The One That Got Away (21 page)

“Must be Van,” I lied, pushing my bag across the floor of the car to the other side. “I’ll take him upstairs to change him really quick. You and Gloria can get started trick-or-treating.”

But when we arrived back in front of the apartment, Alex didn’t move.

“Aren’t you coming?” I asked, standing on the curb but leaning into the backseat like a high-class hooker.

“Don’t get mad, but I have to do some debate prep,” said Alex. “Frank is insisting.”

“But you promised. And Gloria has been so patient all afternoon. Can’t you just come for half an hour?”

“Abbey, don’t make me the bad guy. It’s just trick-or-treating. It’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t make me the bad guy”? Was that every husband in America’s go-to rebuttal? I was so tired of that line I wanted to send out a press release:
Attention, men of the world: If you don’t want to be made the bad guy, don’t be one.

I pulled Gloria out of the car and plopped her on the curb, unbuckled Sam, and slung him on my hip. “For the record, Halloween is the most important day of a five-year-old’s life,” I said. “It is a
really
big deal.”

“Since when do you care so much about Halloween?” he said, tossing his head back in annoyance. Then he blew out a long sigh and looked up, sheepish. “I promise I’ll make it up to them.”

“When? After Tuesday?”

But he just powered up the window and sped off.

I watched in disbelief as the Suburban disappeared around the corner. But when I saw Gloria, her expression for once anxious and unsure, I tamped down my anger and dug deep. Setting Sam down on the sidewalk, I pulled my sad little rag dolls close.

“Guys,” I said, squatting so I could look them in the eye. “Daddy had to go do some really important election stuff, so I’m going to take you trick-or-treating, okay?”

“But I want Daddy…,” whimpered Gloria.

“I know, sweetie,” I said. “And he’s really sorry. But let’s not let it ruin Halloween. Let’s go get some
major
candy, okay?”

Gloria, never one to lose focus, agreed. “Candy!” she shrieked, and ran toward the revolving door.

But it turned out that trick-or-treating in the city wasn’t as much fun as it sounded. Hitting all six apartments on the second floor, we came up with three fun-size candy bars, a dollar bill, and some cough drops. The next floor resulted in an apple, an ancient lollipop, and a confused elderly lady who kept asking if we were there to fix the faucets. The next two floors were equally disappointing. By the time we reached the fifth floor—where a young couple hosting a party offered the kids sushi and virgin pumpkin-tinis—I knew we’d had enough.

“C’mon, guys,” I told them. “Let’s get out of here.”

We went back outside, flagged a cab, and headed to the one place I was sure would be having a
real
Halloween.

As the cab wound its way past the city limits into the suburbs, I began to feel nauseous, and not just from the winding roads. There were the familiar row homes along Radnor Avenue, the orange-and-black Flyers flags, the rusty deathtrap of a trampoline on Kenmore Street, and the giant blow-up ghost on the county commissioner’s front lawn. I saw the playground where I used to take Sam, the house where our babysitter lived, and the ancient corner store where we went for hot dogs on rainy afternoons.

The sky was catching the last rays of fall sunshine, that magic hour on Halloween when children pulled their mothers away from hastily eaten dinners and dads from the six-o’clock news. When pillowcases were snatched from beds and Mom’s makeup and hairspray were raided. When photos were snapped and the sun was just beginning to touch the trees. Go time.

Grange Hill was just the way I left it. My life might have turned upside down in some unexplainable and metaphysical way, but here life remained unchanged. Like the first page of a picture book you’ve read a thousand times.

I couldn’t yet face my house, couldn’t even look in its direction, so I asked the driver to stop a few streets away. We all piled out, and I punched in a huge tip, promising the driver another if he came back in an hour and a half. The kids were wide-eyed with astonishment at the gangs of costumed kids, the large green lawns, the swing sets, and the yard decorations, some clanging, some shrieking, and some blowing strange-smelling smoke. I was wide-eyed too, looking for neighbors, friends, or other inhabitants of my former life.

But of course it wasn’t really “my former life.” In this world, no one knew me and I had never even set foot in Grange Hill. The realization made me feel sad. Anonymous. Like a ghost.

En route to the suburbs, we had stopped at Walmart on City Line Avenue, eager to ditch Raggedy Ann and Andy for some real costumes. The inventory was slim, this being Halloween night, but we clawed through the white cardboard bins and messy racks until we found what we needed. We covered Gloria’s face with white body paint, painted “bloody” drool on with lipstick, and replaced the itchy red yarn wig with a long silky black one. We even stuck candy corns on her bicuspids for fangs. The only cape we could find was adult-sized, so it dragged behind her like a coronation robe. She loved it.

There were only two costumes left in Sam’s size: Iron Man and
Merida from Disney’s
Brave
. Since he wouldn’t let me pull either of them out of his tiny fists, we bought both. He wore them with pride, not realizing he looked more like a pint-sized cross-dresser than an action hero. I got in the spirit too, topping my smooth hair, gray suit, and high heels with a flaming red cape and plastic devil horns, transforming me from candidate’s wife to hell’s receptionist. We were a motley crew, but it didn’t matter. In Grange Hill on Halloween, anything goes.

Fence by fence, walkway by walkway, and door by door, the kids filled their buckets. They ran along in gleeful abandon, their feet barely touching the ground. I walked a few steps behind them, reminding them to watch for cars and say thank you.

And the closer and closer we got to 1662 Sagamore Street the more anxious I became, as if I was about to come face-to-face with a long-lost lover. Finally we stood on my neighbor’s wide wooden porch. My heart was beating so fast, I almost turned and fled.

But before I could, Mary Anne answered the door in an enormous fluffy pink robe and crazy hair. She was always one of my favorite people in the neighborhood, and my eyes lit up when I saw her face. As she bent down to say hello to the kids and drop candy into their buckets with one hand, I saw a pink newborn hidden in the folds of her robe.

“You had your baby!” I exclaimed. “And it’s a girl!”

“Yes,” she said proudly as a tiny hand escaped the robe. “Four days ago. Her name is Elizabeth.”

“I just can’t believe it. After three boys.”

“Me neither,” she said, laughing and shaking her head, then trying to inspect our backlit faces. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“I… I used to live around here,” I said, not thinking fast enough. “My daughter used to go to Grange Hill Elementary.”

“Oh, what grade?”

“Kindergarten. Mr. Cleary.” I was digging myself deeper, but it felt so natural to say those words.

“No, Mommy. My teacher is—” corrected Gloria, but I pulled her close and she quieted.

Mary Anne stared at my face, trying to place it, then shook her head with a laugh. “I’m so sleep deprived, I can’t remember anything or anyone. I’m Mary Anne Evans. At least I think so.”

“I remember those days. I’m Abbey.” I stuck out my hand and then pulled it back, remembering her hands were full.

We both laughed, but then the baby started to fuss.

“Well, happy Halloween,” she said, stepping back into the house.

“You too,” I whispered back as I ushered the kids off her porch. I felt strangely guilty. My kind and sweet neighbor had had her baby, the little girl I knew she was dreaming of, and I wasn’t there to bake her an oversalted casserole or take the boys off her hands for an hour.

We walked out to the sidewalk and turned right. To Sam and Gloria, it was just another house. To me, the only house. Ours. Jimmy’s and mine.

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to put one foot in front of the other.

It came to me in pieces, its walls and windows appearing in glimpses behind the branches of a large pine tree. Then it came fully into view, its silvery stone chimney and speckled gray roof gleaming in the light of a newly risen moon.

I stared, taking it in. The windows were streak-free, and the trim was green, not white. A flag hung jauntily from the porch and the front walk was smooth new concrete, not slate stone. In the yard, the hedges were bushier and less manicured, and the black oak, the one that threatened to take down our porch every time the wind blew, had been cut down, its pale stump the only reminder of its former glory. And there were no flying bats, no bales of hay, and no keg of pumpkin beer. Just one leering jack-o’-lantern, its grimacing face daring us to enter.

“Let’s go,” said Gloria when I hesitated. “What are you waiting for?”

We trailed up the walk, me moving slowly behind little kid feet and dragging polyester. We neared the porch, and I stopped to help Sam up the one big step, the same way I had done a thousand times before. I lifted up Gloria so she could reach the doorbell, but she just hung there, not knowing what to do. I put her down and pushed it myself.
Brrrrrnnng.

“Oh, well. Looks like no one is home. Let’s move on.” I took Gloria’s hand but she didn’t budge.

“But they have a pumpkin. You said that means they are ‘open for business.’” She turned back to the door.

I was about to grab her arm and yank her away when we heard footsteps. The door swung open and a man in a bright green shirt, plaid golf pants, and a bushy red beard appeared before us. I don’t know who I expected to answer, but this was not him.

“Trick or treat!” sang the kids as he plopped a ring pop—one of the most coveted of all Halloween treats—into each of their monogrammed canvas bags. He gave me a smile and a hearty “Good evening!”

Even though I knew he was a stranger, and I knew he couldn’t answer me, still, when I looked up at his friendly face, I wanted to ask him how he finally fixed the chimney, why he mowed over those last few daffodils, and whether his family buried their fish and turtles under the cherry tree too. I wanted to know how long he had lived here, whom he had bought the house from, and if he knew a man named Jimmy Lahey. But mostly I wanted this nice man to explain to me why it was he—not I—who graced this doorway, who lived and laughed and loved inside.

A group of teenagers came up behind us, forcing our little trio to the side. I managed one last look, then followed Gloria out and clicked the gate behind me, knowing that you had to lift the latch at just the right angle if you wanted it to stay closed.

The rest of the evening, I moved around the neighborhood in a daze, memories ambushing me from every direction. I remembered Gloria’s first Halloween and Jimmy parading his tiny bumblebee around in a red wagon. Gloria when she was two, so proud of her sparkly shoes and princess dress that she slept in them for a week. The year Jimmy’s brother Patrick and his girlfriend of the month stopped by, him too cool for a costume but her dressed in a tiny French maid’s uniform. (The neighborhood dads lingered a little longer that year.)

And I remembered three years ago, before Sam, when I miscarried a ten-week-old baby the day before Halloween. Jimmy and I had gone through the motions of pumpkins, costumes, and candy for Gloria’s sake, but we both felt numb and fragile, as if the light October wind might blow us away. The keg of beer was there on the porch as always, but neither of us could touch it. I was the one who took Gloria out in her little wagon that year, glad that the evening clouds hid my pale face and shiny eyes. It was times like these when Jimmy and I were glad of the noise and chaos of Grange Hill; this place could hide a river of tears, an ocean of sad good-byes.

Now, moving from street to street, a stranger to everyone I passed, I saw Grange Hill as if for the first time. It was not the sitcom version of suburbia, of prom date mix-ups and Little League pop flies and moms grousing at football-obsessed fathers. It was not the movie version either, a purgatory of missed opportunities, angsty teen poets, and middle-aged malaise. It wasn’t even what my mom promised buyers in those ads of hers:
The perfect suburban oasis for young families—and retirees too!

It was just rows of houses, filled with people and their things. A place where you could make the most of it, or the worst.

In Grange Hill, it was up to you.

I
n the bathroom mirror, I watched Alex pace back and forth behind me, his face grave and his lips moving. With his navy suit, stiff cuffs, and combed hair, and me in my white silk robe luminous under the rows of lights, we looked like a scene from an old movie—his Clark Gable to my Jean Harlow. I leaned in close and finished my mascara, then applied a light coat of Chanel lip gloss. After one last look, I got up from my tufted stool. I had to wait for him to pass before I slipped across into the long closet to get dressed.

He followed me inside, still muttering to himself.

“What’s up?” I finally asked. “Do you want me to help you with some practice questions or something?”

“No, it’s not that,” he said, adjusting, then readjusting, his red tie.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s not the debate,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “It’s my dad. He’s back from Florida. Showed up at Bloemveld this morning. My mother didn’t say anything, but I could hear him in the background.”

“Oh.”

“I just don’t get it. He agreed—we agreed—he would stay away until this was over,” he said. “I’m stressed enough as it is.”

Having never met Collier, and not having any idea why his presence would be so agitating, I didn’t know how to respond. But having a renegade parent myself, I certainly sympathized. I went to Alex, grabbed his hands, and peered at him until he looked me in the eye.

“It’s going to be fine,” I said, giving his hands a little squeeze. “I promise.”

He took a deep breath and smiled, then gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. “Thanks, doll,” he said. “You better get dressed. We have to leave in forty-five minutes.”

“I can be ready in five,” I said, hurrying back to my row of clothes.

“Yeah, right,” he said, rolling his eyes. “When have you ever taken less than an hour?”

An hour to get dressed? I hadn’t even taken that long on my wedding day.

But when I tried on outfit after outfit, they wouldn’t cooperate. A wine-colored pencil skirt and matching blouse were uncomfortably snug. A second skirt, this one of thick gray wool, didn’t zip up all the way. And even the stretchy cotton dress from Diane von Furstenberg, its interlocking-circles pattern poised to disguise a multitude of sins, wouldn’t quite lay flat over my stomach.

Back in my underwear, I examined my reflection in the long mirror and realized that in just one week, I’d managed to add a few new curves—unwelcome ones—to this perfect, lithe frame. Nothing too obvious, but enough to make Abbey van Holt’s body-hugging, natural-fiber clothes a bit tight. Making a mental note to forgo May’s incredible Thai cooking and start drinking those weird green drinks I found in the fridge, I rustled around for a pair of Spanx.

I was pulling on some control-top tights, the best tummy-trimming tool I could find among the tiny bits of silk and lace Abbey van Holt called underwear, when Gloria burst in, dressed in a pink-and-black bike helmet, shiny zip-up biking shirt, and the
tiniest black bike shorts I’d ever seen. I had to stop myself from laughing when I saw her serious expression.

“I’m going for a ride,” she told me as she adjusted her helmet strap.

“Well, you’re certainly dressed for it.”

She frowned at me in annoyance, then stared wide-eyed in anticipation. I realized she expected me to retrieve her bike. From where, I had no idea.

“Can’t Daddy get it for you?”

“He’s on the phone.”

“What about May?”

“She doesn’t have the key. And besides, you said
you
are the only one allowed to go down there, remember?”

I nodded as if I did.

Finally dressed, and walking aimlessly around the basement parking garage having no idea if this was the “down there” Gloria was referring to, I searched for a bike rack. Finding none, I asked the attendant if he knew where we kept our little girl’s bike. He just shrugged, his English not very good, but then pointed toward the slope that led to a lower floor.

I walked carefully down the curving concrete into the darkest bowels of the building. It was damp and cold and eerily quiet. I couldn’t imagine why Abbey van Holt insisted she be the only one to come down. Weren’t there people to do this for her?

Among the rows of luxury cars I found a black Porsche with an “AVH 1” license plate and figured I was on the right track. A few feet in front of it, I spied what at first looked like a chain-link fence but on closer inspection revealed a storage unit. Inside was the stuff of family life: a jogging stroller, luggage, a snowboard, booster seats, and to the side, a silver bicycle with a shiny bell and training wheels. Bingo.

A small key from my ring easily unlocked the padlock; the door
swung open with a metallic creak. I stepped in and began to wrestle with Gloria’s bike when something farther back caught my eye.

It was a tall cherry dresser, one my aunt had given me when I graduated from Villanova, the first piece of grown-up furniture I ever owned. I stared at it for a while and shivered in the cold. What other remnants of Abbey DiSiano had been banished to this dungeon?

Letting go of the bike, I stepped around some oversized Christmas wreaths to reach the dresser. I ran my hands over its soft, satiny wood and touched the little dent where I’d accidentally gouged it with some nail clippers. I opened the drawers, half expecting to find them filled with clothes from my Lahey life, where we still used the dresser in our bedroom, but found them empty, save a few faded receipts and a blue hair band. In the bottom drawer, though, tucked behind a crumpled plastic bag, was a half-empty pack of Marlboro Lights.

I had never really been a smoker. Never had a real habit. But post-college, in the late nineties, when smoking hadn’t yet been banned in bars, Jules and I would sometimes buy a pack to split when we were out on the town. I opened the pack, and a whiff of tobacco took me back to those nights, the two of us sitting at the latest hipster bar we couldn’t afford to be in, nursing our one sticky-sweet cosmopolitan for hours and thinking we were the height of urban sophistication.

As I went to put the cigarettes back in their hiding spot, I noticed that tucked under the plastic wrap was a book of matches marked “Sushi RX.” I tried to picture Jules and myself at the place but couldn’t. Then I realized that was because Sushi RX was new; it had opened just a few months ago. But if these cigarettes were recent, who had put them here?

I looked down to find a narrow path between the stacked boxes and followed it to the back of the unit. There, someone had arranged a box of old vinyl albums as a seat and a plastic tub as a kind of coffee table. On the floor was a Snapple bottle, half-filled with water
and cigarette butts, and beside it was an empty bag of Herr’s sour cream and onion potato chips—my favorite.

Apparently Abbey van Holt’s favorite too.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. It was spooky; I could almost sense her presence. It made me feel like I was trespassing. But when I sat down, the little nook was cozy and quiet, like the blanket forts I used to build as a child.

The lid of the plastic tub was askew, so I lifted it off. Inside was a mess of papers, photographs, and manila envelopes. A copy of a lease for a junior one-bedroom apartment, effective November 1998. Some old photos of Roberta and me at an amusement park in Ocean City. My college diploma. A letter of recommendation from Sharon and Barbara, the ladies who had owned Salmon & Sisley, the firm I worked at when I met Alex.

I was about to close the lid when my eyes landed on a newspaper article folded carefully and slipped inside a clear plastic protector. I took it out to find it was from an October 2003
Philadelphia Business Journal
, its paper softened from age but its type still bright and clear, thanks to the well-sponsored weekly’s thick white newsprint. On the front page, below the fold, was a headline: “Ones to Watch: DSX Agency Launches Strong with Six Clients.”

I read a few paragraphs and then my eyes jumped to the accompanying photo. In it, Jules and I were standing in front the same office door I had visited earlier this week, except instead of one large pink X, there were two others letters before it: D and S. Jules wore an uncharacteristically conservative suit with her wild red curls, but she looked pretty. And happy. I looked happy too. And with good reason: According to this article, just a few weeks after hanging out our shingle, our little agency was killing it.

It was hard to believe that this article was all that was left of that partnership. And the friendship.

Judging from the softness of the paper, and the worn creases that indicated it had been unfolded and folded often, it seemed Abbey van Holt couldn’t believe it either.

I realized then that was why she had insisted that she be the one to come down here. The little nook, and all that it held, certainly wasn’t glamorous, but it was all hers. And it served a purpose.

Down here—many floors below her life as a society maven and political wife—she was free. No cameras; no catty friends; no in-laws. Unobserved, she could steal away to eat her favorite chips, smoke illicit cigarettes, and riffle through old photos and articles.

And just for a few moments, remember who she used to be.

Today’s debate was being held in the auditorium of Walter Wilson Community College, a school about twelve blocks south of Rittenhouse Square. The row homes surrounding the city campus were small and covered in siding or faux stone, their bay windows decorated with plastic flowers and statues of the Virgin Mary. The businesses I saw looked small and family owned: plumbers, salons, and attorneys specializing in DUIs and divorces.

The community college, endowed by a wealthy Philadelphia widow and built just six months earlier, was a bright spot in the neighborhood. Its facade was a mix of glass and artfully slanted steel, circled by saplings tied down with yellow string. Though the houses around it seemed to sigh in jealousy, their roofs and balconies sloping sadly toward the street, the residents stood up straighter as they walked by. It was one reason why this debate was important; it was the first one ever held this far into southwest Philadelphia.

Local debates didn’t generally have much impact on congressional elections, and yet according to Frank, if a candidate was asked to participate, he or she had better accept—or risk looking like he
or she had something to hide. And the candidate had better take it seriously, because even though few voters watched, the press would cherry-pick the best and worst sound bites to play over and over again on the local news, if only for the next twenty-four hours.

As a public relations professional, I knew that ninety-nine percent of the questions would be routine. But those weren’t the ones you prepared for. You prepared for that one percent. No wonder Alex, sitting onstage beside his opponent, looked a bit pale.

Amanda Bullock was in her early sixties, with silver bobbed hair and a sweet expression that belied her booming voice, deep intellect, and biting wit. Next to her, my husband looked more like a young legal clerk than a political rival. I knew Alex preferred to stand, and I wished the two candidates would face off at podiums instead of seated at a table draped in ugly maroon polyester. And worse, with the new building’s thermostat set to a perfect sixty-eight degrees, Alex had no reason to take off his jacket and roll up his sleeves.

Soon the lights flicked on and off to quiet the audience. The news cameras lifted and turned toward the stage. The moderator, the lead anchor from our local PBS affiliate, welcomed everyone and, seconds later, lobbed her first question.

“Thanks, Trudy,” said Alex with a smile. “And thank you, Judge Bullock, students, and everyone else for coming today and giving up your Saturday morning.” He paused a beat, turned more serious, and continued: “I’m glad you asked that question, because jobs are the most important issue in this election…”

Watching Alex field questions with ease and confidence, I was glad it was him up there and not me. Even though I had spent countless hours helping clients learn to deftly deflect unwanted questions, politely say “no comment,” and know when to go for the jugular, public speaking was not something I relished. I was a classic example of the shoemaker with the shoeless children: I could teach anyone
how to ace an interview, but when the cameras turned on me, I either froze or, worse, acted manic, like an infomercial hostess on uppers.

For the better part of an hour, Alex and Amanda debated the finer points of the tax code, economic recovery, teen pregnancy, college scholarships, speed limits, prescription discounts, recycling… even the fiber content of school lunches. I sat beside Amanda’s partner, Lori, who, like me, nodded and clapped at the appropriate times. The debate never got ugly, but a few times, I could tell Amanda was getting under Alex’s skin, especially when she mentioned his family’s money.

I wondered if Alex wished he had been the son of a teacher or a carpenter, or even an ex-con. Voters loved rags-to-riches stories; Jimmy and Miles always had. In fact, I was sure Miles had been at yesterday’s rally for Senator Blandon, not Alex.

And what about Jimmy? Would he vote for Alex? He usually hated “trust-funders,” nepotism, and anyone who tried to “game the system.” He hated country clubs, made fun of his older brother John’s BMW, and even refused to wear the Polo shirt I bought him the first Christmas we were together.

Not that my life with Jimmy had been one of constant deprivation. In fact, Lahey Landscape & Design proved to be profitable from the start. Nothing at all like what Alex had, but a steady monthly income that kept our little trio in turkey bacon, Netflix, and eco-friendly lightbulbs.

Jimmy might have been surprised by Lahey Landscape’s success, but I wasn’t. He was a born entrepreneur. He had the small business owner’s instinct for thrift, but enough of a dreamer’s bold thinking to take chances. Clients loved him, taking his design advice, giving referrals, and gladly parting with another two hundred dollars when a project went over budget. He was also a perfectionist, personally inspecting every lawn and requiring his employees to wash their shirts, and their trucks, every night.