The One That Got Away (23 page)

When she didn’t answer, I left a long, rambling message about how Sam was fine, how sorry I was about Mirabelle, and how much we would miss her. I had wanted to add that, in time, when everyone got over the heated emotions of today, we would hire her back, and if not, then she’d find another, better job. But I wasn’t sure I could make either promise.

I had also wanted to assure her that she did nothing wrong and that it was me who had left out the candy. But standing in the van Holt pantry, the bottles of Perrier lined up perfectly and even the trash smelling faintly of lemon, something—instinct? fear?—told me not to admit that to anyone. A mother who so carelessly allows her deathly allergic toddler access to a huge bag of Halloween candy would raise red flags. Ones that might not ever be lowered. And I had made too many mistakes already.

So I ended the call feeling even shittier than before. With a sigh, I slipped out of the pantry and began cracking eggs into a bowl with one hand. I was just watching the last of the yolks join its brothers and sisters when Alex walked in wearing gray swim trunks and carrying a towel.

“What are you doing?” he asked, staring at me in disbelief. He was surprised not only to see my cooking but how effortlessly I was doing so.

“Making dinner. Well, actually it’s breakfast. But it’s all I could whip up on short notice.” I offered him a slight smile as I took in his attire. “Why? What are
you
doing?”

“Going for a swim.”

“Where?”

“Upstairs. Where do you think?”

Oh. I’d always wondered what that extra button in the elevator meant. I guess there was a pool—either heated or enclosed—on the roof. Maybe I could take Sam up there sometimes. He loved floating around in my arms in the water, feeling gloriously weightless.

“Right. Sorry.” I began beating the eggs. “So, you don’t want dinner?”

“Just save me a plate.”

I sighed in annoyance but let him go without another word. But then I saw Sam crawling on the floor below me—rolling his truck and gurgling with glee—and I changed my mind. The kid had been through a lot; he deserved a family meal. I ran after Alex, catching him just before he slipped out.

“Alex, wait. Your son was in the hospital today. I think we should all eat together.”

“What?”

“We haven’t had a family dinner in… uh… a very long time. After today, I think a little normalcy is in order.”

“I
normally
exercise every day. You’re the one who’s always saying she doesn’t want a pudgy husband.”

No one does,
I thought,
but what difference does it make what my husband looks like if he’s never around? Especially after a day like today?
I wanted to take his towel and wring his handsome neck, but instead, I gave him the “I’m not mad, just disappointed” look I had perfected after ten years with Jimmy.

It worked on Alex, too. He let go of the door handle and came back to the kitchen. But instead of picking up Sam or playing with Gloria, he slumped in a chair and took out his phone. Not quite what I had in mind, but at least he was here. Physically, anyway.

I placed strips of bacon in a hot pan, then yelled over to Gloria
to come set the table. She didn’t look up, so I walked around the kitchen island to the family room and stood over her. She pretended to be engrossed in her dolls.

“Gloria,” I said. “I know you can hear me.”

No response.

“Gloria. I need you to come set the table.”

“I’m busy.”

“I don’t care if you are solving the world’s energy crisis; I’m your mother and you will do what I tell you to.” I took the Barbie from her, but she grabbed another. When I confiscated that one, too, and tried to tug her to her feet by one arm, she went limp. It was infuriating.

“You have two choices,” I told her, overarticulating each word like a hostage negotiator. “Either you can set the table or go sit on the time-out stair.”

Gloria wrinkled her brow and asked, “What stair?” In my anger, I had forgotten this place was all one level.

“I mean the time-out…
area
.” I’d figure out where to put her later. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

But she didn’t move, digging in her heels. I detailed her options again, then gave her five seconds to get moving. As I counted aloud, inside I secretly pleaded with her to move her tiny white ass. Nothing.

Eventually, she left me no choice.

In a stunning blur, moving the way only a furious mother can, I had shoved the Barbies, dental floss, and tape in a drawer, then lifted Gloria and carried her—kicking and screaming—into the hallway. I found a boring section of wall, plopped her down to face it, and told her she could sit there until she was ready to set the table.

She jumped up, so I grabbed her and set her back down. She jumped up again, so this time I pinned her to the floor like a wrestler, my arms around her waist and my knees grinding into the hardwood. As she kicked and clawed and fussed like a trapped raccoon,
it took my best effort not to hurt her. Finally, she stopped flailing and thrust her hands into her lap. She looked at the wall defiantly and then gave it a delicious smile, as if it was the most interesting white paint she had ever seen.

What a little pisser.

I stood up and gathered myself, pulling down my apron and smoothing back my hair. Then I ran toward the smell of burning bacon.

Alex was waiting for me, pacing.

“I don’t get it. You never made her do chores before.”

“That’s the problem.”

“But why all of a sudden?” He wasn’t wrong. It was unfair to introduce the concept of discipline at age five. But better late than never.

Gloria heard us and cried out, “Daddy! Daddy!” Alex looked at me in exasperation, starting to cave. “Abbey, please—”

“No, Alex. She has to listen. To respect me. Us.”

“But it’s been such a long day. She’s tired. It’s not fair—”

He started to walk toward her, to rescue her, so I grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He kept going, but I stiffened my legs as a counterweight until he slowed. I was prepared to subdue him too, if necessary.

“Abbey, what the hell?”

I lessened my grip and implored, “Alex. Don’t.”

He thought for a moment, considering, then told me, “Fine. Have it your way.” Then he walked back to the kitchen and to his phone, sighing in disgust.

Good thing, too, because Gloria stuck to her post, and her faux satisfaction, like the most practiced member of the Royal Guard.

The rest of us ate dinner without speaking, and with me trying not to look at Gloria’s empty place at the table. Sam seemed confused and, for the first time ever, ate just a few bites. The sound of forks and knives seemed overly loud, and the smell of the cheesy
eggs and syrupy pancakes was nauseating. I tried to act like I was in total control of the situation, but inside I felt sick.

But if Gloria could hold out, so could I. All through dinner and Sam’s bath time, I didn’t give in, stepping around her like she was a box someone left in the hall. The thought of that slap at her school fueled my resolve, even as the first hour turned into the second. Funny, I’d always thought she got her stubborn streak from Jimmy, the man who refused to talk to a cousin who wronged him for
seven
years, but I guess she got at least part of it from me. Alex couldn’t stand it; after gobbling down dinner, he left to go swimming after all.

Finally, it was Sam—or envy of Sam—who got through to Gloria in the end. When she saw me putting him to bed, reading a
Frozen
story and doing a perfect imitation of the little snowman, she couldn’t take it anymore. She’d already missed a family dinner with both her parents and a super-bubbly bubble bath. But Olaf she couldn’t ignore. I guess every criminal has a breaking point.

I was just lifting a droopy-eyed Sam into his crib when I saw her silhouette in the doorway.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, Gloria?”

“I’m ready to set the table now.”
Hallelujah!
I scooped her up and carried her triumphantly to the kitchen, then helped her pick out knives and forks and spoons for tomorrow’s breakfast. She quietly set four places, even folding the cream cloth napkins into triangles and remembering Sam’s giraffe-handled silver spoon and fork.

I was giddy with relief. We took our time, chatting about the day, as we heated up and ate the leftover eggs, pancakes, and bacon, time no longer noticeable, or cruel, now that our stand-off was over. Then I took her and the
Frozen
book into my bed, just like I always did at home when she—or I—needed some extra attention.

She fell asleep almost immediately. I stared at her doll-like face
for a few minutes, then carried her to her room, sliding her little body into the embroidered sheets.

Kissing her curls, I whispered, “I’m only tough on you because I love you so very, very much. And I know that you can handle it.”

Later, after I had showered and there was still no sign of Alex, I tiptoed around in my bare feet looking for him. I was about to go up and find the mystery pool in the sky, when I noticed damp footprints on the hardwood. They led to Sam’s room.

In the dim glow of the night-light, I could make out Alex’s face, and glimpsed in his profile both the young man he had been and the old man he would become. When he moved to look at me, the images blended into the Alex of today.

I walked in and stood beside him. “She finally caved,” I whispered. “She set the table. Even apologized for not listening.”

He didn’t respond, his eyes locked on the baby in the crib.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice was choppy and guttural, as if he was trying not to cry.
So he
does
have emotions.

“Is it Van? Alex, he’s fine,” I assured him. “The hospital wouldn’t have released him otherwise.”

He nodded and swallowed but didn’t move. Finally, he spoke. “It’s not that.”

“What?”

“I just want our kids to be happy.”

“Oh, Alex. They are happy. Gloria’s just stubborn. And have you met our son? He’s literally the happiest kid on the planet.” I grinned at him, but he ignored me, his eyes still fixed on Sam.

“For now, maybe.”

I started to respond, but stopped. I let him continue.

“I just want them to be the people they really want to be.”

“They will be. I’m sure of it.” Though deep down, I wasn’t.

“Remember all these plans we had? How we were going to be different than our parents? Look at us. I’m never around. You’re never around… and somehow we seem to be doing all the things we said we weren’t going to.”

“Like what?”

He turned to me and rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Abbey.” He gestured at our surroundings.

I lifted my hand off his shoulder and gazed around the room. I guess all of
this
wasn’t in the plan. I guess we were supposed to be in New Orleans or in West Philly or Guatemala or somewhere. Building schools or putting bad guys away or just living a simpler kind of life. Looking good and doing well, but not this good, not this well. And perhaps not standing on the bow of this Titanic congressional campaign we had no idea how to slow down.

Even after just seven days in this world, I knew exactly what he meant. The fancy clothes. The fancier apartment. The spas, the lunches, the organic juice cleanses. The fund-raisers, the publicity, the political ascent. It was like a movie I’d seen again and again. So well plotted. So expected.

Alex took one last look at Sam and left the room.

That night, as we slipped into the crisp, cold sheets, we didn’t touch or speak, the heavy silence broken only by the drapes moving slowly on their hidden track. They ground toward each other, stopping just before they crashed, leaving only darkness.

O
n Sunday morning, the van Holts piled yet again into the Suburban. But this time, we weren’t heading to a campaign event—we were going to church.

I was still worried about Sam, so I kept him near me and washed his hands every chance I could. Though I had to admit he seemed his regular perky self, gobbling down his usual trucker’s breakfast of waffle, eggs, toast, avocado, and strawberries before chasing his screeching sister from room to room.

Also waking perky that morning was Alex. As soon as I heard him stir, he snuggled up to me and brushed his lips against my hair. He slid his arms around my stomach, which I instinctively sucked in before remembering I didn’t have to. I knew what he wanted, even before I felt his hard-on straining against his thin pajamas. But I wasn’t in the mood, so I ignored him and got up out of bed. He groaned in annoyance but was distracted by a ringing phone. Luckily, calls from Frank started early.

I thought we would be worshipping at one of the Waspy old churches near Rittenhouse Square, or perhaps the stately historic Saint Christopher’s in Old City, but instead Oscar drove northwest, toward the art
museum. We passed the wide ochre steps that Rocky made famous and wove our way up Kelly Drive along the Schuylkill River, past bikers, rowers, and dog walkers enjoying the quiet, misty morning.

We drove a few more miles, before Oscar slowed the car and cut a sharp right, up a hill lined with colonial-era row homes and wide-windowed corner stores struggling to stay upright on the steep slope. We were in the village of East Falls, a storied neighborhood where Grace Kelly had been born, though now out of fashion and mostly forgotten, housing only the most loyal “Fallsers.” It was an old area, once the highest point overlooking the river, where early settlers traded with Native Americans. But in recent decades it had struggled as young families moved over the hill to Roxborough or farther down the river to hipper Manayunk.

But now, according to a recent
Philadelphia Magazine
article, things were changing. A group of young African American families had moved in and were attempting to invigorate the area. They established a neighborhood watch, began pumping money into the local elementary school, installed a tot-lot playground, and even launched the first annual East Falls Arts & Music Festival last June. Their hope was to turn East Falls back to what it had been centuries ago: a safe yet eclectic village for families looking to escape the harried pace and high prices of Center City.

At the top of the hill, Oscar pulled up in front of a previously abandoned Quaker meetinghouse that was now East Falls Baptist, the de facto hub of the community. Members of the congregation were lining up to enter the small red doors, and we joined them. Leaving the house this morning I felt a bit overdressed, but now I was glad I decided on the exquisite Jil Sander suit, its pale taupe wool as graceful as the whitewashed church I was entering. I fit in perfectly with the ladies in their long dresses and belted coats, some with matching wide-brimmed hats, and the men with their equally formal suits and
polished shoes. It was a far cry from Annunciation Catholic Church in Grange Hill that the Laheys frequented (infrequently). There, the only parishioners who dressed up were the families with children to christen. Even the priest wore jeans under his vestments.

Inside, we squeezed into the narrow pews, me first, then the kids, with Alex taking a seat by the aisle. Though it was not every Sunday that a young white family joined the congregation, only a few people glanced over at us, most keeping their curiosity in check.

The pastor was about Alex’s age, and just as handsome and well dressed, but instead of a full head of hair, he was bald, his smooth black skin gleaming in the light from the tall windows. He sat on the maroon-carpeted steps that led to the pulpit as the worshippers took their seats. Eventually he stood, clipped a small lavaliere microphone to his navy lapel, and welcomed everyone with a hearty “God is good!” The congregation immediately quieted and concentrated, except for Sam, who, within one minute, began to climb all over me, bored. I struggled to keep him quiet with some snacks from my bag, but he yelped and whined while Alex looked over, annoyed.

After some announcements, a trio of teenage musicians began to play a gold-and-black drum set, an electric guitar, and a shiny trumpet, and the choir began to sing. They were so loud, nothing short of a siren could be heard over them. Later, too, when the pastor began his sermon, his forceful tenor drowned out Sam’s whimpers and Gloria’s whispers, along with everything else.

The pastor was no older than forty, but his demeanor was one of experience and assurance. And though his tone was powerful, it was also melodic, casting a spell over the congregation. His effect was similar to the one Alex had over people, but with an added intensity, more urgency. I found it funny that when he came to the crescendo of his sermon, he also took off his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves.

When I read his name in the program—William Wallace—I
smiled to myself. William Wallace was the peasant turned knight who fought and died for Scottish freedom in the 1300s. Though to most, he was probably better known as the character portrayed by Mel Gibson in
Braveheart
. Jimmy’s favorite movie.

He—and therefore I—had seen it at least twenty times. It also happened to be the catalyst for a huge fight we’d had last spring. It was the type of fight that comes around in marriages every few years; the one where you say too much, go too far.

I had just gotten home from a business trip: a two-night handholding junket to DC with Maxim Pest. Normally, I didn’t travel with clients, but Max DiSabatino was being honored as Pest Professional of the Year, and I had to be there to help him with his speech, take photos, and coordinate media interviews. Charlotte had insisted on coming along as well, and she had nitpicked and second-guessed and talked over me the entire time. She had also stolen my female thunder with her tight skirts and glossy lips.

I stepped into the house after three twelve-hour days and a two-hour-delayed train ride and found the house in tragic disarray. Half-eaten dinners sat on the crumb-coated table; the kids’ shoes and socks littered the floor; and the dog’s food and water bowls were empty. I ran to the bathroom to pee and found no toilet paper, the laundry bin overloaded, and so much smeared aqua toothpaste in the sink it looked like a Smurf murder/suicide.

Jimmy was in the living room sprawled across the couch drinking a beer, watching
Braveheart
for the umpteenth time. Scottish lords fought valiantly for their birthrights and professed love in the face of gruesome torture, but here in our living room, the only movement was Jimmy’s arm as he lifted and lowered his beer bottle.

“Hello,” I said to him.

“Hey,” he said, eyes glued to the television as he muttered the obligatory: “How was your trip?”

“Awesome,” I said with a thick frosting of sarcasm, then turned on my heel, returned to the kitchen, and started shoving dirty dishes into the dishwasher.

Jimmy came in a few minutes later.

“What did I do this time?” he asked with a loud sigh.

“More like what you didn’t do,” I muttered under my breath.

“What?” he asked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite hear that.”

I stopped with a crusty plate in midair and turned to him. “Were you waiting for me to get home so I could clean all this up? Or did you not notice that it looks like a bomb went off in here?”

“Are you kidding me? What do you think I’ve been doing for three days while you were gone? Taking care of the kids, cooking, shuttling them around, cleaning up after them, and all that other shit. God forbid I sit down for a minute.”

“But that’s just the thing, Jimmy,” I said, turning off the water. “I
never
sit down. Ever. When was the last time you saw me sitting around, drinking beer, watching a movie while the house looked like it was hit by a fucking tornado?”

“You can’t have it both ways, Abbey,” he said. “I can’t work all day and all night too.”

“Why not?” I replied. “I do.”

And then, before I could catch the words, I added something I knew would wound—“Someone’s got to.”

All these months, I had never spoken of our financial situation, or how Jimmy’s reduced client list was affecting our lifestyle. I tried to be positive, promising him it would turn around, that things would improve. I knew that for any small business owner, watching hard-won clients leave would be tough enough, but for Jimmy it was agony. I also knew that he was this close to losing his business entirely, and soon he would have to go back to working for someone else, maybe even take an office job.

I knew all this, understanding it was the sorest of sore subjects and thus should have been off-limits. But I was exhausted and angry, and at that moment I wanted to hit below the belt.

Like my ratty cashmere sweater, I was worn thin, and I couldn’t keep on pretending. I had watched my once ambitious and positive husband become lost and unhappy, unable to accept the reality of the situation or do anything to stave off the pile of second notices that had grown even taller in my absence.

“Someone’s got to?” He repeated my words back to me, but his were filled with pain, not just anger.

“Forget it,” I said.

“Oh no, Abbey. You’re so smart; you’ve got everything all figured out. Please, enlighten me. Please, Miss Perfect, tell me all the ways I’m failing you.”

“I’m not perfect; I just try harder!” I screamed. “I try harder with work! I try harder with the house! I try harder with the kids! You phone it in half the time.”

“Well, maybe you should try a little less,” he said as he glared at me. “I didn’t sign up for a lifetime of not measuring up. God, you can be such a… such a…
bitch
.” That last word came a second later than the rest, as if he knew that he, too, was crossing a line.

I stood motionless, feeling the sting. Jimmy’s voice softened, turned sullen and defensive. “And I don’t phone it in,” he said. “Everything I do, I do for you and the kids. Everything.”

“Except earn a fucking paycheck.”

He walked over to me, and for a second, I thought he was going to hit me. But instead, he took the dirty plate out of my hand and flung it against the wall, where it exploded, sending white shards and tomato sauce everywhere. Then he walked past me and out the back door, flinging the screen door open so hard it popped off one of its hinges.

“Great,” I shouted after him. “Another thing for me to take care of!”

My ears were ringing and my heart pumping hard. But as I calmed down and my anger drained like the outgoing tide, what was left was despair.

I sat there for twenty minutes, until my tears were used up and my body was drained and limp. By then, my rage had turned to guilt and my guilt to hopelessness. I knew we had unleashed the resentment that had been gnawing inside both of us for months, maybe years.

Thinking about it now, my memories underscored by the sounds of the choir and a man of God preaching forgiveness, I wondered when it was in our marriage that Jimmy and I stopped working together and instead started working beside each other. When it was that we lost the push and pull and began to only push.

And when exactly our concern for each other had turned to contempt.

After the service at East Falls Baptist concluded, we stood in line with the other families to shake hands with Pastor Wallace and the church elders. As the line moved and we neared them, I saw Wallace eye Alex with interest.

“Brother van Holt,” he called. “What brings you all the way to East Falls this morning? Don’t they have God in Rittenhouse Square?”

“I thought I’d come out and see for myself why so many people like it out here,” Alex said with a grin. “I hear they have some preacher who’s really stirring things up. Got a real fire in his belly. In fact, maybe he should be the one running for Congress.”

“Maybe so, maybe so,” Wallace said slowly, thinking it over. He leaned closer to Alex and continued: “But I’ve got more than fire in my belly. I’ve got a hunger. So do a lot of folks out here. Hunger for something better. Hunger for what you got, Mr. van Holt.”

“I know,” said Alex. “And I think they’ll get what they want. What you want.” And then, almost in a whisper: “What we both want.”

“I hope that’s true,” Wallace whispered back.

“I’m certainly trying my best.”

“Well, then, God bless you,” he said, a smile breaking across his face. “And God bless your lovely family. We hope to see you back sometime. Even after November fourth.”

Wallace shook hands with Alex, smiled at the kids and me, then turned to the next group. I walked in silence, wondering what had just happened.

In the Suburban, I tried to put the pieces together when Alex called Frank with updates. It was something about a new tech company—named Ariel, like the Disney princess—moving their headquarters to Philadelphia. Wallace hoped the company would buy one of the old warehouses along the river, bringing hundreds of tech jobs to his community, not to mention new customers for the area’s restaurants, shops, and apartment buildings.

The whole coded conversation with Wallace was political: Alex would sway Ariel to East Falls and Wallace would ensure his four thousand or so congregants made it to the polls. Seemed like perfectly normal political bargaining to me, but I also wondered if my husband would really have that kind of influence over a commercial business from another state. He wasn’t even a congressman—yet.

When Alex dropped his phone and leaned back, I asked him about it. “Do you really think you can get Ariel to move here?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t seem so sure.”

“Well, it’s not that. It’s just that Jonathan Brindle might have something to say about the matter.”

Mr. Brindle from the cocktail party? The one whose wife didn’t
know the Eagles? Why would they care? I stared at the river, so low and still from lack of rain, trying to understand.

Unless… They were the same Brindles as the Brindle Department Store on Market Street, the very same building where I worked when I was just out of college. Where I first met Alex. And the same building that had been slowly losing occupancy since their flagship tenant, Philadelphia First, moved to the Cira Centre in 2007. I knew that because I still sometimes had lunch with my old bosses, Sharon and Barbara, and they told me their building was like a ghost town.