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The One Who Got Away: A Novel

Page 3

by Bethany Bloom


  Olivine had an image, suddenly, of herself sitting alone in her tiny attic office, years ago, before she moved in with Paul. She had painted the walls and the ceiling sky blue, and there was a small circular window just above her desk that allowed her to see all of the comings and goings of her world through a tiny picture frame. She could disappear up there and be with her thoughts and she could create things on paper that hadn’t existed before. Entire worlds. And she thought of Henry. The night he made love to her on the floor of her tiny attic office.

  Moments like these held their place in time. They held a certain sticking point. And she would think about them, over the past ten years, at the strangest times: stepping out of the shower, taking cereal off the shelf at the grocery store, while making love to Paul.

  “I don’t know,” Olivine replied, after a time. “But I’ll give some thought to it, Yarrow. Really, thanks for listening to me. I’m sorry that I am a lunatic.”

  “You are far from a lunatic, Ollie. You simply…experience the entire range of human emotion.” They laughed at this and then Yarrow said, “And here’s to that!” as they clinked their espresso cups.

  Yarrow tipped the porcelain demitasse into her mouth and then stood to pour a few more Cheerios on Claire’s tray table from the box on the counter. The baby’s cheeks were red and full, her eyes bright, and she had a faint rash on her chin.

  “So was this your big news, Olivine?” Yarrow asked, returning to her seat. “That your life has been one endless string of disappointments? Because if it is, then my news is better than yours. Way better.”

  “No, that’s not my news,” Olivine said. “My news is that Paul and I are getting married. We’re engaged.”

  “Oh. What? Oh.” Yarrow gulped. “How wonderful.”

  “We are. After the funeral. We got engaged.” Olivine laughed. “That sounds weird. But, he proposed on our way home. Actually, I think I might have proposed. Either way, we’re getting married.”

  “Well, no wonder you’re emotional,” Yarrow said, reaching across the table to grasp her hands once again. “God bless you, sweetie. That’s great news. He’s an amazing guy.”

  “He really is, isn’t he?”

  “So, let me see it. Where’s the ring?”

  “I didn’t want you to see it before I told you, but it’s here.” She fished it out of her pocket, picked off a piece of lint, and slid it on her finger.

  Yarrow held Olivine’s hand gently in hers. “So beautiful and elegant. Just like you.”

  Olivine met her sister’s eyes and Yarrow looked her full in the face for a moment, as though searching for something. Finally, Yarrow said, “So if you got engaged on the way home from Grandma’s memorial, why am I only learning this now?”

  “You’re the first to know, actually. We decided to keep it to ourselves for a bit. You know…percolating it.”

  “Oh, okay. I guess I get that.” She poured a splash of Frangelico into her cup and another, larger one, into Olivine’s. “So, I guess there’s only one question then.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why do you think this makes you cry?”

  Olivine shrugged. “They are tears of joy?”

  “Oh.” Yarrow wrinkled her nose. “Really?”

  “I don’t know.” Olivine rubbed her palms on her jeans. “He’s fantastic. He’s beautiful. He’s successful. He’s kind. And he’s helping me find my purpose, too. ” She stared into her cup for a moment and then looked up to meet her sister’s gaze. “Like you said, I’m just emotional. Let me tell you how he proposed. It was perfect.”

  And she told Yarrow how Paul had lifted her up and sat her on the car and how it had been raining and how he had touched her face and her neck and how he had kissed her. Yarrow clutched at her chest with her left palm in that way she had, like her heart might physically stop beating from the sheer beauty of it all.

  “So. That’s my story,” Olivine said. “Now, since my engagement came as such a surprise, what were you going to tell me?”

  “Oh. It’s nothing.” Yarrow held up her arms and twirled her hands at the wrists as if dismissing her thoughts.

  “It sure was something ten minutes ago.”

  “You know what? I’m not sure it’s relevant now.”

  “What could have been relevant ten minutes ago… but not relevant now?”

  “Nothing. Really. It’s better to not say anything at all.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Tell me or your matron of honor dress will be electric pink and tiny.”

  “I’m a matron now? Can we just call me a maid of honor. I’m not ready to be a matron, Olivine.”

  “No changing the subject. What were you going to tell me?”

  “Oh. Alright then.”

  “What is it?” Olivine felt suddenly breathless.

  “Henry Cooper is coming to town. And he’s going to be looking for you.”

  *****

  Learning new information, Olivine thought as she drove from Yarrow’s house, was like trying on a new pair of running shoes. The old shoes work just fine until you slip on the new ones and you feel the way the arches hug your feet and buoy you up in the world and your old shoes seem suddenly shabby and worn and not at all right.

  Paul was a good man. And she knew it wasn’t fair to see him in this new, hard light. This new light where he was suddenly all pores and hairs and downcast eyes. This man who wanted to medicate her into a dizzy kind of submission and tell her how to live her life and never bothered to ask her what she wanted. No, that wasn’t at all right. And it wasn’t fair. Paul was tall and fair and handsome. He had the financial means to take care of her for the rest of her life. And he did care for her. He loved her. Deeply. More than that, he needed her in a way that no man ever had before.

  Certainly, it wasn’t fair to compare Paul with a man she had known so long ago. With Henry Cooper. A man she had spent five or so years grieving and the next five glorifying. In fact, why didn’t she despise Henry Cooper, running away like he did? Why didn’t she despise even his memory? Henry Cooper was the only man she had ever let do this to her. The only man who had ever made her think she might need someone—want someone—and the only man to leave her. Who did Henry Cooper think he was, and why would he think she would even want to see him after all this time?

  No. Things were figured out now. They were already determined. The fact that Henry was returning just as she was planning her wedding was perfect timing. Because she was committed now. She was getting married. She had a ring in her pocket, and just as soon as she announced her engagement to her mother and father, she would move it on a permanent basis to her finger.

  And she remembered how, the night before, when Paul had returned from the gym after work, she asked him when they should call his father, to tell him about their engagement. Paul had slurped from a bowl of fruit and stared straight ahead, and then he asked her how she was doing in Anatomy.

  Olivine was taking two prerequisite classes at the local community college. Meanwhile Paul was trying to get her enrolled in a nursing degree program in the city. And when she was finished with her degree, she could work side by side with Paul, eventually even in the operating room. Then she would have a career where she could really make a difference. But first, he reminded her, she had to ace Anatomy and Microbiology, or no connections of his were going to make any difference.

  Paul wanted only what was best for her, Olivine reasoned. He was a good man. He simply wanted her to transition into a career that they could enjoy together. And she was lucky. There were plenty of women around the hospital, around town, even, who wanted Paul with a fervor. But Olivine and Paul were meant to be. Paul’s father had even told her that she was the only woman he had ever opened up to; that, to his knowledge, there had been no serious girlfriends before her.

  She and Paul had been dating only a few months when Paul introduced her to his fat
her, who ran a thriving cardiology practice in the city. Paul’s father had the same broad face and jaw, both of which hardly moved as he regarded Olivine. He raised his eyebrows and then looked at the floor just as Paul had when they first met. But there were differences, too. His father’s hair was silver instead of red; his brow more creased; his skin more fair; his eyelashes so light they were barely visible.

  After dinner, Paul had excused himself to check in with his office. As soon as he left the dining room, Paul’s father cupped her hand with his. He looked her straight in the eye, and in a low, even tone, he told her that Paul needed her. That he had never seen him open up to someone so much. That he had always worried, after Paul’s mother abandoned them, that Paul would never be capable of connecting with a woman. That it was vital for her to understand how much Paul needed her.

  “His mother left a simple goodbye note for Paul one morning, you know,” Paul’s father had said.

  Olivine shook her head. She didn’t know.

  “She did. She left a note for him to find near his favorite cereal box, when he was thirteen years old. The note said she loved him and always would but she couldn’t live in this house anymore.”

  Paul’s father let go of Olivine’s hand and picked up his beer bottle, tossed back a swig, and then cradled it in folded hands, staring blankly at the label and peeling at it with his thumbnail. “Paul was angry. Still is. Never got over it. Probably never will.”

  “Paul never told me any of this.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Does it surprise you?”

  Olivine shook her head. “So what happened to her?” she asked.

  “She lives on an island somewhere.” Paul’s father scoffed and tipped his head back to drain the bottle. His eyes were so unexpressive, his tone of voice so even that she had to suppress a sudden urge to shake him by the shoulders. The same urge she had to resist when she was talking with Paul, at times.

  “She has been trying to send him letters ever since she left,” he continued. “Not that he and I speak about it. That’s his business. I only know he doesn’t respond because his mother tells me. She calls me, writes me, still, to this day, to bawl me out for it. She blames me for his detachment from her. She says I’ve poisoned his mind. But I don’t get involved. I wasn’t the one who left.”

  The dinner had wrapped up shortly after that, and, on the long drive home, Olivine considered asking Paul about his mother. But then she thought better of it. This, she was coming to understand, was what their relationship was built on: giving one another space. And if Paul needed space, she could give it to him.

  As the years went by, she wondered if he would ever mention his mother. He had come close, telling her once, “My parents are divorced, and I don’t have much of a relationship with her.” And then he returned to the quiet place inside where he spent most of his time.

  The important thing was that she was needed. Paul needed her. Paul’s own father told her that his son needed her. He needed her light, her spark. And even though sometimes it felt as though Paul drained it from her, she could always regain it. She could always find more. Maybe that was her problem now. Maybe she had simply been drained too many times.

  No, what filled her up was the knowledge that she was satisfying a need in the world. A need that only she could fill. When someone needed her, she knew that she was living a life of significance. A rich, meaningful life. The act of loving someone, of taking care of his needs, of helping him…this was an important mission. And soon, she would be taking care of people in the way Paul did. Helping their bodies to heal.

  It was enough, she had decided, to love other people. Like Yarrow did. She could love her family, her mother, her father, her sister, her sister’s kids, and she could love Paul. She could let go of her own wants and love whoever needed it the most from her.

  Yes, she had once loved Henry Cooper. It was an aching, deep, fierce love. But he had left. He hadn’t respected her enough, even, to call. To tell her he was safe. She was left to assume that he had either died, or, more likely, went on to live another life. One that didn’t involve her. And this proved to Olivine that, though loving was her purpose, she didn’t get to choose whom to love. And she was grateful for Paul. He was a kind and giving man. Any woman would be pleased to date him. To marry him.

  As she drove from Yarrow’s house, she reminded herself of all of these facts. Her mind churned, gnawed, circled back on them. By the time she pulled into her driveway, she had come around again, as she always did. She had come around to the knowing that she belonged with this man, her fiancé. She belonged with Paul.

  Chapter Four

  Olivine arrived home, expecting to see Paul’s car, but his side of the garage was empty. It was his day off, so she decided he was probably at the gym, which was just as well. She had some studying to do.

  She shuffled toward the kitchen, so different from her sister’s. The face of the refrigerator, like the countertops, were bare. The toaster and the coffeemaker each had an appliance garage to tuck into, with an accordion-style door that slid down. Keeping the home clean was a simple matter of creating proper habits for yourself, Paul had said when they first moved in together. Countertops were scrubbed before the meal began. Afterwards, they were disinfected and the floors swept and mopped.

  But today, an unopened can of Paul’s energy drink lay on the floor near the sink. Without caffeine, what would become of him, Olivine wondered. She sat on the floor, cross-legged, popped the top and sampled the fizzy syrup. It cloyed in her mouth, like liquid Pez. She downed a glug or two, leaning against the cupboards, and she made up her mind to start in on her biology homework before the two o’clock class.

  And then Olivine looked over and noticed a series of black scuff marks near the edge of the baseboard. There, in the corner, So she decided to scrub the baseboards first. Paul would have wanted her to study, yes, but he also would have wanted those marks removed.

  She retrieved a bucket from the hall closet, filled it with cleaning solution and water so hot it seared her hands, even through the plastic gloves, and she scrubbed the spot on her painted baseboards until the tiny black scuffs began to disappear. And then she moved on, scrubbing the rest of the baseboard in the kitchen for good measure. And then she went on through to the dining room. And while she scrubbed, she allowed herself to think about him. About Henry and the day they met.

  He had been standing behind a white Formica countertop, under fluorescent lights. He wore a collarless button-down cotton shirt, long sleeved and pinstriped with navy blue and gray. His face was smooth, freshly shaven. He had high cheekbones and full, fleshy lips. But it was his eyes—a twinkle there, a luster, an energy, something—which made Olivine tell her friends, “I volunteer to get everyone’s drinks tonight.”

  “Why?” they asked, in unison.

  “Look at the bartender.”

  The other ladies snapped their heads around to look and giggled. “Oh alright,” they said, sighing and shaking their curls. “But only because you since you saw him first.”

  Olivine had just returned from college when a few of her high school friends convinced her to come along to a wedding. The bride was someone she knew only vaguely, and they had just performed the ceremony in a town park. The adjacent community recreation center was serving as the reception hall, with a kitchen of gleaming white linoleum and shallow countertops. This is where Henry now stood, flanked by a blue plastic cooler and a stack of clear plastic cups, some half-filled with white wine and set in rows.

  Olivine approached him, and his eyes went straight to hers. He held her gaze and tilted his head to the side. Olivine felt her face flush. Henry gave her a shy, barely upturned smile and offered her one of the plastic cups.

  “Oh.” Olivine said, taking her eyes off his. “Can I get a beer instead?”

  “Oh. Sure. Sorry. Most of the women have been asking for wine.” His voice was soft, yet deep. He opened the cooler and shuffled around inside. “Is a can okay? No glass�
�park rules.”

  “Preferred,” she answered. “I like my wine from a box and my beer from a can.”

  “Just my kind of girl.” He laughed.

  And then she introduced herself, and she said, “So, is this what you do? Bartend at community rec center weddings?”

  “Well, as enjoyable as it is, no. I’m here with my roommate. He told me there was a beautiful woman who would be here. He wanted me to meet her.”

  “Is that so?” Olivine’s stomach fell.

  “Yes, it is. I told him I didn’t want to go to a wedding between two people I didn’t know. And I told him I definitely didn’t want to work the bar for a wedding between two people I didn’t know, but he told me this woman’s legs would tell me otherwise.”

  “Huh.”

  “So now I’m here. And I see that it is you, and I am definitely glad I came to this wedding between two people I do not know.”

  “Oh, wow.” Olivine rolled her eyes. “You are a little too smooth for me,” she said, turning away and looking out into the room.

  “No, I’m not, actually. I’m not smooth at all. See, you don’t even like that I said that. Not smooth.”

  Just then, a man sporting a fedora and a spotty chin beard approached the counter. He raised his can toward Henry and gave it a quick shake. Then he nodded to Olivine. She knew him by name (Carter, was it?) but she hadn’t spoken with him since they shared a table in Trigonometry class, sophomore year. “Well, I see you’ve met Olivine already,” the man said, “She’s the one I was telling you about. Funny that you met on your own.”

  Henry handed him another beer, and Carter popped his eyebrows at Olivine. Then he turned and moved toward Olivine’s group of friends.

  “You do have a magnificent set of legs, by the way,” Henry said, avoiding her eyes. “But I know you have other qualities, as well.”

  “I really don’t know what to say,” Olivine said.

 

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