along his arms and legs and fingers and feet, checking closely, and even leaning down to put my nose and lips against his face. When I pulled back, I noticed he wore the same bemused expression as always; the
only sign something was amiss was the IV taped to his pudgy arm. He was still wearing the undershirt I’d put him in this morning, its tiny blue planes patrolling the hills and valleys of his torso.

I caught my breath and looked up to find Gloria in her tiny jersey and bike shorts, standing beside my grim-faced mother-in-law.

“He had a reaction,” said Mirabelle in a calm tone that belied her expression. “Went into shock, so May called 911. He’s stable now.”

“A reaction? To what?

“Peanuts. He must have gotten ahold of some candy.” Then under her breath, she added, “Apparently, no one was watching.”

“What?” I repeated, confused.

“The candy. From Halloween,” Mirabelle repeated. “He found some and ate it. But luckily, just a tiny bite. Doctor said he is going to be fine.”

A tiny bite of candy? This is a kid who took a softball to the face and kept on toddling. Who once ate an entire tub of cream cheese and asked for more.

Then it dawned on me. Peanuts. Reaction. Shock.

Sam, I mean Van, was allergic to nuts. Apparently, very much so.

I thought of last night’s trick-or-treating and blanched. That candy could have killed him;
I
could have killed him. I grabbed the metal bed rails to steady myself. What else didn’t I know? What other frailties had my children inherited from the van Holts?

Standing beside me, Alex put one hand on the bed and the other on my arm, calming me. I looked at him and we exchanged relieved and concerned glances. Alex then tickled Sam’s feet, promising him new toys, some ice cream, a Mercedes.

“He turned red like a tomato,” said Gloria, smiling with excitement. “I saw him. I told May.”

“Good job, sweetie,” I told her, struggling to find my voice again. “Thank you for watching out for your brother.” Then, looking around, I asked, “Where is May, by the way?”

“I sent her home,” said Mirabelle. “And told her we won’t be needing her anymore.”

“What?”

“She is obviously unfit to watch these children. Just think of what could have happened.”

“She didn’t do it on purpose,” I said. “It was an accident. And he’s going to be okay.”

Mirabelle ignored me, turning to Alex: “It was a mistake to have someone who can barely read English watching my grandchildren. It’s not safe.”

“She can read it,” I corrected. “Her English is excellent.”

Mirabelle waved her hands dismissively, swatting away my comment as if it were an irritating fly.

“Alex?” I said, looking over to see if he was as stunned as I was. But he pretended not to hear, even though he was inches from me.

“Alex?” I repeated.

“What?”

“Your mother just fired May.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“The kids love her. She’s a great nanny.”

Alex ducked my questioning look and pretended to be interested in the IV bag, which was empty. “I’m going to find the doctor,” he muttered, then walked out of the room.

I turned back to my mother-in-law. “I know this was really upsetting for us all and I am grateful you were home when we couldn’t be reached. But I think you’re overreacting. May is great with the kids. She loves them.”

For a second, I thought Mirabelle was going to reach across the hospital bed and physically close my lips with her pointy, pale nails. But instead, her face turned placid, her voice as smooth as honey.

“They’ll love the next one even more.”

It was scary to be on the receiving end of such condescension. And if the subject had been anything other than my children, I would have backed down.

“Mirabelle, with all due respect—”

“Abbey, that’s enough,” a voice spoke sharply. It was Alex, standing in the doorway, jaw set in anger.

“But, Alex, I just don’t think it’s fair to blame May.” Especially since I was the one who left the candy bag on the dining room table, easily reachable and irresistible to an insatiable toddler.

“I said, that’s enough!” he barked, glaring at me.

I flushed bright red, embarrassed. Also shocked. It wasn’t just that he took his mother’s side, but that he yelled at me like I was a naughty child.

Just then the resident on call—a young brunette with the demeanor of an army sergeant—entered. She briskly assured us that Sam would be fine, told us they were releasing him, and was gone. Mirabelle leaned down and kissed Sam perfunctorily, then gathered her things. Alex walked her out. I turned my attention back to Sam, humming his favorite songs and kissing his head. He pulled at my earrings as I blinked back tears.

Motherhood could be frightening and exhausting and lonely, but at least the reward was always having the last word. Even as much as Jimmy was a modern dad—getting up for middle-of-the-night feedings, going to Fancy Nancy birthday parties, clipping diaper coupons—he deferred to me when it came to major decisions involving the kids: day care, doctor, bedtimes. But just now with Alex, I felt stripped of any power, as if my opinions on child rearing were sweet and well meaning, but negotiable. As if I had been demoted from mother-in-chief to a mere advisory role.

It made me feel helpless. And unimportant.

The van Holts had their own code, their own version of right and
wrong, and, if you wanted to live in their world, you’d best learn it and live by it. There was no veering off the script, no questioning of their divine right. And no forgiveness for a wrong, however innocent the mistake.

Looking at Sam’s sweet face, and knowing his easygoing disposition and the purity of his spirit, it sickened me.

We returned to an eerily quiet apartment and moved around as if afraid to disturb the silence. The only sounds were the occasional truck: one lurching down Walnut Street outside, and the large red one Sam pushed along the floor in the kitchen. Even Gloria seemed subdued, quietly playing hospital with her Barbies by hooking them up to IVs made from dental floss and Scotch tape.

After I had double bagged and discarded all the Halloween candy, including the tiny Snickers bar Sam had gnawed, its wrapper soft and still wet, I washed my hands vigorously as if to remove not just any nut residue but the memory of today. Of the terror of those twenty-five minutes from phone call to hospital room to all clear. When I was done, my skin raw and red, I turned and opened the fridge. I figured a quiet family dinner was just what the van Holts needed.

I pulled out eggs, pancake mix, milk, syrup, and bacon, and placed them on the counter. Tonight we would have “breakfast for dinner,” my go-to meal when time was tight. I started to open boxes and slice packages, but standing between the stove and the sink—May’s domain—I found myself frozen with guilt. Was she horribly upset? Would she ever see the kids again? If I could convince Alex to take her back, would she even come? I thought of her limitless patience with Gloria, the sweet way she sang to Sam, and how empty the kitchen seemed without her shuffling around in it.

I listened for Alex, and when I heard nothing, I slipped into the pantry.

Pulling up the recent calls on my phone, I found May’s number and tapped. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to say, but I knew that at the very least, she needed to know that Sam was okay.