The One That Got Away (16 page)

“And if he can’t?”

“We’ll have to close down by December. If not sooner.”

“But where will all these people—these children—eat?”

He sank back on his heels, tilted his head to the ceiling, and quoted scripture: “Count it all joy when you meet trials, for you know that the testing of faith produces steadfastness. Let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.”

He opened his eyes, watery and pale blue, and whispered, “The Good Lord won’t let us down. And hopefully, neither will your husband.”

As he walked me out, I thought of the money I had spent that morning on the kids’ clothes and felt sick. We passed the room where the little baby played with her crinkly water bottle, and I thought of Sam and his wooden boat, his shelves of handmade BPA-free toys. And I couldn’t help but think of Jimmy, who insisted we give two hundred dollars to the Salvation Army every Christmas, even when we were broke, and even though he knew it would start an argument between us. Fergie’s words “lacking in nothing” were not meant to be ironic; he truly believed that through faith, Holy Rosary would persevere.

At the door, Fergie paused to greet a homeless man he hadn’t seen in months. As he assured him there was still some lunch left, then sent
him on his way, I opened my quilted Chanel purse, rifled around for my Tiffany pen, and grabbed my Tory Burch pink leather checkbook case.

“Let’s give faith a little help, shall we?” I asked, scribbling.

Then I pressed a ten-thousand-dollar check into his hand.

That night as Sam and Gloria and I ate dinner at the kitchen island, Alex out campaigning again, I couldn’t help looking at my children and feeling lucky. Sam looked like an ad for baby cereal with his glossy pink cheeks and pudgy knees. And even though Gloria was tiny and completely indifferent to any food except high-fructose corn syrup and red dye number 4, she was strong and smart and hardly ever sick. After what I’d seen today, I knew I was lucky, and not just because I was living in a four-thousand-square-foot apartment that had been featured in the September 2010 issue of
Architectural Digest
.

Gloria caught me looking at her and smiled. “Hi, Mommy,” she said.

“Hi. Did you have a good day?”

“Yep.”

“Did you learn anything good?”

“No.”

“Do anything fun?”

“No.”

“Nothing happened at all?

“Well, Blake Randleman threw up all over his shoes.”

I wrinkled my nose, sorry I asked. “That must have been pretty gross.”

“Gos,” mimicked Sam.

All of a sudden, I felt an overwhelming sadness. Jimmy and Gloria liked to count all the words Sam could say: “Mama,” “Dada,” “sissy,” “baba” (for bottle), “bye-bye,” “ball,” “car,” “Pop” (for Miles), “toot,”
“night-night,” and now “gross.” Sam had just said another word—his eleventh—and Jimmy wasn’t here to hear it.

I was still thinking about Jimmy two hours later. The kids were in bed and I was on the long couch in the family room, alone, flipping through channels and sipping a glass of red wine. I wished I had someone to talk to, someone to tell about my visit to Holy Rosary.

Before we had kids, Jimmy and I often met on our front porch to catch up after eight or ten hours apart. The summer we had moved into our new house, we had no outdoor furniture yet, so we sat on beach chairs and rested our feet on wooden crates Jimmy stole from work. We would watch the sun sink low, turning trees and houses and steeples into black cutouts.

One night, when I was four months pregnant with Gloria, we were out later than usual, enjoying a cool breeze that kept the mosquitoes at bay. I had already finished the takeout dinner from our favorite Thai place, but, my pregnancy cravings not yet sated, I had moved on to a jar of salsa, using a tortilla chip as a spoon. I couldn’t get enough tomatoes that summer, eventually replacing salsa and red sauce with the real thing, sprinkling raw beefsteaks with salt and pepper and eating them like apples. Jimmy sipped on a beer while listening to me ramble on about baby names I liked.

Out of the blue, off subject, and in his usual nonchalant way, he said something that would change our lives forever.

“I think I want to start my own business.”

His words seemed to hang in the air. I stopped chewing. “Really? What kind?”

“Cupcakes,” he deadpanned. “What do you think? Lawn care, maintenance, installation. But more than that. I want to design too. Using native plants and succulents and natural drainage systems. Maybe even tree care.”

He paused and looked at me shyly. “Do you think that’s stupid?”

I was stunned. Jimmy had never seemed the creative type. But come to think of it, he was always sketching ideas for neighbors, always offering his boss suggestions for a better plant, a prettier tree line. And though we’d lived in this house for only six weeks, our yard was already beginning to look like Longwood Gardens.

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” I said. “I think it’s a
great
idea. But do you need a degree? Or at least a certificate or something?”

“Well, yes and no. I’ve been in the business for ten years. I’ve probably installed a thousand new lawns. But I would need to finish college and maybe get a master’s.”

“You could do that. They have night programs.”

“Yeah, but it’s a big time commitment. And money. And you were hoping to cut back to part-time with the baby coming and all…”

I attempted to wipe the sprinkling of chips off my stomach and sat up straighter.

“You’re right,” I said sarcastically. “Wife and kids ruin everything. The bastards.”

I expected a funny remark back, but Jimmy said nothing. He took off his cap, wiped his brow, and put it back on. He then reached over, took the jar from me, and put it on the ground. He pulled me up to standing and lifted my face to his. Our bellies touched.

“That’s just the thing, Ab,” he said, his eyes shining in the porch light. “I’m going to have a kid. Can you believe it? Me, a dad. And I have you. Right now, I feel like I could do anything. Make it a real success. Even if I have to pull every weed from here to Pittsburgh.”

It was the longest speech he had ever said to me, longer even than when he proposed. I hugged him and snuggled into his shoulder, feeling that all was right with the world, in the way that only pregnant women really understand.

I
was flying, all the shops and people and cars a blur as I breezed by them. For the first time in my life, I was jogging—no,
running
—and I was really hauling ass. With the light morning traffic, I had made it all the way across the city to Front Street in twenty-five minutes. Sweat soaked my Lululemon sports bra and mesh-trimmed shirt, but I was barely winded, my ponytail bouncing back and forth, up and down.

In Grange Hill, I had tried many times to become a runner, not for the cardiovascular benefits or stress relief but to melt the muffin top that clung stubbornly to my waist. But my attempts usually ended with me giving up less than a quarter mile from home or bailing minutes into a charity 5K. I told Jimmy I just didn’t have the talent or the lung capacity, but inside I knew the real problem was dedication. And motivation. Why should I work out when Jimmy never did?

But today, after waking early and wandering around the apartment aimless and anxious, and feeling guilty about secretly finishing off Gloria’s box of Froot Loops last night, I’d decided to give it another try. I also figured from the sheer volume of running shoes in the closet, this body could handle it. Time to take it out for a test drive.

As I ran with ease, I wondered where Abbey van Holt found her inspiration. It had to be more than just a desire to stay model thin. Perhaps she had learned to love it from Alex, so committed to his late-night runs? Or maybe she was a member of an elite city-moms running club, the kind that tracked mileage on special watches and posted their Broad Street Run finishes on Facebook, shaming the rest of us for our slovenly ways? Whatever the case, I added “discipline” to the long list of traits Abbey van Holt possessed that I did not.

I slowed to a walk, paused to check my pulse (a mere 142 beats per minute), then descended a small flight of stone steps toward the Delaware River. I paused to watch the cargo ships gently slipping by and saw the cars rolling over the Betsy Ross Bridge. The city was waking up, ready for another long day.

It was Thursday, October 30—almost a week now in this new life. Already it was feeling familiar, and more routine, less like a fabulous vacation. And already my old life felt muted, like a seventies photograph. The faces were still familiar, but the edges less sharp, the colors fading.

It made me feel scared, as if I was having one of those dreams where I lost Gloria at school, me running the long, bright hallways of Grange Hill Elementary in terror, searching for her pink backpack, her tiny flowered sneakers. Had she gone home with a friend? Did Jimmy have her? Was she waiting for me somewhere else? Panic rose, and I started to run again, turning back toward Center City.

With commuters now rising from subway stations and cars at every intersection, I found myself having to slow. I tried to weave around them but gave up by Eleventh Street. I looked up and realized I was near the building where Jules worked. I began to circle her block.

On the third lap, I noticed a coffee shop across from the entrance to her building and went inside. A young woman with short black
hair and a knit fisherman’s cap was filling metal baskets of gluten-free bagels, muffins, and scones. A large chalkboard announced prices and I winced. Even their specials were double what the same pastry would cost in Grange Hill, just six miles away. I pulled out a credit card from the tiny zippered pocket on my thigh and bought some scones, a bagel, two organic fig bars, and a coffee and then settled onto a stool by the window to wait. Like a cop on a stakeout.

A little after eight o’clock, I saw her. She was wearing dark gray skinny jeans, a silky aqua T-shirt, and a black leather blazer. Loops of thick silver chain hung low to her waist while knee-high black boots reached up toward them from the concrete. White plastic headphone strings emerged from her jacket and up into her long auburn hair, still her best feature, even when stick straight.

She was moving briskly, one arm on a black workbag, another holding a silver water bottle. I put down my coffee, grabbed the bag of baked goods, and sprinted across the street, catching her on the arm before she reached the revolving door.

“Aaaaahhh! What are you doing?” she cried in alarm, yanking back her arm and then removing her earbuds. “Trying to give me a heart attack?”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said. “I just wanted to talk. Got a minute?”

“I’ve got to get to work.”

“Please, Jules,” I said. “I really need to talk to you.” And then, holding up the bag, I added, “And I have snacks.”

She eyed the bag and took in my sweaty clothes, messy hair, and eager expression. Then she glanced at her watch and sighed. “Five minutes.”

We crossed over to the coffee shop and plopped into opposite sides of a booth. I laid the pastries I had just bought on the
crinkly brown bag, a little buffet of breakfast delights I hoped would sweeten her expression. But she didn’t touch them, just watched as I took a large bite of a cinnamon scone, raining crumbs on the table.

“Mon’t mu mant mum?” I asked, the scone turning to cement in my mouth. For a moment, I thought I saw a glint of craving in her eye, but she turned away.

“I don’t eat that stuff anymore,” she said flatly.

I cleared my throat, steeling myself for what I’d come here to say.

“Jules, I know that somehow I screwed things up. But I want to make things right between us. Please tell me what I can do so we can be friends again.”

She sighed and looked away, a bored look on her face. But I could tell she was listening. I could also tell she was not having it.

“I promise you I’m not this so-called socialite you think I am. I’m the same Abbey you met in college. I swear.”

Still nothing, but at least now she was making eye contact.

“Look. I appreciate the apology. But I’m not sure there’s a place for me in your life or for you in mine. You’re busy. I’m busy. I’ve got Lucas. My business. It may not seem very glamorous to you, but I’m happy. Happier than I’ve ever been.”

“I can tell,” I said, beaming at her. “And I’m so happy for you. But I could really use a friend. Alex is stressed out and—”

“That’s just it, Abbey. It’s always about what
you
need and what
you
want,” she said. “Or what Alex needs, what Alex wants.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on. You know what I mean.”

No, I don’t,
I wanted to tell her.
Please, Jules, please explain it to me. It is beyond comprehension that I don’t see fourteen texts from you every day, that you haven’t updated me on every calorie you’ve consumed in the past forty-eight hours, that we let another himbo get chucked off
The Bachelorette
without a word exchanged between us.

Was I really the self-centered socialite she thought I was? And even worse, was I all about Alex van Holt, all the time?

“Don’t you like Alex?” I asked.

“I like Alex just fine. It’s
you
I have a problem with.”

I reeled back as if she had slapped me. Then she seemed to regret being so harsh, her expression returning to the gentle Jules I knew. Her voice fell to a whisper. “Bee, you were always the independent one. The one who knew what she wanted and went after it. It was me who was always morphing for the guy of the moment. Their music. Their food. Their side of the bed. Oh God, I even took line-dancing lessons for that guy from Lancaster. What was his name? Patrick?”

“Peter,” I told her.

“Yeah, Peter.” As she sat cringing at the desperation of a much younger self, I sat frozen, anxious—and scared—to hear more.

But it came. “But then, after Gloria, you started to change.”

“Kids do that to you. It just happens.” Jules just didn’t understand the grind of being a working mother. If she did, she’d understand why I quit working. I knew plenty of mothers—rich
and
poor—who quit their jobs after childbirth. I felt defensive, wondering when she’d become so judgmental.

She lifted her hands in a gesture of self-defense. “I know, I know, how could I get the mom thing? But you and I both know it was more than that. You stopped calling so much. Stopped doing all the stuff you liked to do. Started going to fancy fund-raisers and hiring decorators and doing
cleanses
. It was like the Abbey I knew disappeared. Or got swallowed up.”

“That can’t be true,” I said, speaking to us both.

She looked at my fancy running gear and beige-blond highlights. She eyed my fake breasts and perfectly painted nails. “Really? Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

I started to refute her, getting angry. The demise of our friendship
couldn’t be all my fault. But then again, it wasn’t like Jules to exaggerate. She always gave it to me straight; it was one of the things I valued most about our friendship.

She sighed and stood up, then grabbed her bag. “I have to go.”

I watched her move to the door and felt so helpless. But I also knew that nearly twenty years of friendship couldn’t end like this. I wasn’t about to give up.

“Jules, wait,” I said, jumping up to catch her before she reached the door. “Is there
any
way we can start again? Maybe just have lunch sometime. Or coffee. I could bring the kids.”

She paused, thinking it over.

“Maybe,” she said. “I’d really like to meet Van.”

Then she was gone, leaving me covered in crumbs and self-loathing. The situation was even worse than I’d thought; it was utterly unimaginable. Was I so wrapped up in myself and my husband and my new life that my dearest friend, the maid of honor at my wedding, the person who felt more like family to me than my own family, had never even
met
my son?

I gathered the half-eaten goodies and the coffee and stuffed them into the trash. I hurried outside and began to run again, wanting very badly to be home. And not at the apartment, but at the Grange Hill house, with its drafty windows and sloping porch. I ran and ran and ran, trying to ignore the cramp in my stomach and the even more painful thought in my mind:
I may never see home again.

As I stepped off the elevator, I saw May coming out of the apartment door with Gloria and Sam. I hid on one side of the hallway, listening to her sing a funny song to them, one they knew well.

“Ladybug, ladybug, what do you say?” she sang.

And the kids sang back: “Ladybug, ladybug, have a good day!”

“Ladybug, ladybug, what do you hear—” She stopped, both the smile and the song, when she saw me.

“Oscar is taking Mr. Alex, so we are walking to school,” she said, all business. I was relieved that Alex was already gone, not here to see me looking so sweaty and gross, but also sad. I could use a quick hit of his smile right now.

“I’ll take her,” I told May.

She looked surprised—and suspicious.

“But you never…,” she said, her eyes opening in horror as I held out my hand for Gloria’s backpack.

I took it and then grabbed Gloria’s hand. But except for her arm, which hung between us like a clothesline, the little girl didn’t move.

“Gloria,” I said. “Let’s go.” I gave her my patented “Don’t test me” look.

“Let me take her,” offered May, pulling Gloria’s other arm up and out. “I’m sure you have things to do.”

“No. I don’t. I’ll take her.” By now I was getting angry, and so when I pulled Gloria again, it was with a little too much force. She smacked into me and yelped. May was aghast.

But she let Gloria go and instead reached down to pick up Sam. She wasn’t giving
him
up so easily.

“I’ll take the little guy too,” I insisted, curling my hand in a “give it here” motion as if he was a piece of a contraband I’d just seen May hide behind her back. She took two hesitant steps and gave him to me, but not before wiping the drool off his mouth and smoothing down his hair.

As we walked down the hall toward the elevator, both children looked back at May with longing. It filled me with curiosity. Was Abbey van Holt too busy and important to take her own kids to school? Did they prefer May to her? I tried not to target my frustration at them, but I couldn’t help it. It hurt and, at the same time, felt
ridiculous. Two women fighting over who gets to take a little girl to school. In Grange Hill, it was the opposite: Jimmy and I always argued over who would be forced to take them, neither of us able to spare the twenty minutes it took to maneuver the kiss-and-go line.

“Go relax, May,” I said. “I can handle the kids. I
am
their mother.”

But then halfway down the hall, I had to yell back: “The stroller?”

“I called down for it,” she said, still not moving, watching.

“Right,” I said, herding the kids into the elevator.

Waiting for us downstairs in the lobby was a fancy chrome-and-red-canvas stroller with oversized all-terrain wheels. I lifted Sam and turned him around a few times before I figured out which direction he should face. There were no straps; the hammock-like seat used his own body weight, of which there was plenty, to secure him. Gloria was already to the front doors, so I gave the stroller a push. It shot forward like a hockey puck on ice, the motion lifting Sam’s soft blond hairs up like a halo.

We cruised along Walnut Street toward the intersection, Gloria skipping five feet ahead. My suburban parental instincts told me to grab Gloria’s hand, but since I had no idea where we were headed, I had no choice but to let her lead the way. After a few blocks I realized I need not have worried; she charged through the busy city streets with the focused gaze and pumping arms of a mall walker. Pedestrians moved out of her way; one couple even dropped hands and separated to let her pass.
Watch out for this one,
I thought,
she’s got the eye of the tiger. Just like her grandmother.

We dodged people and dogs, and the occasional delivery cart, until the commercial buildings gave way to residences, and the sidewalks turned from smooth and concrete to bumpy and bricked. Stately old town houses loomed over foot-softened marble steps, and carriage houses, long ago emptied of horses and coachmen, beckoned young professionals with their wide-planked doors and clay roofs.
I admired the curving iron handrails, the professionally decorated flower boxes, and the mullioned windows as Sam and I bounced along behind Gloria. I saw some equally confounding strollers heading in the same direction and figured we were close.