by Leigh Himes
The woman turned and welcomed me—“Bienvenue, Madame van Holt”—and left me onstage. Alone. With all eyes on me. And time passing one horrible second after another.
Of all my phobias, public speaking wasn’t one of them, but still, it wasn’t my favorite way to spend an afternoon. Because I often had to give presentations at work, I had forced myself to become somewhat competent through training and practice. I’d even managed to get a few laughs at last year’s PRSA Pepperpot Awards, thanks to a few hundred bathroom mirror rehearsals and a few sips of Jules’s gin and tonic.
But this was something else entirely. This was an anxiety nightmare come to life. Try as I might, I could not remember one word of high school French. I then tried to speak English, racking my brain for what to say, but even that language eluded me. The room grew quiet, the only sounds a few cups hitting their saucers. A heel scratched the floor. Someone coughed.
I took in the sea of faces, their two-hundred-dollar haircuts and their silk blouses with tiny box pleats. I knew I looked just like them in my beautiful suit. But I was nothing like them. I was a fraud.
I was supposed to charm them, flatter them, and give them a multitude of reasons to vote for my wonderfully kind, smart, and noble husband. I attempted to speak but only got as far as “I… I…”
The whole room leaned in, unsure how to react. Expressions turned from confused to concerned.
“I… I…” Again, repeating one syllable was all I could manage.
The room became even quieter. No one moved, or seemed to breathe.
It was so hot. My face burned and I was sweating. Before I melted, or burst out in tears, I had to get out of there. I turned to the woman who introduced me and mouthed a feeble “Sorry”; then I dashed down the steps of the podium, the microphone announcing my exit with a terrific screech.
I was halfway out of the room when I remembered my shoes, so I spun back around and snatched them from under my seat. Everyone watched, bewildered, as I hopped awkwardly on one foot and then the next, mashing my feet into my pointy-toed heels.
As I fled, face burning, the scandalized crowd whispering, I noticed a familiar face. Mirabelle was sitting at a table in the back; she must have slipped in late. Her face was immobile, but her eyes were glittering with rage.
Finally a word of French entered my head: Merde.
Back on Chestnut Street, the November air cooled my burning cheeks. I walked as fast as my heels would permit, desperate to put some distance between myself and the scene of my humiliation. I didn’t know where I was going, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get away. To lose myself in the city.
Of course Abigail van Holt spoke French. Of course she frequented auction houses, where everyone fawned and fussed over her as if she was the First Lady. And of course she addressed large groups flawlessly and without hesitation, her perfect hair and perfect clothes inspiring in her audience a mixture of admiration and envy. At this moment, I kind of hated her.
Soon I passed a station wagon filled with car seats and wished I was sitting in my old Subaru with the kids strapped safely in the backseat. I walked by a teenager tugging a golden retriever and wanted desperately to hear the jingle of my own dog’s collar as I opened the back door of my house in Grange Hill. I was so homesick.
I turned left, fighting tears, and headed toward the convention center complex on Market Street, eager to disappear into the crowds of tourists and conventioneers. But among them I only stood out even more, my pink suit and blond hair bright against their faded jeans and sweatshirts. I stepped inside the building, weaved around commuters heading to the center’s underground subway station, and slipped out the other set of doors into a narrower street. Into another world.
Above me stood a massive red wooden arch with ornately carved dragons, red and green symbols, and gilded lettering: the gateway to Philadelphia’s small Chinatown. Crowding the sidewalks were vendors and their rickety tables of sunglasses and paper fans, men smoking in groups or hiding behind outstretched newspapers, and children darting from one stoop to the other while the rich smells from restaurants, noodle bars, and flower stands filled the air. Horns honked, music spilled from open doorways, and mothers called to children from second-story windows. I felt miles away from the van Holts, safely anonymous at last.
I slowed my pace and caught my breath. I stopped in front of a dark sliver of a bar with a neon Tsingtao sign in the window. The lure of alcohol beckoned. I slipped inside.
Once my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I took the first seat at a honey-colored bar, placed my purse on the ground, and looked around. In front of me, shelves held a United Nations of liquor bottles, jarred olives and cherries, and printed pint glasses. On one wall, posters of pretty Chinese models suggested travel destinations and cigarette brands, while a large aquarium separated the small bar area from the even smaller “dining” area in back. I looked around it to see tables full of neighborhood businessmen drinking out of small ceramic cups and laughing loudly at one another’s jokes.
It felt too early for happy hour, but the flat-screen television behind the bar announced that it was just a few minutes until five o’clock. Close enough.
A slim young man with spiky hair and a silky button-down, who looked more like a DJ than a bartender, offered me a menu. I pointed to the men in the back and told him, “I’ll have what they’re having.”
He looked at me quizzically, shook his head, and handed me a menu filled with photos of pink and blue drinks, each topped with cherries or a parasol.
“Really, I want the same as them,” I insisted.
When he didn’t move, I assumed he didn’t speak English. Again, I pointed to the little blue and white ceramic cups on the nearest table. I had no idea what was in them, but whatever it was, it was working. The men in the back seemed to be feeling no pain.
The bartender finally spoke, his voice accented only by the lazy inflection of a teenager. “Lady, you’re not gonna like it. It’s old school. Stupid strong.”
“Perfect,” I said, ignoring him. “Set me up.”
Sighing, he moved to a small fridge and pulled out a thick brown bottle with a cork stopper. He poured a small bit into a cup and placed it in front of me. He waited, hands crossed in front, while I took a sip. The men from down the bar watched as well, their conversations stopping.
I brought the cup to my lips and gulped it back. It tasted like hot, spicy licorice mixed with pine needles and it burned so badly it almost triggered my gag reflex. I put the cup back down, my eyes watering.
The bartender gave me a “told ya so” look and handed me a napkin. I looked up at him sheepishly and whispered, “Beer, please.”
He returned with a frosty Yuengling lager and told me it was on the house. I drank a third of it fast, the cool malty liquid quenching the fire on my tongue. When I stopped for air, I set the pint back down on the bar and exhaled loudly.
“Been that kind of day, huh?” said a voice beside me.
I was about to respond blandly and pull my purse over to make room for the newcomer when the voice registered somewhere deep in my body, like a punch to the gut.
Jimmy.
My head snapped up. My heart stopped.
He stood just inches from me, one tanned arm leaning on the bar, the other slipping a phone in his pocket. I almost said his name aloud but caught the word before it escaped. Instead, I stared wide-eyed, not even blinking.
He tilted his head, puzzled. “Do I know you?”
Such a natural thing to say, such simple words, but they stung almost as badly as the shot I’d just downed.
“Sorry, no,” I told him. “You just reminded me of someone I used to know.”
“Good guy, I hope,” he said with a grin.
“The best,” I whispered back.
I motioned for him to sit and he squeezed onto the tiny stool beside me, the tips of his work boots banging the flimsy underside of the bar. He took off his jacket and waved to the bartender, giving me time to glanc
e at him from the corner of my eye. My heart beat fast at the nearness of him.
“Lager, please,” Jimmy instructed the bartender. “And a menu.”
The young man stepped away, leaving Jimmy looking around and drumming his fingers on the bar, me silently exploding.
“What brings you in here?” I asked, cringing inside at the cheesy line.
“The noodles. Best in town.”
“Oh, I meant into the city.”
“What makes you think I don’t live around here?”
“Do you?” In this world, he just might.
“No. You’re right. I live out in Delaware County. Just in town for a trade show.”
“What kind?”
“The boring kind,” he replied. “Seriously, it’s for construction. To be more specific—paving.”
“Paving? Like, roads?”
“No. Like pavers, concrete, bricks,” he explained. “I work for a construction firm. I handle the outdoor stuff. Hardscaping, landscaping, patios, that kind of thing.”
“I like patios,” was my genius reply.
“Yeah?” He laughed. “A lot of people do. Or at least they used to.”
“Used to?”
“The recession hit the business pretty hard. We’re still reeling from it.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You have?”
“Yeah, someone I know is… was… is a landscaper. Ran his own business.”
“Good for him,” he said, sipping his beer. “Hope he is… was… is doing okay.” We both laughed. I caught my breath.
Jimmy leaned back on his chair and squinted at the small whiteboard advertising today’s specials, allowing me a better look. He was wearing a white button-down shirt tucked neatly into khakis, and his face was clean shaven. But he also wore his same beloved and battered Phillies hat I used to OxiClean once a week. When he saw me looking at it, he took it off, smoothed his hair and popped it back on, a nervous habit I’d seen him do a million times. Same old Jimmy. My Jimmy.
He leaned a tad closer and studied my face. “Are you sure I don’t know you? I swear you seem familiar,” he said.
Yes! I wanted to tell him. Yes, yes, yes! We know every inch of each other; we can finish each other’s sentences; we’ve spent every day and night together for the past nine years; we have two beautiful children.
But I just stared into his golden brown eyes and said the only thing I could: “No. I don’t think so.”
We continued talking, sipping our beers. He told me he loved what he did but wanted to focus more on landscaping, on environmentally friendly installations, maybe run his own business someday. He said he liked his current boss but that the paperwork and politics of a big company were tough. He explained what I already knew—he had three brothers, was born and raised in Upper Darby, played ice hockey since he was three, and had a dog named Walnut (Wally, for short). But I also learned new things. That he loved Chinese noodle bars, for one, and was really into mountain biking. Also, that he had plans to go on an eco-tour of Iceland over the Thanksgiving break.
Who knew my husband had interests outside of me and the kids? Shocking.
A server brought Jimmy his food order, giving me time to look for a wedding ring. He wasn’t wearing one. That didn’t tell me much; few landscapers wore them since they spent so much time using fertilizer and chemicals. But then again, it seemed unlikely that a man who was married with kids would be hanging out at a bar at dinnertime.
When he wasn’t looking, I slipped my heavy diamond wedding rings to my right hand. I didn’t want anything to scare him away.
“So you know all about me,” he said. “Why are you here? Somehow, I wouldn’t peg you as the dive-bar-in-the-afternoon type.” Was he flirting with me? It was too cute.
“What type do you think I am, then?” I said, tilting my head coyly, giving it right back to him.
He looked me up and down, taking in my pink suit, high heels, and sleek hairstyle. “Hmm… I’d say you are a lawyer. Or one of those mergers-and-acquisitions finance types.”
“Not even close.”
“Something more creative? Like advertising or something?”
“Bingo. I was in public relations.”
“Was?”
“Yeah. Not anymore.”
“So what do you do now?”
“Funny. I’m having a hard time figuring that out.”
“Aren’t we all.” He lifted his glass and we toasted, our beers making more of a clunk than a clink.
“You’re right, though,” I explained. “I’m not usually the drink-in-the-afternoon type. I just needed a break.”
“From?”
“My life.”
“Husband? Kids?”
“Public embarrassment. I just royally screwed up a speech.”
“Like bored everyone to death?”
“Like freaked out and bolted.”
“Wow. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think.”
“It was worse.” I grimaced and hung my head.
A second or two passed, as if he was contemplating what to say next. Then he leaned toward me and attempted to peek around the sheet of my hair that separated us. When I looked up, and my hair fell away, we were inches from each other.
“I can’t imagine you screwing up anything,” he said quietly. “I can’t imagine you being anything less than”—he paused as he struggled to find the word he was searching for—“remarkable.”
The word hung in the air, silencing us both. I knew he wasn’t giving me a line; his tone was earnest and honest. Besides, Jimmy didn’t blow smoke. And he always did think better of me than I thought of myself. When he looked away, shyly, I leaned toward him and breathed him in, so later I could remember everything about this moment.
Jimmy waved to the bartender, who had been ignoring us in favor of his iPhone. The young man trotted over and asked, “Another round?” We said “yes” in unison.
Outside, the light faded and the streets grew quiet, but we didn’t move from our stools, so deep in conversation. Tucked inside the small bar so far from our respective homes, it felt as if the world outside that flimsy red door didn’t exist. Even the other patrons seemed to fade into the background, their exotic, unknowable conversations softening to a hum. I finally understood what Buddhists meant by being in the moment; I was so alive I thought I might vibrate off my stool.
But it was my phone that started vibrating, bringing me back to reality with an incoming text: Sunita couldn’t find Sam’s giraffe and could they order pizza? I read the text as Jimmy glanced up at the television above our heads.
“Excuse me, I have to go to the ladies’ room,” I said as I stood, slipping off my stool and taking an ever-so-slight stumble as the blood returned to my legs.
“Careful,” he said, his tanned hand catching me by the elbow. Our eyes locked and I fought a powerful urge to kiss him.
In the bathroom, I texted answers to Sunita, then peed out two and a half beers and washed my hands. Looking at myself in the mirror, I started to fix my makeup and limp hair, then stopped, remembering that Jimmy preferred the natural look. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but I decided then and there that if he asked for my number, I would give it to him. There was no reason we couldn’t be friends, right? I unbuttoned one button of my prim blouse and hurried out, anxious to be beside him again.
But when I got back to the seat, he was gone.
I scanned the bar and the tables in the back. I even ran back and pushed open the door to the men’s room, but it was dark and empty. I then ran toward the door and flung it open, searching up and down the sidewalk, but found only a few street vendors packing up their wares. I sighed and walked back to where we had been sitting. There were the two half-drunk beers plus two twenty-dollar bills.
And then, very quietly, I heard my own voice, and it wasn’t inside my head.
On the television above where we had been sitting, I caught the tail end of a repeat of today’s CNN interview: me sitting betwe
en Alex and Gloria while Sam played on my lap.
Jimmy must have seen it. And the plain white font identifying me as “Mrs. Abigail van Holt.” Very much a wife and mother. Not to mention, Philadelphia’s “political royalty.”
I had lost him again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
After relieving Sunita and putting two chocolate-milk- and cartoon-drunk children to bed, I slipped into my own sheets, even though it was only half past eight. Alex had texted he would be home late, but just to be sure, I turned off all the lights in the bedroom. If he did come home soon, I wanted to pretend to be asleep.
I settled in and pulled the covers up to my neck, anxious to get to my thoughts. Of Jimmy.
I replayed the scene at Wok Ling’s over and over. I thought of his words, his smile, his smell. I wondered if he liked me, if he thought I was pretty, and if he felt the connection too.
I also thought how funny it was that despite my new marriage, new clothes, and awesome new body, underneath it all I was the same person I was a week ago. He was the one who was different. He had a different job, lived somewhere I’d never seen, and had interests, tastes, and hobbies I didn’t know about. I couldn’t picture his hefty frame on a mountain bike or him the lone blue-collar guy on a hipster tour of Iceland. But apparently he enjoyed these things. I wondered if all the responsibilities of our life in Grange Hill—or even me—had stifled this adventurous streak.
But then again, without me, Jimmy wasn’t a small business owner. He worked for someone else and probably hated it.
I’d always assumed Jimmy had done those things—started his own company, gone to night school to get his degree—on his own initiative. But now, seeing him working for someone else, I thought that perhaps I had something to do with it. Maybe I helped bring out his ambitious side? Or perhaps, as a couple, we were able to tackle challenges that alone seemed insurmountable. I’d always assumed that people were just who they were, but I was beginning to think that we influence those around us even more than we could ever really know.