The One That Got Away (30 page)

I crawled around under the hanging clothes and found the large silver bag on its side behind some boots, exactly where I’d shoved it a week before. Inside was a navy Tory Burch raincoat lined with coral and white geometric silk and a matching umbrella. I grabbed them both and slipped on the coat. I started to push the bag back where I’d found it, when something caught my eye. I flung off the remaining silver tissue paper—and gasped.

There was the red leather Marc Jacobs bag. The same one Abbey Lahey had bought on the sly for $598. The one that caused the fight. The one that was on its way back to the store just eleven days ago. I stared at it in disbelief, lifting it out and setting it on the marble top of the dressing table. I examined it as if it was a wild animal, about to bite or run away.

My thoughts ran to the last days I had used it… Gloria in her laundry basket… Sam toddling up the walk toward Miles… the lunch with Jules… even the fight with Jimmy. I picked up the bag and held it to my chest, the thick, shiny leather cool in my warm hands.

Emotion built and then crashed over me, like an ocean wave that looks small from far away but clobbers you anyway. I began to cry, quietly at first and then harder, my shoulders shaking and my hands
and lips trembling. Tears dripped down my face and onto the purse, then rolled off and disappeared into the cream-colored carpet.

With every cell of my body, I wished I was holding that bag in my own room, in my own house, with my own husband seething downstairs. Actually, no. I wished I was home
without
that bag. Wished to God I’d never bought it, had never even laid eyes on it. In fact, I’d never want another fancy purse again. If I could just get home, I swore to God I’d carry my keys and wallet in a brown paper bag for the rest of my life.

Quick as lightning, my sadness turned to rage. I threw the purse down and kicked it. Then I turned and began to tear down hanging clothes in a fury. I pulled sweaters off their perch and pulled out the trays from the island, dumping T-shirts, lingerie, even jewelry on the ground. One twinkling diamond stud pinged across the marble-topped island and stopped just before it slipped to the other side. Another lost earring, I thought, then ran around to fetch it.

Picking it up, my anger found its focus. I knew why Alex’s words about the lost earring haunted me so badly. It wasn’t just what he’d said—
To teach you a lesson… so you’d learn to take care of nice things
—so much as the casually cruel manner in which he said it. It was that he’d been waiting to say it—planning to say it—for all those days. Perhaps he even enjoyed watching me crawl around on my hands and knees, amused by all my angst and stalling and lying. Who the hell does that to someone—let alone his spouse?

Hitting below the belt in the heat of an argument is an unpleasant but normal part of marriage. Everyone has a temper. I had said plenty of things to Jimmy I immediately regretted. But I had never tried to “teach him a lesson”—or even considered it. Because that was something you did to a child. And he was my partner. My husband. My
equal
.

Across the island, I caught a glimpse of myself in the opposite mirror. The lipstick-red bag looked shockingly bright next to my
gray sweatshirt, black sweatpants, and makeup-free face. The now messy closet looked like my old closet in Grange Hill. My feet were cushioned in workout socks and sneakers. The smell of coffee scented the air.

It all felt so familiar, startlingly so.

I glanced at my watch. Nine forty-five. What time did Nordstrom on City Line Avenue open?

It was amazing how many women were waiting outside of Nordstrom on a Tuesday morning, even in the pouring rain. They seemed anxious to get in, checking their watches and peering into the glass, like nineteenth-century factory workers eager to get to their looms before the first bell.

At two minutes until ten o’clock, a woman with a crisp silver bob, square red glasses, and a black pantsuit opened the department store doors with a clunk and a clack. The other shoppers and I lined up to go inside, and together we streamed into the brightly lit building. They dispersed to the shoe department, children’s wear, and contemporary fashions, leaving me shuffling toward the escalators, my eyes fixed. Today the siren song of fur, silk, and cashmere would lure many a woman to financial ruin, but not me. I wasn’t here to shop.

The escalators looked taller and steeper than I remembered, crisscrossing back and forth up a three-story atrium. My resolve weakened and I stood motionless as I gazed up at them, examining the Plexiglas dividers, the speed of the stairs, their looming height.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember the sound of Jimmy’s voice, the smile in his eyes. I took a deep breath, held the bag in my right hand, just like I had done before, and stepped onto the moving metal.

Halfway up, directly over the piano, I leaned over the railing and willed myself to flip over the rubbery handrail. But I couldn’t do it.
It felt so unnatural that my body physically resisted… the mind’s instinct for survival trumping a heart’s ache. Next thing I knew, I was at the top.

I circled around through the store, went back down, and tried again, this time with a little jump when I reached the midpoint. But once again, I couldn’t do it. From that height, the piano looked really hard, almost menacing. Down again. A few salesladies eyed me, suspicious of the wild-eyed woman in sweatpants who neared the escalator, then veered away, then approached it again.

Sweating now, I forced myself back up. But this time, I stepped off, walked to the women’s contemporary section, and plotted. Perhaps I should take a running leap? Bribe someone to push me? Close my eyes and step off?

Another shopper came by, clutching her Louis Vuitton satchel and staring at me as I mumbled to myself. I moved myself farther back into the fall collections, losing myself in the forest of merino wool and triple-knit cashmere. Before I knew what I was doing, I fingered a Céline jacket. I checked the price of a black Jason Wu sweater. I paused in front of a row of slinky Alexander McQueen dresses. Wasn’t that the designer Kate Middleton wore on her wedding day?

“May I help you?” said a voice. “Can I get you a size?”

I turned to see a handsome woman with the hopeful look of someone who works on commission. I stared at her, saying nothing, even though a part of me wanted to say, “Yes, size six, please.”

The saleslady looked confused: “Do you want to see something else? We have some gorgeous suits that just came in. They would look lovely on you.”

“No, thank you. I’m just browsing.”

“Are you sure? We just got the new Zac Posen line. Some really nice things.”

Nice things. So you’ll learn to take care of nice things.

I shook my head and stepped back from the saleslady, determined now to do what I’d come to do.

I marched back to the escalator and rode it down. I waited for the other shoppers to clear off, then went up again, this time determined.

But once again—
Goddammit, Abbey!
—I froze. This time because of a glance at the children’s section. What if this really
was
my life and Grange Hill was the dream? And what if I ended up seriously injuring myself, leaving Gloria and Sam with a paraplegic mother, or worse—motherless? I couldn’t bear the thought of them being raised by Mirabelle and a rotating array of nannies.

I dropped my arms and head in defeat.

My bag slid off my shoulder, its gold chain falling down and catching between two of the grooved silver steps. I pulled it back but it didn’t budge. I pulled harder, my arms taut, trying to use my body weight to yank it upward.

When I reached the top of the escalator, the stairs just beginning to flatten into one another, the plated gold chain creaked with the strain. Then I heard a snap.

Untethered, I flew backward. Clothes and lights and shoppers and metal and my own shoes rotated before my eyes like images from a viewfinder.

“What happened?”

“Is she okay?”

“Don’t move her.”

When the world stopped spinning, I tried to get up. But then I felt a sharp pain in my hip and hands gently holding me down.

“Don’t try to get up, dear.”

My eyes followed the voice and focused on an older saleslady
spackled with makeup. Her kind concern was echoed in the faces of her coworkers, all leaning over me as I lay on the floor at the foot of the escalator.

It took me a moment to gather my wits and remember what had happened. When I did, my heart soared.

I’d done it! It may not have earned points for grace, but I’d succeeded in re-creating my tumble down Nordstrom’s escalator. I thanked God for my inherent clumsiness, which had triumphed—
finally!
—over fear.

Too excited to just lie there, I forced myself to sit up, waving off protests from the salesladies and a barrel-chested security guard. There seemed to be a lot of concern about whether I’d sustained any broken bones. And whispers about lawsuits. But I was too full of endorphins to care.

The light seemed different: everything a little brighter, more vivid. It took me a moment to realize why. The front doors at the far end of the store. When I’d entered Nordstrom it had been overcast, rainy. Now the sun was shining.

I was back!

I wanted to sprint for the doors and back to my real life, but the Nordstrom employees surrounded me, insisting I wait for the paramedics. Then with hands on my elbows, they escorted me to the employee lounge and plopped me down on a metal chair. Someone brought me water. I gulped it down. The most delicious water I’d ever tasted.

The ladies continued to fuss. Their expressions were a mix of anguish and pleasure, upset that someone got hurt, but also happy to have an excuse to leave their posts.

“I promise you I am fine,” I told them. “I’m just more embarrassed than anything.” I smiled for emphasis, though my shoulder throbbed and my right knee felt like it had been Tonya Harding–ed.

Before they could respond, a British accent addressed them. “Thank you, ladies. I can take it from here.”

As the women dispersed, disappointed, I looked up and saw Mr. Cowan-Smith, the regional vice president, the same man who had hand delivered Abbey van Holt’s gown and personal effects a week before. This time he wasn’t smiling and effusive, but stoic with concern.

His light blue eyes flicked down at my sneakers and then up to my flushed forehead. I stared, looking for any sign of recognition, but his face was expressionless. Did he know me as Mrs. van Holt—or as one of the nameless, faceless mothers who perused the sale racks every day, staring longingly but never buying more than a MAC lipstick?

“I don’t know what happened,” I said. “Must have been my shoes, wet from the rain.”

“Well, perhaps next time, you should use the elevators. Or take the stairs.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” I said as I stood up and pulled my purse over my arm. “That I’m going to sue Nordstrom or something. I can assure you that is not the case. I’m not some crazy lady; I’m just an average mom from Grange Hill…”

I let my words trail off and studied his face, waiting for a reaction. But he said nothing, just offered a crooked arm for me to hold on to.

“The mall paramedic is on his way,” he urged. “Please.”

“I’m fine. Really.” I gave him a little shuffle ball change to prove it.

“If you insist on leaving, I certainly cannot stop you,” he said with a sigh.

Taking my arm, he guided me around the escalator, the piano, and the shoe department toward the store entrance. “Before you go, let me please reiterate that Nordstrom values your business and is happy to offer any assistance you might need in future shopping endeavors. But, Mrs. van Holt, I think from now on, it’s best if you shop online.”

We looked at each other as the words sank in.

I couldn’t believe it. It hadn’t worked. I was still Mrs. Alexander van Holt.

Only now I was Mrs. van Holt with a tender forehead, an aching knee, and a full day of election events to fake my way through. Then a lifetime of three-hour lunches, overcrowded fund-raisers, ten-mile jogs, and marathon shopping sprees.

Except, of course, at Nordstrom.

Driving back to the city in Alex’s sleek cockroach of a car, some hastily purchased shirts boxed and ready in the backseat, I felt so helpless. And hopeless.

I merged onto I-76 eastbound in a daze. I drove slowly, well below the speed limit, while trucks honked and whizzed by me in irritation. After a teenager in a gold-trimmed Honda Civic flipped me off, I pulled over at an exit, moved to the shoulder, and turned off the engine. I opened the door and leaned out, feeling nauseous.

The last time I had felt this way was eight months ago, when Jimmy’s best account, an office park with a monthly retainer large enough to cover half our mortgage, canceled its weekly service. Turned out the office park had been sold and the new owner, an absentee landlord from New York, was “making some changes.” Jimmy still had other clients, but this was a major blow, not only financially, but to Jimmy’s ego. The new owners didn’t care that the grass was now naturally weed-free or that the new pear trees shaded the parking lot in summer. They didn’t care about my husband either. When they called to tell him they were canceling the account, they called him Johnnie the whole time.

Soon after that, Jimmy began to let his employees go, until finally, it was just him and one part-timer. The company of five, sometimes nine in summer, was now down to one and a half. And the one person
was killing himself to get more work, calling in favors and asking for leads from everyone he knew, but unable to land any new accounts.

One evening, about two weeks earlier, when I was boiling the kids’ toothbrushes and sippy cup lids in a saucepan, Jimmy sat down on a stool at the end of the kitchen counter. I knew the look; he wanted to talk.

“Ab?”

“What’s up?”

“The business isn’t doing so good.”

I pretended to be engrossed in my witches’ brew of plastic, giving him breathing room to speak his mind, but inside I was listening intently. It was unusual for Jimmy to bring up the state of his business unprompted. I may have complained about my job and my boss every chance I got, but Jimmy always left business behind when he stepped inside our kitchen door.