The One That Got Away

by Leigh Himes

  Wow, this hospital keeps getting better and better, I thought, staring up at the man. Then, slowly, as if he were a blurry photo coming into focus, I recognized the hair, the jaw, and the face from the magazine. His eyes, then dulled by the limitations of print, were sparkling and intense in reality. What a weird coincidence after all these years. I had no idea that Alex van Holt had planned to go to medical school.

  “What happened to me, Doctor?” I asked, hoping he didn’t recognize me.

  “Doctor?” He smiled adorably. “That’s a new one.” He laughed for a moment but then turned serious as he registered I wasn’t joking.

  “It’s me, doll,” he said quietly. “Alex.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said, attempting to smile. “Small world, huh?”

  His concern only intensified as I babbled, “Why am I here? What happened? And where is my husband? Did anyone call Jimmy?”

  His eyes got wider, and he squeezed my hand. “What do you mean? I’m your husband.”

  I blinked at him, confused.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” he continued. “We’ve only been married for ten years.”

  I moved my eyes up and down, taking in his anxious expression, his warm hands, his thick silver Rolex, his thin gold wedding band. I figured I must have been dreaming, so I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, expecting to open them and see Jimmy’s tattered baseball cap and five-o’clock shadow.

  “You’re in the hospital. You had a fall while you were shopping. The doctors say you are going to be just fine. No permanent damage. Nothing but superficial bruises, really.”

  I opened my eyes again. He was still there. I snatched my hand from his and pulled down the sheets, looking for the nurse’s call button. I started to get out of bed, but with the sudden movement came a rush to my head that sent me reeling back toward the pillows.

  The handsome nutjob claiming to be my husband started shouting to the nurse’s station, and in rushed two women clad in scrubs the same tasteful color as the walls, urging me to be still. “Mrs. van Holt, please lie back!” Their warm hands gently but insistently held me down.

  The older nurse began to speak loudly and slowly: “Mrs. van Holt, Abigail, you’ve been in an accident. You’re going to be fine but you must calm down. You’ve suffered a head injury and we want you to be still…”

  I kept thrashing, trying to get up, looking around wildly for my family. And then I felt a prick in my arm, warmth rush over my body, and a heaviness in my head.

  As I drifted away from them, I heard the words “my wife” and “Mrs. van Holt” several more times.

  “But, I’m not…,” I said, fighting to hold on to consciousness. “I’m not…”

  And then I was sinking into a pharmaceutically induced sleep the same deep blue as the eyes of the man beside me.

  When I woke again it was dusk, the setting sun turning the walls orangey pink. No one else was in the hospital room, so I had a chance to take it all in and—and think.

  What the hell was going on? If this was a dream, when would I wake up? I eased myself up on my elbows by degrees, waiting for the pain to subside, until I was sitting up. I kicked off the thick sheets and swung my legs around until they hung off the bed like overcooked spaghetti. The top of one knee had an angry black-and-purple bruise, fortunately more ugly than painful.

  I heard a male voice in the hall, and I strained to hear—

  “The doctor says it is not unusual for someone with head trauma to experience confusion… We’re canceling St. Joe’s and KYW; let’s see what happens tomorrow… Well, yes, Mother, I am concerned about the press… kids okay?… No. Yes. Okay. Ciao.”

  Was he talking about me? My kids? Our kids? And why was he concerned about the press? And what kind of a man calls his mom “Mother”? Or says “ciao”?

  I was still pondering, my brow quizzical, when he appeared in the doorway. Even more handsome than when I’d last seen him, if that was even possible.

  “You’re up. Are you feeling better?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Does your head hurt?”

  “Not as much.”

  “Do you recognize me?”

  “Yes. You’re Alexander van Holt. We met years ago,” I told him. Then I smiled and asked, “Did Jules put you up to this? How did she find you?”

  This time when his blue eyes looked into mine, I saw tears.

  That night, thanks to another shot from a nurse, I slept deeply and dreamlessly from nine at night until eight the next morning. When I woke, I was still confused and anxious, but the throbbing in my head had quieted. In fact, I felt better and more rested than I had in months, miraculously caught up on five years of lost sleep.

  With no one in the room and no sound from the hallway, I decided to have a look around. Clad in fuzzy hospital socks and wheeling my IV pole around with me like a dance partner, I tiptoed around the room. I read the cards on the flowers and balloons, all addressed to “Abbey van Holt.” I looked at the clipboard hanging from the foot of the bed and learned I had been admitted on Saturday, the twenty-fifth of October, at ten thirty-five in the morning.

  I found some clothes in the closet that definitely didn’t belong to me: Rag & Bone boots, Current/Elliot skinny jeans, a J.Crew T-shirt, and a yummy cream sweater from Theory. In the pocket of the jeans was some cash and an appointment card for a facial at Bellevue Salon & Spa. The appointment was for Saturday at two o’clock. Guess I missed that one.

  On the back of a chair near the door hung a man’s size forty-two long black cashmere sports coat, presumably Alex’s. I patted down the pockets and found an iPhone. I slid it on, but it was locked. I slipped it back into the breast pocket, jiggling the fabric. I heard something clang the metal arm of the chair. I reached into the lower inside pocket and found a BlackBerry. Unlocked.

  DATE: October 26, 2014

  TO: Alex

  FROM: Larry Liebman
  Van Holt—

  The city desk got wind of Abbey’s accident. If you can give me something on your wife’s condition, it would hold them off at least a day or so. Otherwise, who knows what they’ll write. The election is nine days away.

  Larry

  DATE: October 26, 2014

  TO:
  FROM:

  She’s going to be fine. She slipped and fell on an escalator. Doctors kept her here last night only for observation. Canceling all campaign events until tomorrow, though.

  AVH

  DATE: October 26, 2014

  TO: mirabellevanholt@vanholtfoundation.com, aubynvanholt@vanholtfoundation.com

  FROM: avanholt@vanholtforcongress.org

  All—

  Abbey is still confused. The doctors can’t find any reason for it on the X-rays or CAT, and there’s some talk of transfer to psych ward if she’s not better. No mention of this to anyone—not even other family. Canceling all events today.

  More later,

  AVH

  Van Holt for Congress? Election? Events? The man claiming to be my husband was also running for office. And apparently that made me, and my retail swan dive, front-page news. Before I could read further, I heard footsteps approaching.

  I quickly shoved the BlackBerry back in its pocket and then dragged the IV pole back to the bed. I was just smoothing the sheets over my legs and catching my breath when two little children came running toward me in a blur of navy blue and white.

  “Mommy,” they cried as they flung themselves at the bed.

  There they were—my children. Gloria’s hair was a little darker, a little thicker, and her eyes were blue, not brown. Sam was just as cute and pudgy, but with a tiny cleft in his chin and close-cropped hair, not his usual dark blond ringlets. And yet, despite these differences, it was still them, all shiny cheeks, bright eyes, and unbridled enthusiasm. They stretched their tiny arms across the hospital bed, with Sam’s little fingers
just barely reaching my thighs. I pulled them both up on top of the bed and breathed them in.

  “Whoa, whoa,” said Alex from the doorway. “Let’s not hurt Mommy.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m fine, really.”

  After hugs and kisses and giggles and testing out the nurse’s call button forty times, they plopped back down with double slaps of leather-soled shoes, eager to inspect the room’s bounty of balloons. Their clothes were neat, their faces jelly-free, and their voices low. Even Sam’s cowlick was behaving.

  Alex looked relieved. “So you remember them?” he asked quietly. “How about me?”

  I knew that I would never get out of there and find out what was really going on if I kept on about Jimmy. “Of course,” I told him with a smile. “You’re my husband, these are our kids, and I had some sort of an accident. But I feel fine now.” I gave him a little jazz-hands maneuver for emphasis.

  “Are you sure? Yesterday you insisted you were married to someone named Jimmy.”

  “I did? That’s funny,” I said, trying to act natural. Then I put my hand over my mouth as if to whisper and added, “They must have way overserved me.” He didn’t laugh, just continued to stare, so I told him again, “I promise you I feel fine.” And I wasn’t lying about this; I really did feel pretty good.

  I looked up and around the room, then back at him. “Can we get out of here?”

  Finally he smiled, and I couldn’t help but smile back. I had no idea how this happened, or what was going on. But I also knew that I wasn’t going to figure things out from the confines of this hospital room. Or on lockdown in a mental ward.

  I needed to be there for my kids, who obviously had no problem with the new me or the new Daddy. I also figured that if this was a dream or an out-of-body experience or temporary insanity, I might as well enjoy it. And him.

  Since I had no dizziness, nausea, or double vision, and since there was no swelling or bleeding detected by the CAT scan that Alex had insisted upon, the hospital had to let me go. I signed oceans of paperwork with a smile, promised to be more careful, and, following hospital protocol, even relented and used a wheelchair. After a ride across town in a huge black Suburban with tinted windows and a quick trip up a wood-paneled elevator, I found myself rolling along the top floor of an ornate mid-rise condo on Philadelphia’s exclusive Rittenhouse Square. Because I was being pushed by a tall black man named Oscar, whose warm smile and joking attitude clashed with his secret service–style suit and sunglasses, and whom the kids knew well enough to call “Big O,” no one could tell I didn’t know which door was mine. But then again, on this entire floor, there were only two to choose from.

  Alex let Gloria and her jumble of balloons walk ahead, while Sam rolled along with me, perched proudly on my lap. It seemed like an excruciatingly long roll, but eventually we made it to the door marked with a cursive “Twelve,” which Alex pushed open without a key. On the other side was a living room the size of a Banana Republic.

  Two lacquered consoles lined the short entryway that led to an open-plan living and dining area decorated in various shades of cream and white. In the center, wide beige velvet couches flanked a low glass-and-metal table perched on a soft white carpet. On one wall, a built-in bookshelf housed decorative bowls, gold Buddha heads, and oversized books, and to the right, a long polished-wood dining table gleamed under the largest drum shade I’d ever seen. The walls were filled with large canvases of modern paintings, some with just a few smears of color, some antique-looking mirrors, and, in the dining room, a massive black-and-white photograph of sheep. It was the kind of effortlessly elegant look that only the very rich could pull off.

  I lifted Sam off my lap and stood shakily. I began to walk around the room as if in a trance. I ran my fingers down the glossy dining table and felt the soft cashmere throw on the sofa. I breathed in the faintly lemony smell of all-natural cleaner mixed with orchids in full bloom. Moving to the windows, I pushed aside the filmy sheer curtains and looked down at the tops of the trees, their leaves just beginning to turn yellow and red, that filled the square. Between the branches, I could make out the fountains, the strollers, the wrought-iron benches, and the large bronze statues. I could also see people moving around like windup dolls, walking straight, then turning, then disappearing from view. They moved in ordinary clothes toward ordinary jobs and ordinary houses, oblivious to the luxurious paradise that floated just twelve floors above.

  I turned back to the living room and the people in it: Alex intently scrolling through messages on his phone; Oscar trying to maneuver the wheelchair back out the door; Gloria untangling her balloons.

  Only Sam stood motionless, his big blue-gray eyes fixed on mine and his mouth slightly open. We stared at each other for a few seconds, our eyes locked and knowing. I shrugged and gave him a funny look. He grinned and giggled his baby giggle.

  This will do just fine, he seemed to say.

  It had been two days and two nights since I’d last showered, so that became the next order of business. Alex led the kids away, promising them cartoons. When I heard the click of the television and the shrill voice of Dora the Explorer, I walked toward the opposite hall in search of a master bedroom.

  It was much like the living room, but in shades of white, gray, and a blue somewhere between slate and robin’s egg. Anchoring the room was a king-sized bed with a smooth, spotless white duvet and four stiffly arranged pillows. The tables and dressers were equally clean and uncluttered—with no car keys or pennies, no dry-cleaning slips, no single socks or errant Lite-Brite pegs. Just wide expanses of polished wood with an occasional silver-framed photograph or ceramic elephant.

  The bathroom continued the same white, gray, and blue color palette, but this time in marble. I saw a walk-in shower with a massive showerhead, a double vanity sink, and a huge rectangular soaking tub. Open shelving held stacks of white towels, plush circular rugs dotted the floor, and a separate room housed the toilet. It looked like a hotel bathroom, the maid having just left, except for a toy boat lying on its side beside the tub’s drain.

  Though I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, I turned on every light and began opening the vanity drawers. Little boxes clacked into one another, all solid black or silver and emblazoned with simple monograms: “Chanel,” “Bobbi Brown,” “NARS.” The second drawer held designer face creams and body lotions; the third was full of fancy perfumes and shampoo. I pulled out a pot of Crème de la Mer and touched a tiny bit on my face. It smelled as one would expect—like the sea.

  Opposite the shower was a door that opened to a long room anchored by a marble-topped island. On each side hung clothes and coats interrupted every few feet by floor-to-ceiling shelves housing neatly folded clothes, as if for sale in a fancy boutique. At the back, two full-length mirrors faced each other, allowing whoever stepped before them an infinite look at both front and back.

  Everything was organized by type and then color, the stacks of blouses, T-shirts, skirts, jeans, sweaters, and dresses creating fabric rainbows around the white room. One section of hanging clothes held an array of black satin, smoke gray velvet, and silver sequins, the most elegant collection of formal wear I’d ever seen in person. Tucked to one side were zippered garment bags, the fabrics underneath too vulnerable to be exposed. At home, there was only one garment awarded a home in plastic—my wedding gown.

  But all that paled in comparison to what I saw when I looked up. Perched on a thick shelf that ran all the way around the top of the closet was a cavalcade of leather. Not just bags, but designer purses, all polished and poised for action, their gleaming leather and heavy gold chains begging to be touched.

  I reached up and took them down one by one. There was a tasseled gray Balenciaga, a purple-and-black Stella McCartney, a large white YSL Muse, a straw-and-leather Michael Kors, a pebbled orange Prada, and twin quilted Chanels in cream and black. There was an Alexander Wang tote, a sparkling Anya Hindmarch clutch, a caramel Céline shopper, a boxy Botkier, and a spiked Val
entino. It was the Twelve Wonders of the purse world.

  I started to put them all back when a large orange box stowed away in a corner caught my eye. I pulled it down, put it on the marble counter, and opened the lid. Inside, underneath silky monogrammed tissue, was the mother of all designer purses, the it bag of it bags, one that outshone all the others like a movie star in a room of civilians.

  A bright red Hermès Kelly bag. The leather was dulled with age (read vintage), but in exquisite condition, its handles still stiff and upright, its lock and key shiny and unscratched. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.

  Inside was some tissue paper and a card that read “Happy 30th Birthday.” I quickly rewrapped it and put it back on the shelf, wondering what kind of person gets a Kelly bag for her birthday and then never uses it.

  Standing before the wide mirror in the van Holt bathroom, I began to peel off my clothes. I slipped off my boots and then my jeans and was surprised to find a perfect pedicure. And my soles—usually so cracked and dry—were as smooth and unbroken as the marble they stood on.

  Quickly, I pulled off the thick cream sweater I had thrown on during my hasty hospital exit and stood up straight, taking it all in. With a look of disbelief on my face, the same look I imagined one might have when looking at a new Lexus in their driveway on Christmas morning, I saw my body in the mirror. My stomach was flat and smooth, with no droopy skin or love handles, just taut, firm skin as if pulled across a drum. My legs were free from stretch marks and broken capillaries; instead they were long and lean, and still tan, as if I were just back from the islands.

  And my breasts. There was something definitely different about my breasts.

  I looked down at them sticking out of my chest, then again in the mirror. I tentatively touched one with the tip of my finger, the way you touch a cake to see if it’s done. I cupped each in a hand, feeling their soft weight. Gorgeous, full, awesome…