The One That Got Away

by Leigh Himes

  “May I help you?” said a voice. “Can I get you a size?”

  I turned to see a handsome woman with the hopeful look of someone who works on commission. I stared at her, saying nothing, even though a part of me wanted to say, “Yes, size six, please.”

  The saleslady looked confused: “Do you want to see something else? We have some gorgeous suits that just came in. They would look lovely on you.”

  “No, thank you. I’m just browsing.”

  “Are you sure? We just got the new Zac Posen line. Some really nice things.”

  Nice things. So you’ll learn to take care of nice things.

  I shook my head and stepped back from the saleslady, determined now to do what I’d come to do.

  I marched back to the escalator and rode it down. I waited for the other shoppers to clear off, then went up again, this time determined.

  But once again—Goddammit, Abbey!—I froze. This time because of a glance at the children’s section. What if this really was my life and Grange Hill was the dream? And what if I ended up seriously injuring myself, leaving Gloria and Sam with a paraplegic mother, or worse—motherless? I couldn’t bear the thought of them being raised by Mirabelle and a rotating array of nannies.

  I dropped my arms and head in defeat.

  My bag slid off my shoulder, its gold chain falling down and catching between two of the grooved silver steps. I pulled it back but it didn’t budge. I pulled harder, my arms taut, trying to use my body weight to yank it upward.

  When I reached the top of the escalator, the stairs just beginning to flatten into one another, the plated gold chain creaked with the strain. Then I heard a snap.

  Untethered, I flew backward. Clothes and lights and shoppers and metal and my own shoes rotated before my eyes like images from a viewfinder.

  “What happened?”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Don’t move her.”

  When the world stopped spinning, I tried to get up. But then I felt a sharp pain in my hip and hands gently holding me down.

  “Don’t try to get up, dear.”

  My eyes followed the voice and focused on an older saleslady spackled with makeup. Her kind concern was echoed in the faces of her coworkers, all leaning over me as I lay on the floor at the foot of the escalator.

  It took me a moment to gather my wits and remember what had happened. When I did, my heart soared.

  I’d done it! It may not have earned points for grace, but I’d succeeded in re-creating my tumble down Nordstrom’s escalator. I thanked God for my inherent clumsiness, which had triumphed—finally!—over fear.

  Too excited to just lie there, I forced myself to sit up, waving off protests from the salesladies and a barrel-chested security guard. There seemed to be a lot of concern about whether I’d sustained any broken bones. And whispers about lawsuits. But I was too full of endorphins to care.

  The light seemed different: everything a little brighter, more vivid. It took me a moment to realize why. The front doors at the far end of the store. When I’d entered Nordstrom it had been overcast, rainy. Now the sun was shining.

  I was back!

  I wanted to sprint for the doors and back to my real life, but the Nordstrom employees surrounded me, insisting I wait for the paramedics. Then with hands on my elbows, they escorted me to the employee lounge and plopped me down on a metal chair. Someone brought me water. I gulped it down. The most delicious water I’d ever tasted.

  The ladies continued to fuss. Their expressions were a mix of anguish and pleasure, upset that someone got hurt, but also happy to have an excuse to leave their posts.

  “I promise you I am fine,” I told them. “I’m just more embarrassed than anything.” I smiled for emphasis, though my shoulder throbbed and my right knee felt like it had been Tonya Harding–ed.

  Before they could respond, a British accent addressed them. “Thank you, ladies. I can take it from here.”

  As the women dispersed, disappointed, I looked up and saw Mr. Cowan-Smith, the regional vice president, the same man who had hand delivered Abbey van Holt’s gown and personal effects a week before. This time he wasn’t smiling and effusive, but stoic with concern.

  His light blue eyes flicked down at my sneakers and then up to my flushed forehead. I stared, looking for any sign of recognition, but his face was expressionless. Did he know me as Mrs. van Holt—or as one of the nameless, faceless mothers who perused the sale racks every day, staring longingly but never buying more than a MAC lipstick?

  “I don’t know what happened,” I said. “Must have been my shoes, wet from the rain.”

  “Well, perhaps next time, you should use the elevators. Or take the stairs.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I said as I stood up and pulled my purse over my arm. “That I’m going to sue Nordstrom or something. I can assure you that is not the case. I’m not some crazy lady; I’m just an average mom from Grange Hill…”

  I let my words trail off and studied his face, waiting for a reaction. But he said nothing, just offered a crooked arm for me to hold on to.

  “The mall paramedic is on his way,” he urged. “Please.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” I gave him a little shuffle ball change to prove it.

  “If you insist on leaving, I certainly cannot stop you,” he said with a sigh.

  Taking my arm, he guided me around the escalator, the piano, and the shoe department toward the store entrance. “Before you go, let me please reiterate that Nordstrom values your business and is happy to offer any assistance you might need in future shopping endeavors. But, Mrs. van Holt, I think from now on, it’s best if you shop online.”

  We looked at each other as the words sank in.

  I couldn’t believe it. It hadn’t worked. I was still Mrs. Alexander van Holt.

  Only now I was Mrs. van Holt with a tender forehead, an aching knee, and a full day of election events to fake my way through. Then a lifetime of three-hour lunches, overcrowded fund-raisers, ten-mile jogs, and marathon shopping sprees.

  Except, of course, at Nordstrom.

  Driving back to the city in Alex’s sleek cockroach of a car, some hastily purchased shirts boxed and ready in the backseat, I felt so helpless. And hopeless.

  I merged onto I-76 eastbound in a daze. I drove slowly, well below the speed limit, while trucks honked and whizzed by me in irritation. After a teenager in a gold-trimmed Honda Civic flipped me off, I pulled over at an exit, moved to the shoulder, and turned off the engine. I opened the door and leaned out, feeling nauseous.

  The last time I had felt this way was eight months ago, when Jimmy’s best account, an office park with a monthly retainer large enough to cover half our mortgage, canceled its weekly service. Turned out the office park had been sold and the new owner, an absentee landlord from New York, was “making some changes.” Jimmy still had other clients, but this was a major blow, not only financially, but to Jimmy’s ego. The new owners didn’t care that the grass was now naturally weed-free or that the new pear trees shaded the parking lot in summer. They didn’t care about my husband either. When they called to tell him they were canceling the account, they called him Johnnie the whole time.

  Soon after that, Jimmy began to let his employees go, until finally, it was just him and one part-timer. The company of five, sometimes nine in summer, was now down to one and a half. And the one person was killing himself to get more work, calling in favors and asking for leads from everyone he knew, but unable to land any new accounts.

  One evening, about two weeks earlier, when I was boiling the kids’ toothbrushes and sippy cup lids in a saucepan, Jimmy sat down on a stool at the end of the kitchen counter. I knew the look; he wanted to talk.

  “Ab?”

  “What’s up?”

  “The business isn’t doing so good.”

  I pretended to be engrossed in my witches’ brew of plastic, giving him breathing room to speak his mind, but inside I was listening intently. It was unusual for Jimmy
to bring up the state of his business unprompted. I may have complained about my job and my boss every chance I got, but Jimmy always left business behind when he stepped inside our kitchen door.

  “And I don’t really know how to fix it,” he continued. “I’ve bid on every job around, but the competition is tough. Every firm out there is looking for work too, and they’re offering cheaper rates.”

  “Maybe you could cut yours.”

  He sighed heavily. “I wish I could. But I have a wife and family to support. And a school loan and this fucking house—”

  He stopped himself and looked away. I was surprised, this being the first time ever that Jimmy had indicated he was anything but ecstatic to be married, with two kids and a fixer-upper. But the shock quickly gave way to more practical concerns. “I could ask my boss for leads. Or Max at Maxim Pest. He works with a lot of—”

  He cut me off. “No, babe. Please don’t do anything.” I smarted but kept quiet.

  “I have to make a decision soon. Keep going and hope it turns around or go back to working for someone else. I don’t know what to do.”

  Our eyes met and he added, “Ab, I’m scared.”

  Then he put his head in his hands.

  Looking back, I know now what I should have done. I should have taken him in my arms and reassured him that everything would work out fine. I should have told him I was proud of him no matter what. I should have promised we’d do whatever it took to keep the business open… that we’d sell the fridge, the car—hell, even my sad, middle-aged body—if it meant keeping his dream alive.

  But I didn’t. I just stood there, too focused on my own worries to offer any solace. Too busy formulating a plan to find him a new job with a regular salary. And figuring how much we could get for the mowers and the snowplows on Craigslist.

  Now, sitting on the side of the road, the new-car smell mixing with exhaust, I felt lower than low. Ashamed. I would have given anything to go back in time and tell him what I should have that night: I know it’s hard. I know you’re scared. But no matter what, we’ll get through this. Together. Because I love you and that’s what love means.

  The sun moved in and out from the clouds, casting shadows around my feet. I watched them come and go, still too numb to move.

  Finally, I rubbed my face, took a deep breath, and folded my limbs back into the low bucket seat. I turned the key and steered the car back toward the city.

  There was nowhere else to go.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He had been here, maybe even today. He had brushed aside the leaves and cleared away debris. He had wiped the stone free of the last of the late summer pollen. And alongside the purple chrysanthemums he had planted in front of her gravestone, he had added a small Phillies flag.

  Miles always knew what would make Jane smile.

  I read the epitaph again and sighed. “Jane Louise Lahey 1953–2008. Beloved wife, mother, friend.”

  Silently, I added one more: beloved mother-in law.

  When Oscar had turned the Suburban onto this street and pulled up in front of the Church of the Holy Redeemer, at first it looked like just another improvised Delaware County polling station. It took a few minutes for me to realize why the church looked familiar. After all, it had been five years since Jane’s funeral. But looking closer, I remembered, and remarked how nothing had changed: a restaurant-style sign advertising Mass times like today’s specials; thin metal handrails trailing up wide concrete steps; and silvery gray stone covering just the facade, with weather-worn brick everywhere else. As if God couldn’t see that they had used cheaper materials on the sides and back.

  My memories colored the church much darker, more somber, than it really was. The sign out front might have offered eternal life, but to me it offered only an ending. Jane was the only person whom I truly loved who had died. Hers was the only funeral service I had ever attended.

  And now I stood looking at her grave, while Alex shook hands with voters. I had told him I had to call to check on the children, and I did, but then stole away to the adjacent graveyard, ducking under tree limbs and walking worn pathways until I found Jane’s grave. And now my hand touched the same dirt that Miles had touched, maybe just days ago.

  Miles and Jane had weathered so much… put four boys through Catholic school and two through college… survived car wrecks and chicken pox and layoffs… managed to put a little aside for themselves… and finally reached retirement together like two marathoners crossing a finish line holding hands… only for Jane’s cancer to come back and rob them of what should have been their victory lap. Jane held the ultimate marital upper hand. You’re mad because I didn’t take out the trash? Well, how about I get cancer and die a slow and painful death in front of you and your children? How about that?

  But to them, it wasn’t about comeuppance, wasn’t even about which one of them got sick. They were so intrinsically bound by four decades together, it was as if they had both been sick, with Miles feeling every pain, losing just as much hair, and matching her pound for pound, both of them growing gaunt.

  I’d never even seen them make jokes at the other’s expense or snipe at each other under their breath. They were devoted to each other their entire lives, and, according to Jimmy, they had been since the day they met on the corner of Forty-Sixth and Market in 1964—when they were turned away from the last American Bandstand taping in Philadelphia. Though they didn’t make it on the air with Dick Clark, or get to do the South Street Shuffle they had each been practicing all week, they would end up falling in love. A pretty awesome consolation prize, plus a great story to one day tell their grandchildren.

  I was sure they fought—Jimmy said they had some real screaming matches, both with fiery tempers—but by the time I met them, their relationship was one of bemused adoration and steadfast loyalty. And even now, separated by death, the devotion remained. Miles tended this grave carefully, creating an arrangement that looked just like the window boxes she had fussed over for forty years, as if telling her, Despite the separation, you still matter to me. You’re still my number one person.

  I thought of the countless times I had silently cursed Jimmy because he wasn’t someone like Alex. And how I might now curse Alex because he wasn’t Jimmy. But how did each man really feel about me? If I died, would either of them visit my grave, covering it with wildflowers and fashion magazines and Krispy Kreme doughnuts? Was I capable of earning this type of devotion? Was I capable of giving it?

  I reached out and touched the wet headstone. “Good-bye,” I whispered to her. “Rest in peace. You deserve it.”

  As I walked back to the group, I noticed they were no longer standing near the church door greeting voters but huddled beside the black Suburban in the parking lot. As I got closer, I saw their eyes were glued to Calvin’s iPad. Good news, I hoped.

  “What’s up?” One by one they raised their faces to me with bewildered expressions, though no one said anything. Alex started to but then stopped himself. Instead, he opened the Suburban’s back door and barked, “Get in.”

  Oh shit. I ducked into the truck and scrambled into the backseat. Alex folded his long limbs and scrunched in beside me, Frank and Calvin hit the middle row, and Sunita sat up front. Oscar slipped into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

  Beside me, Alex’s face was grave. He wouldn’t look at me, even when I touched his arm.

  My heart began to beat faster. What had I done now? I reviewed the past few days. Had Alex heard about the Friends of Lafayette debacle? No, I couldn’t imagine him really caring about that. Had he found out I’d gone to see May? If that was the case, I had an excuse ready—we were just there to return the lost bag. Then I remembered. The e-mail to Larry. Somehow he had found out about me leaking the Ariel story. Oh no. That would be much harder to explain…

  “Alex, please don’t be mad,” I said, even though I could tell he already was. “I wanted to help you. I hated seeing you so conflicted.”

  He looked at me with disbel
ief.

  “And no one knows it was me. I swear.” I held my hands out in emphasis.

  “Really?” He grabbed the iPad from Frank and shoved it under my nose. “Not you? This I have to hear.”

  I forced myself to look at the screen, expecting a front-page Philly.com story linking Alex to Ariel to Father Wallace to the Brindles to God knows who else. But instead I saw a grainy YouTube video. I pressed play.

  The scene looked familiar. But it took me a moment to figure out why. And when I did, I felt my stomach turn over.

  It was cell phone video of me sitting at a bar in Chinatown, laughing, drinking, and awkwardly flirting with the man beside me at five o’clock on a Monday. It was shot from an angle, and from behind the bar, but even in the dim light my pink suit, gray pearls, and blond hair were unmistakable. Beside me, his face half-hidden by his cap, was Jimmy.

  To my horror, the video had a title: “Candidate’s Wife Caught Canoodling.”

  But the words didn’t make sense. It was all so strange. “What is this?” I whispered, still struggling to understand.

  Frank asked, “Did you go to a bar yesterday? Some place called Wok Ling’s?”

  “No! I mean yes, I mean—” I was still too shocked to make much sense. “I went there. For a drink. But it was just a drink. I swear.”

  I looked down at the iPad again, and reasonable thought began to percolate. I guess Jimmy hadn’t been the only one to recognize me from CNN. So had that young bartender. The whole time I thought he was texting or playing games on his phone, he was filming us. He must have posted it online—Instagram, perhaps—and from there it went viral. Already this YouTube video had more than seven hundred views.