The One Who Got Away: A Novel (13 page)

“But I have to say, right now, I
can picture her,” Paul said, just then, stabbing a piece of pasta with his fork
and then using it to scoop a shaving of Parmesan cheese.

“You can picture who?” Olivine
answered, startled. Sometimes, she swore Paul could see inside her mind. It
made her uneasy.

“Our child. Our little girl, if
we were to have one,” he said. “She would be sweet and kind. With big, plump
lips, just like yours. Big pouty lips and a strong will. She would voice
everything, just the way she felt it. She would be honest and strong and not
afraid. She would know what she wanted from this life. And she would have red
curly hair. And green eyes.”

She sat at the table, watching
the candle in the centerpiece flicker, though it was full daylight as they ate.
She could see both of these children, as clear as though they were sitting at
the table alongside them. One was edged in dirt from the yard, a smile creeping
across her lips. The other wore a green jersey knit Polo dress, tiny white Keds
shoes and anklet socks, and she sat with her ankles crossed. She had freckles
on her face, and she wore a crisp white bow in her ginger hair. Olivine could
imagine them both, could see them as clearly as she would if they were sitting
across from her at the table. And she wondered whether one of these children
would be permitted to enter the world. Was she seeing them here, so clearly in
her mind, because she was standing at the brink of two possibilities? Were
these angels in heaven, pleading their case in her imagination, right this very
minute? Had she the power to grant one and not the other?

“How long has this been on your
mind?” Paul asked. A piece of pasta flew from his lips as he spoke. His eyes
were steady on hers.

“What?”

“Pay attention, Olivine. It’s not
like this discussion isn’t important. Why do you keep drifting away? And why
don’t you take me with you…wherever it is that you go?”

“Just because I have an emotion
doesn’t mean I need to share it,” Olivine said. “Someone wise once taught me
that.”

“Alright. If that’s how it is
going to be.”

For a time, the only sound was
their chewing, as though neither wanted to swallow.

“So how come you never, ever
mentioned motherhood before?” he asked, finally. His eyes were hard on her,
unblinking.

She shrugged and poked at the
remaining pasta on her plate. One thing she knew for certain about Paul: he
would not ask her the same question more than once. If she didn’t want to
answer,  she needed only to shrug. One time. And that would be the end of it.
He would move on.

“I’m not saying that I won’t consider
it.” He leaned back in his chair and his broad forearms swooped to the table
and swept up his wine glass.

She nodded, and, as she did,
tears sprang to her eyes. She looked down, into her lap, where she had wrung
her napkin into a tight roll. “And would you consider these?” He thumped one
hand on the brochures.

She nodded again. Blinked again.

He thumped his hand onto her
shoulder. “I’m glad we talked.”

She nodded and tried to breathe,
and she tried not to look at the two little girls that she imagined were still sitting
at the table, playing with their forks.

“I’d like an answer, on the program,
by, let’s say, Friday,” he said.

She knew she should nod, but she
did not.

Paul finished eating his meal
while she pushed noodles around on her plate. Then he said, “I think there is
something you need to know.”

Here it comes, Olivine thought.
Nothing good ever comes when a conversation starts like that.

Paul pulled back from the table
and put his elbows on his knees. His voice was barely a whisper. “I worry that
I won’t be a good father.”

She opened her mouth to speak,
but he held up his hand, shook his head and continued, “I know I can care for
you. But my mother…She left. And I know I should have told you this before, but
now, it’s time. When I think about being a father, I just. I just don’t think I
have it in me.”

Paul rubbed his hands together
and continued. “I loved my father. I could appreciate his way of parenting. But
my mother didn’t think he was there enough. She was always prying into my
things, wanting to connect with me. In a way, I understand. I suppose. I was
her only son, and I wanted to be just like my dad. When he went into his study
at night, I went into my room, and because I often didn’t have much to do, I
read, and I studied and I thought about things. And then one day, my mom said
that both of her men had broken her heart and that we had made her so lonely
that, as her fortieth birthday present to herself, she was leaving us both.”

Olivine gulped. “Wow.”

“Did you know any of this?” he
asked.

She nodded. “Not all of it, but a
little.”

“I
knew
my father told you
this. That first night you met him, right?”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No. I just had a feeling that he
did. And one of the reasons I knew you were the only person I could ever love
is because you didn’t pry. You didn’t come knocking on my door to find out
these things about me, Olivine. You don’t need me to open up to you.”

He pressed his palms against his
eyelids. “The truth is, Olivine, you make it possible for me to do what I need
to do.” He took a deep breath and pressed his hands together now, palm to palm.
He closed his eyes and continued. “I know that when I can’t fix someone…when I
fail…I won’t need to come home and tell you all about it. I won’t need to. And
that is such a gift. You are such a gift to me. This complete acceptance of the
way that I am. I need you so much. I know I don’t tell you this often enough,
but I do. I can’t do what I need to do on this earth without you.”

He opened his eyes again and
smiled at her. “Now. If you want a big wedding or a small wedding, it’s up to
you. Whatever you want.”

And as she sat there, letting his
words wash over her, she went sinking into the center of herself, and she knew
that this was her role in life. To love him. She was the one who was best
equipped to do it. Everyone said this was how it should be.

She wished that Paul was the kind
of man who would stand now and move behind her; who would hold her gently on
the shoulders and who would kiss the back of her neck, around to her
collarbone. She wished he was the kind of man who would make love to her right
here, now, on the dining room floor. Someone who couldn’t help himself.

But he was not, and so she took
him by the hand and she told him she would come back and do the dishes in just
a little while, and then she led him into the bedroom, where she allowed him to
lay her down and make love to her in his gentle way. He was a fine man, and
everything was going to be just fine.

Olivine woke early, pulled on a
pair of Lycra pants, a tank and a thin hooded sweatshirt and then slipped on
her orange running shoes. Her stomach felt raw, so she grabbed a handful of
walnuts from the jar in the cupboard and tossed them into her mouth before
looping an elastic band around her outstretched fingers and swooping her hair
into a high ponytail. She was still crunching on the nuts when she heard Paul
in the bedroom. “Hey, where did you go?”

She returned, leaning against the
bedroom door frame.

“Come here.” He motioned her
over. She took two steps forward.

“Closer,” he said, so she
approached the bed and sat near him.

“Closer.”

She swung her leg over, checking
first for dirt on the bottom of her shoe. She straddled him, held his gaze for
a moment. And then she popped a kiss on his forehead.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“For a run.”

“Now?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“But I don’t have to go to work
right away.”

“I just really want to run. I
just… I just feel like I have to.”

“Can’t you stay for a minute. An
encore?”

“Well, I could, but really, the
only thing I want right now is a good run, straight uphill.”  

“The only thing?’

She nodded.  

“How about when you get back? How
about we make love then?”

“If you’re still here.” She
tightened the elastic that was securing her ponytail. Then she swung her leg
back around and sat on the edge of the bed.

He consulted his watch, which had
a large face with four different dials, one in each corner. “Oy. Doubtful,” he
said.  

He reached both arms out for her.
Her stomach did a flip-flop, something it hadn’t done toward him in ages. “I’ve
got to run,” she said. And she hopped up, in one motion, and she was out the
door.

She stood outside the house and braced
herself on the front posts. She sucked in a huge breath of morning air and
pulled her running cleats over her shoes. They were tiny crampons that gripped
the icy sidewalks and dirt roads as she ran. 

She would stay off the trails and
stick to the gravel road along the river, where they plowed after each snowfall
even in the late spring. She jogged along until she reached the point on the
road where the rocks protruded from the soil at odd angles, like shards of
broken glass, and then she picked up her pace. Her ankles sprang up she bounded
across the rocks. No hint of pain in her knee. She breathed hard and deep and
rhythmically This is why she ran. Running made her feel powerful. Strong and
capable.

She had left Paul hanging there.
She had left when he asked her not to. Her stomach panged with guilt. There was
a time she would never have left him
there like that. She didn’t have
much time with him, and she should be making all of their moments together
count. As his wife, and his wife to be, she was going to need to do things
differently. She was going to need to try harder.

Olivine ran for a little more
than an hour, and as she re-entered the house, she shook out her ponytail and
removed her clothes on the way to the shower, tossing them into the washing
machine as she passed. She loved the way a good, hard run made her senses feel
heightened, like she had dialed up their volume. Colors were more vibrant;
aromas more pungent. In the laundry room, she breathed in the scent of their
detergent; in the shower, her shampoo, her conditioner. And after her shower,
she stood in her bedroom and breathed in the familiar scent: freshly washed
linens, lavender scented oils, Paul’s deodorant soap.

She didn’t like how things had
been left this morning. She would make it up to him. She  would surprise him,
at work…something she rarely did.

She would pick up the tiny almond
croissants from the bakery down the street. These were his one weakness, these
tiny flaky crescents with just a kiss of warm almond paste in their chewy
center. Day by day, she would try harder to be the person she needed to be for
him. She would make this work.

She dressed and brushed her
towel-dried hair, dotted on some lip gloss and applied a quick swipe of
mascara. Then she took her boots from the back of her closet, the knee high-pair
that Paul had bought her for Christmas, slid them on, grabbed a handful of cash
and hopped into the Jeep. Along the way, she stopped at Duncan’s Cakes,
emerging with a small pink box, a lace doily glued to the top and the name of
the bakery written in script.

She strode into the hospital and
signed in at the front desk. The woman behind the desk wore a pressed white
blouse and a wide, gentle smile. She recognized Olivine and winked at her.
“He’s around,” she said, twirling her hands at the wrist. “Would you like me to
page him?”

“No, no. It’s nothing urgent.”
Olivine smiled. “I’ll find him.” 

“Yes, look around, sweetie,” she
said, handing her a visitor’s badge on a lanyard. Olivine swooped it over her
neck and turned toward the East Lounge. It was a small hospital, so she knew
she wouldn’t need to look very hard to find him, unless he was in Emergency. When
she reached the doctors’ lounge, she set the box on the table in the empty room
and a white blur caught her eye through the slender window on the door. She watched
him for a moment. Paul. In his place. He was checking a clipboard, drumming a
pen against his leg. His white lab coat, starched and pressed. His face calm,
unexpressive.  

She had spent many hours watching
him study and read journals. He had a habit, when he was deep in thought, of thrumming
away on an imaginary drum set. His fingers, his hands, moving in a beat that,
he said, helped direct the procession of thought.

When he went inside himself, he
went in deep, she thought, and he liked the idea that she would be waiting
there, on the other side, when he emerged again. She knew as well as anyone
that there were some places you went, inside your mind, where people couldn’t come
with you. And when you went deep inside your own mind often enough, it was nice
to have a neutral player out there. One who didn’t ask questions. One who knew
this was a place she wasn’t invited and couldn’t follow.

Paul looked up just then and met
her eyes. He grinned, put his clipboard to his side and charged through the
door. Olivine scrambled to one side.

“When two worlds collide,” he
said. He kissed her on the mouth. He tasted like gravy. Why gravy, she wondered
for a moment, and then he said, “I like you here…visiting me. It makes me think
about the way things will be someday. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing at all. Just wanted to
see you. And bring you a couple of those.” She motioned to the table.

“Is that what I think they are?”

“They are.” She felt suddenly
like someone she wasn’t, like someone who should be wearing an apron and pearls
and checking his forehead for signs of heat. “Are you having a good day?” she
asked. It was all part of trying harder, of starting to feel comfortable in a
world that wasn’t her own.

“Since you asked, it has been a
terrible day. Busy.
Injurious.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, it pays the bills.”

“Right.”

 “So, really, what made you come
by?” he asked.

“I really don’t know.” Olivine
looked down at the floor tiles, an alternative pattern of khaki brown and an
ecru. If Paul were a color, she suddenly thought, this is the color he would
be. Khaki brown and, some days, ecru.

“Imagine if you were working
alongside me all day long,” he said. “Just imagine that.”

“Imagine.”

“And right now, I would love to
eat almond croissants with you, but I’m due in surgery, stat. But do bring them
home. We’ll eat them tonight. Or tomorrow morning. So you might want to wrap
them up tight so they stay fresh. Okay? Will you do that?”

She nodded.

“Are you ready for class this
afternoon.” 

“I am.”

“Good.”

Paul kissed her again, and opened
the door. “I loved our talk last night.” He winked. “Remember, I need you to
make a decision on those programs by the end of the week.” 

He pulled open the door and
charged through it, sashaying down the hallway, his white coat flowing behind
like a cape. She sighed and looked at her watch. Still four more hours before
class.

*****

She knew just where the brochures
would be. Before he left for work, he had cleared the dishes from the night
before and stacked the booklets and course catalogs in a tidy pile at her place
at the dining room table. He had also made notes regarding “important
considerations” on yellow Post-it notes throughout.

Without sitting, she flipped
through one of the booklets, noting Paul’s comments on Pharmacology and Pathophysiology.
There were photos of men and women wearing lab coats and staring warmly into
the eyes of their patients. Olivine tried, just then, to imagine herself making
small talk with a person, with a patient, and then sticking him with a needle. The
thought of both the small talk and the needle-sticking made her shudder.

Maybe she
was
being a
princess, as Paul had told her one day: “Everyone has to do things they don’t
want to do,” he had said. “I don’t always want to get up in the middle of the
night and conduct emergency surgery, but I do it. Once you get started, it
comes more naturally.”

She knew he was right, but she
couldn’t bring herself to look at those brochures. Not today. The sky was a
brilliant blue. The roads to the city were clear, and she hadn’t seen Grandpa
since the memorial service. She would surprise him. She would have to miss
class, but she’d borrow the notes from someone.

She stopped by Duncan’s Cakes
once again for Grandpa’s favorite: a cinnamon roll. She opted for the smallest
in the bakery case and only bought a single roll because she knew he would split
it with her. If he was given one of his own, he would eat the entire thing, out
of politeness, and then he would be up all night with his gastric reflux.

She fished her cell phone out of
her handbag to let Christine know that she was on her way; maybe she would like
to come along. But then she thought better of it. Today, she would go by
herself. She would have some quiet time in the car, and she would use it to
decide which kind of nursing program she wanted to enroll in. What were the
choices again? She had left the brochures on the dining room table. Oh well.
She would take a closer look this afternoon, when she got back.

During the hour-long drive, a
sense of calm descended upon her, and as she pulled into the parking lot of Mountain
View Acres, her eyes were drawn, automatically, to the bench out front. This
was where Grandma and Grandpa used to spend an hour or two each day, perched on
two matching orthopedically-approved cushions. They would hold hands and greet
people as they came in: children, grandchildren, doctors, nurses, aids. But today,
the bench was empty, stripped even of its cushions.

Maybe she should have called
first. No. Grandpa loved surprises, and he loved her. But she hadn’t visited
since Grandma had passed. She thought about what her mom had said about
sixty-five years of breakfasts. She swallowed hard and clutched the box from
Duncan’s Cakes a little tighter.

Instead of taking the elevator, Olivine
charged up the stairs, which were lavish and wide with shiny white rails and balusters.
Standing before the door to Grandpa’s apartment, she heard the tinkle of soft
female voices inside and she gave a gentle knock on the door. A small hunched
woman creaked it open. Estelle. She raised a trembling, spotted hand and
motioned Olivine inside.

“Oh Oliv-eeene,” Estelle cooed, “So
lovely for you to come. Claude is a little sad today.”

Further inside, near Grandpa’s
chair, stood another small woman. She was plump and a bit younger with
salt-and-pepper hair that stood straight up from her forehead and then curled
around either side of her head.

“Olivine!” Grandpa exclaimed,
sitting straight up. He grabbed for his cane and hobbled over to her, grabbing
the table as he went to steady himself. “Oh, you are a sight.” He grasped her
hard around the back and kissed her cheek. His whiskers burned her chin. She
had never known her grandfather to skip his morning shave. He smelled like
soap. Ivory soap, Not the Old Spice of his younger days, but a clean, familiar
scent.

“Oh, look, and she brought you a
treat, Claude,” Estelle said. She rustled in his tiny white cupboards for two
plates, a couple of napkins and two shiny forks. Then she set them on the moss-colored
plastic tablecloth and said, “We’ll leave you two to visit. Pinochle is at four
today, Claude. And if you don’t come down, we’re coming up to get you.”

They closed the door softly
behind them, and Grandpa grumbled, “Old biddies.” But he sat at the place set
for him and motioned for Olivine to do the same.

“Biddies who have loved you and Grandma
for years,” Olivine said as she opened the pink box and cut the cinnamon roll
in two with the side of her fork. “I guess I don’t have to worry about you not
having someone to keep you company.”