The One That Got Away

by Leigh Himes

  “Never heard of it—but I’m sure I can find it,” she said, happy again. She bent down and touched Sam’s cheek, then attempted to get her bracelets away from his grasp. This time she tickled him hard and he let go, gurgling with delight.

  “You’re such a little roly-poly cannoli,” she said as she kissed his head. “God, I just love them at this age. Once they start talking, the bullshit begins.” I laughed out loud, and as I heard my own voice, I realized it was the first time I’d done so since Saturday. It felt good.

  A long honk from a blocked taxi sent her scurrying back to her car, her big boobs and hair bouncing in sync. She flipped off the driver, told him to fuck himself, and then sped off in her oversized Mercedes. The few remaining mothers looked aghast but then quickly moved on, shaking their heads.

  “Well, my little cannoli,” I said to Sam, mimicking my new friend’s South Philly accent. “I guess Mommy’s going out to lunch today.”

  At noon, dressed and ready for lunch, I was relieved to hear my phone buzz. I ran to my purse and picked it up. It was Alex.

  “Hey, doll, just wanted to let you know that Dr. Cohen can see you this afternoon.”

  “Okay. But I didn’t know I had an appointment today.” I had scoured my e-mails earlier, eager to find out how Abbey van Holt occupied her day, but found nothing.

  He ignored me, continuing: “It’s at two. No, three. Wait, let me double-check.” I stood with my phone to my ear until he got back on the line. “Mother says get there around three and he can work you in. But don’t be late because he’s playing squash at four.”

  “Got it,” I said, looking around for a piece of paper and a pen.

  “And don’t forget I have that dinner thing tonight and then tomorrow I’m gone all day for debate prep.”

  “Got it; doctor, dinner, debate prep.”

  “Bye, doll. Gotta jump.”

  I started to ask about Dr. Cohen, but the line went dead. I stared at the phone for a moment, then slid it off. Mirabelle made the appointment? I almost laughed out loud. Jimmy’s mother, Jane, wouldn’t even buy me a plant without checking with me first.

  I sighed, then caught a glimpse of myself in the wide gilded mirror that ran the length of our foyer. I couldn’t help but punch out my hip and pose like a Heidi Klum selfie.

  In my leather-trimmed leggings, white silk tank, and cream cashmere cardigan cinched with silver buckles, it dawned on me that I looked like one of those magazine women I’d always longed to be. Excuse me, I said to myself with a sly smile and some eyelash batting, I’m just dashing out for a quick lunch to hatch a plan to save the world, before picking up my incredibly well-schooled and adorable children, then rushing off to meet my male model turned congressional candidate husband for a night of dancing and champagne.

  In the mirror, I was the Abbey I always knew I could be.

  Le Jardin was one of those restaurants that was billed as a café but was actually more like a ballroom at Buckingham Palace. The main dining room was octagonal, with mirrors on all sides that reflected its incredible views of both rivers. The soft, plush, Louis XIV–style chairs beckoned, as did the smell of fresh roses at every table. There was no entrée under twenty-two dollars, including the cheeseburger. Not that it mattered—I was the only one at the table who ordered more than a side salad or cup of soup.

  Betsy stared at me as I asked the waiter for an iced tea with no lemon.

  “I hope you’re joking,” she said as she flicked out her folded napkin. “The waiter is bringing us that fumé blanc you like. I already ordered it.”

  “Super!” I said, playing along. “Just needed a quick hit of caffeine first. Barely slept last night.”

  “Stop it with your fabulous sex life,” she said in mock exasperation. “It’s too depressing.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I can’t take any more stories about you guys,” she said with a laugh. “Bill and I can barely manage once a month. And even that’s a chore.”

  I cringed to think Abbey van Holt bragged about her sex life to these women. Wasn’t she envied enough?

  “About time,” Betsy chided the waiter as he set up a silver bucket beside us. “I really need a drink. This morning, the builder told me I can’t have the pool tiles I wanted because they take eight weeks to make. In Italy. And the chandelier I picked for the library is too heavy for the custom plasterwork. I know he just doesn’t want to do it. He lies to my face.”

  “You poor thing,” said Ellen, staring hungrily at the bread basket. “Contractors are just the worst, aren’t they?”

  “The absolute worst…” Betsy’s voice trailed off as she saw someone enter the restaurant. Her hand hit the table and the ice in our water glasses tinkled in protest.

  “Who told her where we were meeting?” she seethed. I turned around and saw my foul-mouthed friend from this morning checking a black patent trench coat. She waved and smiled and gave us the “one-minute” sign.

  “Oh, I did,” I said, turning back. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was a secret.”

  “What? I thought that was the whole point of a new restaurant,” said Ellen, chiming in. “It’s embarrassing enough to have her on the committee, but now she’s going to ruin our lunch with her constant chatter. And all her tacky ideas.”

  “But she said she has info on the caterer,” I added, trying to be helpful.

  “Well, thank God for that,” quipped Betsy. “That’s the only thing these South Philly girls are good for—food. That and recommending a good plastic surgeon.”

  Apparently Betsy had forgotten that my maiden name was DiSiano and that my dad was born and raised on Two Street. I hadn’t had any contact with him in decades, but I was still offended.

  “Does it really matter?” I snapped at her. “It’s just lunch.”

  She started to say something back, and then, amazingly, she shut up and greeted our friend sweetly.

  “Mindy, don’t you look adorable,” Betsy cooed.

  Mindy! I practiced a mnemonic device so I’d remember: Mindy drives a Mercedes and wears minis.

  “What?” said Mindy, plopping down beside me in a satin blouse and short stretchy skirt, her best guess at a ladies-who-lunch outfit. “You have to be kidding. I just threw this on.” But I knew better; she’d probably agonized over it. I smiled and winked at her, and I saw her shoulders relax.

  We spent the next half hour gossiping about another absent committee member’s upcoming anniversary party, why bangs were always a bad idea, and at what age a child was old enough for a WaveRunner. I listened for a while, but then started looking around, losing interest.

  Finally, Ellen placed a folder marked “Benefit” on the table, and I snapped back into focus. I took out a pen and a note pad and wrote “To Do” across the top. Time to get to work.

  The Philadelphia Animal Rescue Center Gala was to be held in the art museum’s foyer on Thursday, November 6, just two days after the election. All of Philadelphia was invited, and we expected it to sell out, despite charging five hundred dollars for a two-hour event that didn’t even include a sit-down dinner. When I heard the theme—a fall fashion show featuring local celebrities’ pets, all wearing miniature couture outfits, including jewelry—it was all I could do to keep from choking on my crab cakes. Even after ten years in public relations, it was one of the more absurd, and out-of-touch, ideas I’d ever heard of. I cringed when I found out the genius idea was Abbey van Holt’s.

  I sighed and took a sip of wine. At the very least, I should help it to be a success. I began to ask questions in rapid fire: “How many more tickets need to be sold? How much do you think we’ll raise? What media is confirmed? Who have we yet to reach out to?”

  No one responded.

  I turned to Mindy. “And the caterer. Is he locked in?”

  She just looked at me and shrugged. I looked at Betsy and Ellen. But only blank stares from them, too.

  Had we already been over this last week?

  “Sorry, guys, it’s been a
long week,” I said. “Just thought we could recap what’s been done, what’s yet to do.”

  “But, Abbey,” said Ellen incredulously. “We don’t need to worry about any of that! The museum handles it. As long as we got our RSVPs to Alistair, we’re fine.”

  “Oh. Right,” I said. “I forgot.”

  Betsy hit me with a strange look, Ellen giggled, and Mindy swallowed the bite she had been working on for twenty minutes. But then Betsy took over the conversation again, and I realized what was going on. This wasn’t a planning lunch; this was just a lunch. And we weren’t going to roll up our silken sleeves and help Philly’s unwanted dogs and cats; we were here simply to donate money, put our names on the invitation, and make important decisions like whether to serve French or Italian wine, whom to blackball from the event, and whether “festive cocktail” meant Ellen could wear a strapless dress. Not knowing the answer to any of these questions—or, frankly, giving a shit—I quietly sipped my wine.

  Back in my old life, whenever a deadline was pushed or a client quit the firm, I was secretly giddy. Nothing thrilled me more than found time or scratching an item off my list. But now, as I put away my notebook—the blank page practically neon white without my slanted handwriting—I felt untethered.

  It wasn’t just that I had no to dos. It was that the ones I did have didn’t really matter. At least, not to me.

  Two hours later, the food everyone pretended to eat long ago taken away, the conversation turned back to houses. Everyone at the table was in the midst of a major renovation. I tried to contribute as best I could but was pretty sure they weren’t talking about installing new garbage disposals or tearing out old quarter round. We also talked vacations, a hot topic given the looming fall break.

  “Oh, I meant to ask you,” said Ellen nonchalantly. “What is that little hotel you recommended in New Orleans?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The one near where you and Alex lived? The one with the great coffee or something?”

  “Uh, I can’t remember. Can I text it to you later?”

  New Orleans? Alex and I had lived in Louisiana? When? For how long? I put down my wineglass and sat up straighter. But just as it was about to get interesting, everyone started checking their phones and lifting their heavy quilted purses onto their toned shoulders.

  Ellen motioned for the check as Betsy took a call. As I waited, I tried to ignore her conversation, but her voice was loud, fueled by white wine.

  “I am sorry, Principal Murray, but there is no way my son did this. No. Possible. Way.” A hush fell over the table. We were all listening now.

  “I am not coming over there for this,” she continued. “Especially because I know it simply did not happen. My son would never say those words to a teacher. He simply wouldn’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  She tapped the call off and slammed down the phone, then slammed back the rest of her drink. Then she checked her watch, smoothed her hair, and looked around for the waiter as if nothing had happened.

  “Was that the school? Do you have to go pick up your son?” I asked. It seemed a natural enough question after what we just witnessed.

  “No. I’m not going. They are always making up lies about Cranford. He would never insult a teacher. They just have it out for him. You know how they are there.”

  She didn’t wait for me to answer. “And besides. I know Cranford would never disrespect an authority figure.”

  “Doesn’t take after his mom, huh?” I chuckled but then stopped.

  Betsy stood motionless, glaring at me. Ellen looked up at the ceiling, pretending not to hear. Only Mindy moved, turning and smiling at me and then Betsy in anticipation, unaware that in high school, the year we hosted the all-county basketball play-offs, Betsy Claiborne streaked naked across the gym floor, weaving around players, referees, and an angry rent-a-cop while her long black hair and the smell of really good weed trailed behind her.

  “What did you say?” asked Betsy.

  “Nothing. Just, well, you remember.”

  She flicked her eyes to Mindy, who was slack-jawed with anticipation, and then back to me. “No. I. Don’t.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Betsy. In high school. Streaking across the gym. You used to wear your arrest as a badge of honor!”

  “Abbey, I don’t know why you are making stuff up, but I really don’t appreciate it. I think that accident has you all mixed up. You better go back to the doctor.” She looked at me with total seriousness, as if I was making this up. As if I hadn’t been there to witness it myself. As if it hadn’t made the local paper.

  I watched her snap her purse closed and stand up with a jolt, and realized that it was okay to laugh about it back then, but not now. The reckless and carefree Betsy I knew in high school no longer existed. That person had been replaced with what stood before me: an elegant, sophisticated swan.

  “Betsy, wait…” I stood up and tried to grab her arm, hoping we could all just laugh it off. Or change the subject. But she was so livid she wouldn’t even look at me or say good-bye. She hoisted her purse on her shoulder, motioned for a blank-faced Ellen to join her, then weaved around tables to the exit, her black hair and lipstick-pink jacket reflected in mirrors and glassware as she moved.

  Once they were gone, Mindy and I settled the bill in silence. I tried to concentrate on the credit card slip and spelling my new name correctly, but my hands were shaking so much, it turned out illegible anyway. I was scared, the altercation with Betsy giving me an uneasy sense of foreboding. She and Ellen might have been insufferable, but they were Abbey van Holt’s good friends. Possibly the only two she had. And right now, I needed as many as I could get.

  Alone, just the two of us in the small elevator, Mindy finally spoke. “I’m sorry, but I have to know. Did she really streak across the gym naked?”

  “I plead the Fifth,” I told her, holding up my hand as if in court. “Apparently, anything that happened before 2002 is not approved lunch conversation.”

  “Well, she should just own up to it. It actually makes me like her better.”

  “I know,” I replied with a sad smile. “But, honestly, I’m not sure being liked is her primary objective these days. I think she’d rather be admired.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Absolutely.”

  My tone was serious, but Mindy howled with laughter anyway.

  After the epic lunch, I had fifteen minutes to figure out which of the seven Dr. Cohens in the Philly metro area was the one Mirabelle had gotten to squeeze me in. As I flagged down a taxi, I checked the list Siri had found, eliminating Dr. Gerry Cohen, who specialized in holistic healing; Dr. Emily Cohen, age twenty-eight; and J. J. Cohen, who, though a general practitioner, operated out of Fishtown. It was unlikely the van Holts would travel above Spring Garden Street, and even more unlikely for them to go to a doctor named “J. J.” So William R. Cohen, an internist at Pennsylvania Hospital, just had to be the guy.

  As I looked at his photo on the practice’s Web page, I hoped he was kind and patient and maybe a little unorthodox. And a lover of movies—particularly Freaky Friday.

  His office was on the third floor of an old brownstone on Washington Square. The waiting room was empty, quiet, and genteel chic, with a worn Oriental rug and mahogany furniture, a world away from the crowded, noisy, urgent care centers we used in Grange Hill. A nurse, one of the few I’d ever seen who still wore a white skirt and blouse, led me back to the examination room, which was more modern, except for two high-backed upholstered chairs beside a bay window.

  Dr. Cohen was a soft-spoken man in his sixties, with a trim gray beard and sparkling blue eyes shining through his rimless glasses. He was shorter than me and slight, wearing a conservative yellow bow tie and maroon sweater vest that may have been purchased in the boys’ department. But despite his miniature stature, he was handsome and confident, and I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He was exactly the type of guy I wished Roberta would fall for, but her halfhearted a
ttempts at dating men her own age always ended badly. Ditto for her attempts at dating short guys.

  “Abigail, my dear,” he said as he hugged me hello. “You gave us all quite a scare last weekend. How are you feeling?” He stepped back and looked me in the eye, with genuine concern.

  I smiled and let my shoulders drop. Something about doctors, especially older ones, always made me relax. Like they could fix anything, from broken bones to broken hearts.

  “I feel fine, really, just thought it wouldn’t hurt to check in,” I said. “It was such a bizarre thing that happened.”

  “I’ll admit, I was baffled,” he said. “You were unconscious for hours.”

  “You saw me? At the hospital?”

  “Oh yes, I came right over when I heard,” he said. “I got called away before you woke up. But I spoke with Dr. Aaronson and went over the scans. They were perfectly normal, like nothing had happened.”

  But something did happen, I wanted to tell him. Something huge.

  “Let’s take a look, shall we?” he said. He asked the nurse to come in, and while she checked my blood pressure, he asked some routine questions. He had me stand and perform various balance tests that felt more like a field sobriety check than a neurological work-up. Then he peered into my eyes and ears and at the area above my right ear, where my head had slammed into the piano. His hands were cold on my neck; I shivered in my flimsy paper gown.

  “Tell me, Dr. Cohen,” I said, trying to be nonchalant. “Do head injuries ever cause delusions?”

  “Delusions?”

  “You know. Like some sort of reverse amnesia or memory loss or something like that?”

  “I’m not sure I follow. There is no such thing as ‘reverse amnesia.’ And clinical amnesia is extremely rare. And usually only temporary. And from what we could tell, your injury was superficial, with no effect on the intracranial areas.”

  “What about some sort of psychiatric episode? Like, alternate reality–type stuff?”

  “That’s just in the movies,” he said with a laugh. “Pyschoses or psychotic episodes are from a chemical imbalance, not blunt trauma. Or from taking drugs—like PCP.”