by Leigh Himes
Thinking that made me feel good and a touch wistful. Sighing, I stretched my knees down from their fetal position and fell asleep.
Rain.
It fell in torrents, pounding the windows and drowning out the sounds of the city below.
I got out of bed, padded across the carpet, and yanked open the heavy drapes. The trees in the square below were barely visible and the lights from cars blurred together in pretty pink and yellow streaks. And the sky—usually bright blue, even at seven thirty in the morning—was an angry slate gray.
Election Day was off to a bleak start.
Alex had slipped in late last night but was gone again when I woke up. Wherever he was in the city, I imagined him pacing back and forth and cursing the weather, his hands in his thick dark hair. For days now, Frank, Calvin, and he had obsessed over the forecast, and I knew barring a hurricane or a tornado, this downpour was the worst-case scenario.
I knew that in addition to a strong showing from middle-aged men, Alex needed at least forty percent of the female vote. Normally, this would not be something we were too worried about—we all knew the ladies loved Alex—but rain would keep women, especially older ones, home. Despite their different ethnic and socioeconomic backgrounds, there was one thing South Philly, West Philly, and Main Line ladies could agree on: no matter how cute their future congressman might be, he wasn’t worth wasting a good blowout.
As badly as I wanted to crawl back in bed, I knew I had to get moving. An insanely long day waited. On today’s schedule were visits to a library, senior center, high school for the deaf, and two churches, one of which was our polling place and where we would cast our own votes. Along with the campaign staff and our favorite volunteers, we would smile and shake hands and squeeze the last bit of energy out of the overworked, overtired campaign machine.
And then tonight, win or lose, we would party. The big ballroom at the Ritz had been reserved, and at this moment, hotel staffers were probably blowing up hundreds of red, white, and blue balloons, while inside the kitchen others pulled the shells off an equal amount of shrimp, cut cheese and bread into tiny triangles, and iced down cases of champagne. Across the city and deep into the Main Line, our friends and family went about their day, some waiting more anxiously than others for tonight, when they would don their suits and cocktail dresses, then jump into taxis and town cars on their way to congratulate, or sympathize with, Alex. As for me, I knew that it didn’t matter if Alex won or lost, how tired I was, or how heavy was my heart. I would remain by my husband’s elbow, clad in satin-backed wool and the softest silk, playing the part I now knew how to play. Kissing everyone hello. Smiling and nodding. Making small talk. Doing what I had learned so well to do—pretend.
In the hall, on my way to rousing the kids, I heard a noise, like water running down a drain, coming from the kitchen.
“Alex?”
No response. I pulled my robe tighter and followed the sound, only to find my mother-in-law at the sink pouring a bottle of Macallan 25 down the drain. She was still wearing her khaki trench coat, the sleeves dotted with rain.
I knew the kids were heading to Bloemveld for the day, but I had thought I was supposed to send the children out with Oscar. I had already gathered their necessities—plus the diamond earrings, which I had retrieved and reunited last night—and the kids’ bags, as well as the velvet box, waited in the hall.
I cleared my throat, still froggy from the morning, and asked, “Mirabelle! What are you doing here?”
She set the empty bottle on the marble countertop and looked up at me. “I think you know.”
But I didn’t. And that worried me.
I noticed that my purse was open, as if she had just searched through it. Then I saw that in addition to the bottle in her hand, she had emptied all of our liquor bottles and thrown them into a recycling bin at her feet.
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Don’t think for a minute I’m not on to you.”
On to me? For what? She couldn’t possibly suspect the real truth. “What are you talking about?” I asked blithely.
“You’re an alcoholic.”
I stared at her, flummoxed. But also relieved. Alcoholism was something I could refute. Masquerading as a woman whose life I had suddenly jumped into? A little harder to explain.
“An alcoholic? That’s ridiculous.”
She continued: “Then you’re on something. Pills.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, but then I saw she was serious. I straightened up. “Mirabelle, believe me, I’m not an alcoholic. Or on drugs of any kind.”
She picked up the last full bottle—an aqua blue bottle of gin—and upended it over the sink. The pine smell filled the room as it hit the stainless steel.
“If it’s about what happened yesterday at the tea, no one is more embarrassed than me. I just wasn’t feeling well and I needed to get out of there fast. My head was hurting again.”
As I waited to hear if she bought the lie, I walked around to the coffeemaker, placed a cup under it, and began pressing buttons. Hopefully, this was the end of this ludicrous discussion.
“This isn’t just about yesterday,” she continued. “You’ve been acting strangely for some time.” She set down the now empty bottle and pointed her bony finger at me. “You are on something. I know it.” Then, her eyes widened as if the thought had just come to her. “Or it’s something worse.”
“Worse?”
“The bizarre fall off the escalator. That mess with Aubyn. And you asked Dr. Cohen all sorts of weird questions about ‘alternate universes.’ And then this embarrassment yesterday. If you’re not on something, you are mentally unfit.”
I had to hand it to the old broad—she was right. I was unfit to be a van Holt. I was Abbey Lahey, suburban sweatpant mom, bug publicist, and walking klutz. Funny that of all people she was the one who was suspicious. Women’s intuition, I guess.
I picked up my coffee cup and took a sip, buying time. Then I took a deep breath and used the same tone that Jimmy used when talking to an irate customer, the same tone I’d heard her use many times: “Mirabelle. I can assure you I am not abusing drugs. Or alcohol. And I am one hundred percent sane.” I put down my cup and walked back to the other side of the island, looking her in the eye. “And besides, if I was a drunk or a pill popper, don’t you think Alex would know? Ask him. He’ll tell—”
“Leave Alex out of this,” she interrupted. “I don’t want him sidetracked. Not today.”
“Leave him out of this? He’s my husband.”
She blanched, then regained herself. “Alex has a blind spot when it comes to you. But I know something is wrong. Very wrong. And I’m not going to allow it to ruin this family. Or his future.”
Her voice had that same patrician lilt she always used, but her meaning was as clear as a prison yard threat. I didn’t like being bullied in my own home. I matched her lethal charm with some of my own.
“Mirabelle. Mother. Thank you so much for stopping by.” I pulled my phone out of my purse and pretended to read e-mails, making her wait, a tactic I’d learned from Charlotte. Eventually, I looked up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a busy day ahead. Alex is waiting for me. He needs me.”
I’d never seen her so mad. Or speechless. We glared at each other across the island like two lions seconds from ripping each other apart.
But then Gloria came stumbling in, yawning and rubbing her eyes. When she saw her grandmother, she ran over and threw herself into the stiff khaki fabric of her old-fashioned trench.
Mirabelle smoothed Gloria’s hair and turned the little face up to hers. “Good morning, my dove. Are you all ready? While Mommy and Daddy finish campaigning, you and Van are coming to stay with me.”
Gloria smiled, anticipating time with Aubyn, the sheep, and, above all, her horse. “For how long?” she asked.
“All day.” Then, Mirabelle looked over at me with a wide smile and triumphant eyes. “And if I have my way, maybe even longer. Maybe a good, lon
g time.”
Take my kids away? She couldn’t do that, could she?
Every time I tried to think clearly, to figure out if that was in any way legally possible, my mind became jumbled by fear. This was my worst nightmare coming to life, and it gave me chills, even while I stood under a steady rain of hot water in the van Holts’ giant marble shower.
So I fell down an escalator. So I asked strange questions. So I botched a speech. That doesn’t mean I’m an addict. Or insane. And this isn’t the 1800s; no one can lock someone up in an institution without just cause.
Still, I was worried. If you added them up, I had had more than just a few screw-ups this week. And who knew what ones were still to come. I slid to the floor of the shower and curled my knees up under me. I felt so alone. Scared. And with that horrible feeling of not knowing what’s to come.
Suddenly, I heard men’s shoes cross the bathroom floor, then the pop of the glass door as it opened. It was Alex, and he looked like he was in a rush.
“Where are my—” He scowled as he looked down at me on the floor. “What are you doing on the floor?”
“Uh, meditating.”
“Seriously?” He watched, annoyed, as I stood up and tried to shut off the water but couldn’t remember how the fancy control panel worked. He reached in and waved his hand underneath it. The water stopped, then gurgled down the drain.
“Where are my shirts? Did you get my shirts?” he asked as I stepped out.
I winced. “Oops.” I reached for a towel and pressed it to my face.
“You’re kidding, right? Abbey, it’s Election Day! And I have nothing to wear. I wore this one yesterday and now there are coffee stains all over it. Frank’s waiting downstairs.”
“Sorry. With the interview and the speech and everything, I just forgot.”
He followed me into the closet and tore off the stained shirt angrily. I grabbed a robe and tied back my wet hair, then began to flick through his hanging clothes, hoping there was a clean button-down hiding among all the navy blue blazers.
“Where were you yesterday afternoon anyway?” he asked. I froze but managed to come up with an excuse. “I had that tea at the auction house, and then I stopped to get something to eat.”
He bought it, or didn’t care, because he kept on.
“And you couldn’t stop by Brooks Brothers? I’ve had to wear the same shirt for two days because someone hasn’t been keeping up.”
I turned to him incredulously. “It was your mother who fired May, not me, remember?”
He was about to say something back but stopped himself, realizing I was right. It felt good to respond with confidence instead of confusion. After ten days in this marriage, our fights were a little fairer.
Still, given the day, I offered an olive branch. “I can run out and get you some,” I said cheerily. “Just let me get dressed.”
“But we’re supposed to be in Springfield in twenty minutes,” he said. “Then that deaf school and the church. And we have to cast our ballots at noon.”
“Just go on ahead in that shirt and I’ll meet you wherever you are,” I said. “Alex, trust me. No one ever lost an election because of a coffee stain.”
“Can’t Sunita go? I want you with me.”
I started to say okay, but he cut me off. “Actually, never mind. I don’t want her driving my car.” He reached in his pocket, tossed me some keys, and told me, “Get me three. And remember, white or blue. No pink.”
I scrambled through my drawers and found a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and some well-worn lime green running shoes. I jogged into the kitchen, filled a travel coffee mug, and rushed to the elevator. But then I remembered the rain and turned around.
I rustled through the hall closet for an umbrella or a jacket but found only wool coats, a full-length fur, and ski pants. I tramped back to my closet, set my coffee mug down, and scanned the shelves and hangers, then rifled through some drawers. There was no umbrella, no raincoat, not even a baseball cap.
How can a woman with twelve pairs of J Brand jeans, six Hermès scarves, and a rainbow of Nordstrom pashmina not own a raincoat? Then it dawned on me. Nordstrom, raincoat. Hadn’t I seen a raincoat in the bag when that nice man—Bingley Cowan-Smith or something—returned my things?
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?