The One That Got Away (8 page)

Alex yelled—“John Henry! Malcolm! Rex!”—and rushed over, then pulled the dogs away with hard tugs at their collars. Then I was up and in his arms as he carried me and my broken shoe across the room like a bride. From over his shoulder, I saw everyone I’d just met gawking, their mouths open and motionless. Even Mirabelle stared, her mask of gentility replaced with one of confusion. And perhaps a flicker of irritation.

Only when we reached the front door did Alex stop, pausing to look into my eyes and ask if I was okay, his brow wrinkled in concern, then cursing Aubyn for not putting those “damn dogs of hers” outside. He looked so worried about me—and angry at her—that if I hadn’t already been in his arms, I would have swooned.

It wasn’t until after he’d helped me into the back of the Suburban, after he’d closed the door and rapped on the roof, signaling Oscar to go, and after we’d pulled out of the circular drive and onto the winding road that would lead us back to the expressway that it occurred to me why Aubyn’s dogs had attacked me.

Those hadn’t been stale crackers in that fancy silver dish. They were dog biscuits.

T
he next morning, I opened my eyes expecting to see my red-numbered alarm clock, a basket of unfolded laundry, and Jimmy’s pajamas strewn across the floor but was met by the bright white order of the van Holt household. I sat up with a jolt.

Beside me were an empty pillow and rumpled bedsheets, Alex already up and on the campaign trail. I wasn’t sorry to be alone, though, needing time to process another day in this strange world, this pretty fishbowl I couldn’t swim out of. I took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm the rising panic and the sudden desire to run out of the apartment screaming. My mother always told me there’s a solution to every problem if you just looked hard enough. It was time for me to do some looking.

I got out of the bed and stretched, then froze as I heard a child’s voice: “
Maman,
” it said. “Van
se lève.
”

I spun around and saw Gloria, her curls dark against a light pink nightgown.

“What did you say?” I asked. My own silk nightgown swished around my shins as I walked toward her for my morning hug.

“Van
se lève,
” she repeated. “
Allez le chercher.
”

“You speak French!”

“
Mais oui, Maman.
”

“That’s so cool. Unbelievable, actually.”

“Does that mean you want me to speak English?”

“Sure.”

“Good. ’Cause I want Froot Loops for breakfast and I don’t know how to say that
en français
.”

I laughed, then pulled her close. Her hair didn’t have the touches of auburn I remembered, and her upper lip was more smoothed out, not pointed like Jimmy’s Cupid’s bow. She smelled different, too, less syrupy and more astringent, like she had bathed in lemon water. But it was still Gloria. Funny, smart, passionate, sometimes pain-in-the-ass Gloria.

I stood up, looked around, and then asked her: “Where’s your brother?”

“In his crib.”

I checked the time—seven thirty—and thought it seemed late for my early bird Sam. Who knew how long he’d been up, his room so far from mine? I squatted and put my hands behind me for Gloria to jump on.

“C’mon,” I said. “Don’t you want a ride?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you want a piggyback ride?”

“A what?” she said, confused.

I reached back and pulled her tiny body toward me, then grabbed her hands and laid them over my shoulders. She timidly wrapped her legs around my waist, and up we went in a swoosh of nightgowns and little-girl laughter. Her body was as light as a bird’s, like always. Apparently intrauterine growth restriction knew all zip codes, even the posh ones.

We traversed the apartment like two adventurers, searching for a lost toddler somewhere in this elegant jungle. We avoided the
bright light streaming through the windows, the two of us happy to be alone, undiscovered, in the dark hallway. I loved feeling Gloria’s warm breath on the nape of my neck and her lungs moving up and down against my back. As always, she made me feel more alive. While Sam tied me to the moment with his simple toddler needs, Gloria freed me, her energy electrifying.

Past the living room and down the long hallway, I heard Sam—I mean Van—making morning noises. We followed the sound of singsong babbles and finally found him pitching handmade velour animals out of a boxy white crib. The room was sizable, a definite upgrade from the windowless closet. It was painted light gray with matching striped curtains, and its decor was punctuated with pops of color: a modern orange rocker, a round green leather stool, and a rainbow of ceramic animals on arty steel shelves. Taking up one corner of the room was a large red-and-blue wooden sailboat with “SS
Alexander
” painted on the stern. And above his crib, echoing the colors of the room, were eight-inch letters spelling “AVH IV.” I puzzled at them until I realized they weren’t a code, but my son’s initials. To the van Holts, Sam was more than a little boy; he was an heir.

I picked him up, kissed his big blond head, and spoke my usual greeting: “Good morning, Mr. Magoo.”

“Who’s Mr. Magoo?” asked Gloria as she climbed onto Sam’s rocker.

“Daddy nicknamed him that ’cause it was
his
father’s favorite cartoon…” I stopped myself mid-sentence, remembering I was talking about Jimmy’s father, not Alex’s.

“Grandpa Collie watches cartoons?” she asked incredulously.

“Well, not very often,” I replied, trying to cover. I paused for a second, more curious than ever about Alex’s father.

I lifted Sam out of his crib and laid him on the matching changing table, then started unsnapping. I diapered him quickly and plopped
him down on the circular rug. He toddled over to his sister, now standing on the arms of the chair, balancing her small frame like a surfer. I watched her move back and forth with ease, and it suddenly struck me that her nightgown was dry.

“Glo, you’re dry,” I said, swooping her off the chair and kissing her. “Good job, sweetie!”

“Well, of course, Mommy. I have my diaper on,” she said matter-of-factly.

I set her down on the rug and peeked under her nightgown. Sure enough, she was wearing a diaper, and it was soaked.
Who puts a diaper on an almost-six-year-old?
And not even a Pull-Up, but an actual diaper, and from the looks of it, maybe even one of Sam’s! I let the nightgown drop and stood there dumbfounded. Then I realized that “someone” was me.

“Let’s take that off and get some panties,” I said, leading both kids by the hands.

We made our way out of the nursery and across the hall to Gloria’s room, a little girl’s paradise in pink. I was rooting around in the top drawer of a white dresser when a small Asian woman popped into view from behind the canopied bed.

“Good morning, Mrs. van Holt,” she said flatly as she picked up a hamper that was almost as big as she was. “Just getting the laundry.”

“Oh… okay… great,” I said, catching my breath and trying to act nonchalant. “I’ll just get the kids their breakfast, then.”

“It’s ready,” she told me.

“Oh?”

“In the stove.”

“Right.”

“Feeling better, Mrs. van Holt?”

“Yes, much better, thanks.”

“You going back to bed?”

“No.”
Why would I go back to bed?
“I need to get the kids ready for school. It’s late.”

She raised an eyebrow: Clearly this was out of character. I gently dropped Sam to the ground, then held out a pair of panties to Gloria. I watched her pull up her nightgown, rip apart the taped sides of her diaper, let it hit the carpet with a thud, and walk away. Two seconds later, the little Asian woman swooped the diaper up and headed toward the door. “Thank you, Miss Gloria,” she said. As I watched my daughter ignore her, my face flushed with shame.

“Breakfast, you two,” I said sternly, then corralled them toward the door. I would talk to Gloria about her attitude later. But for now, I was anxious to get them busy with cereal so I could look for a computer or iPad or anything with an Internet connection. I wasn’t sure if there would be any chat rooms for women who wake up married to men they met briefly fourteen years earlier, but it was worth a search.

In the bright kitchen a massive rectangular island gleamed, its marble face like a giant block of streaky blue cheese, marred only where the stainless steel sink had taken a bite. Against the far wall was an eight-burner Viking cooktop, a swath of white subway tile, a chrome pot filler, and four—
yes, four!
—built-in ovens. Elsewhere, the walls held floor-to-ceiling white cabinets that were almost indistinguishable from one another. Large streak-free windows flooded the room in light, so there was no need to flip on any switches. Which was good considering I couldn’t find them, the walls offering nothing but immaculate white paint, so clean it looked like freshly poured milk.

As Gloria scaled a white-leather-and-chrome barstool, I plopped Sam into a pedestaled high chair and snapped him in. I turned to search for the promised breakfast, but even after strolling around the island a few times, I couldn’t find anything. I would have missed the food entirely if I hadn’t felt warmth coming from one of the ovens. Actually, not an oven, more like a drawer. I pulled it open to find two
perfectly plated breakfasts, including scrambled eggs, oatmeal, both bacon and sausage, and sliced strawberry garnish. I took out the plates, warm but not hot, and set one in front of each child. I then picked up napkins, forks, and two sippy cups I found beside the sink and pushed them over. I tied a monogrammed bib around Sam’s neck.

Now I just needed something for me. Perhaps just some juice. And coffee. Surely Abigail van Holt hadn’t given up coffee along with all the junk food?

I turned back and looked for the fridge. Nothing. The other side? Nada. I peeked in a closet, but it housed only crackers, pineapples, fitness bars, and champagne. I tried to open one of the cabinets but couldn’t find a handle. I ran my hands over the edges, looking for an opening. I used my foot underneath, looked on the wall for a button or switch. I even wrestled a fork into the seam, but the damn cabinets wouldn’t budge. Sweat was starting to bead on my forehead when I heard Gloria plop down and pad over. She reached up and pressed her tiny fingers against a spot about two-thirds up on a cabinet door. It popped open with a soft
pffft
.

“I said I wanted Froot Loops,” she said, rolling her eyes at me and reaching for the large red box.

Well, of course. Why should anyone be bothered with something as pedestrian as a handle? I quickly popped open the rest of the cabinets, locating a hidden fridge, a separate freezer, dishes, serving platters, stacks of linens, and shelves alternating with boxed, canned, and foil-packaged food. But still no coffeemaker.

I was still looking for it when I heard a quick buzzing noise, like an intercom. Sam and Gloria both looked to a panel on the wall, so my eyes followed theirs. I found a control panel, touched a button, and heard someone talking.

“Mrs. van Holt?”

“Yes?” My too-loud voice reverberated around the room.

“There is someone here for you. A Mr. Cowan-Smith from Nordstrom. Shall I send him up?”

Nordstrom? Perhaps this person might know something. “Yes! Absolutely! Send him up.”

“Very good.”

I looked back at the kids, then rushed toward the front door and flung it open. Eventually, I heard the elevator ding and watched as a nicely dressed middle-aged man holding some large shopping bags marched toward me.

“Mrs. van Holt?” he asked in a posh British accent. “I’m from Nordstrom. I’m here to return some items from when you, ahem, when you had the unfortunate accident.”

“Hello!” I said, stepping back and letting him inside. He was the very definition of distinguished older gentleman, with silver hair, rimless glasses, and a brown glen plaid suit with folded navy pocket square.

I noticed he looked everywhere but at me and that he didn’t put down the large silver bags until I motioned toward the hall table. As I moved my arm to point, I felt my heavy breasts jiggle under the thin fabric and realized why he averted his gaze. I crossed my arms over my chest, embarrassed.

“Madame, everyone at the company is very concerned,” he began. “And I can assure you we are doing everything we can to investigate the incident. We take the safety of our guests very seriously.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “I’m such a klutz. I just remember going up very fast, and feeling woozy, and the piano music…”

“But thankfully you seem to be no worse for wear,” he said amiably. “It is good to see you up and about.”

He pointed to the first bag, which held a large box, and then another filled with some smaller bags and clothes. “This is your alteration, and these are some of your things that didn’t make it into
the ambulance. We tried to get them to you at the hospital, but they told us you had been discharged.”

“Thank you so much,” I said, eager to find what clues the bags might hold. “I appreciate you hand delivering them. How thoughtful.”

“It’s the least we can do for
you
, Mrs. van Holt,” he replied. “And please remember, if there is anything you need, please don’t hesitate to call.”

He bowed his head slightly and handed me a business card. I took it and quickly recrossed my arms. I was hoping he might stay and answer some questions, but when I looked up he was back out the door. I ran after him in my bare feet, my arms still clamped across my chest.

“Sir, can I ask you something?” I asked as he neared the elevator.

“Of course.”

“Did you see me fall?”

“No. But I did view the security tape. Looks like you were just juggling some bags and coffee and… well… muttering to yourself. Then you lost your balance and fell.”

“But did you notice anything else? Like a loud noise? Or a bright light?” I cringed at how ridiculous I sounded.

“No. Nothing like that,” he said, confused. “The escalators were fully operational. They had just been inspected last week.”

“Sure. Of course. But I don’t mean anything weird with the escalators. I mean anything out of the ordinary?”

“No. It all seemed perfectly normal. Just you shopping. Like you do every week.” Every week? No wonder my closet held Nordstrom’s entire fall/winter collection.

He looked at me with a sympathetic smile and asked if I need anything else.

I shook my head, defeated. He stepped into the elevator and turned around, taking in my unbrushed hair and bare feet.

“Good luck to you, Mrs. van Holt,” he added with a note of
fatherly concern. “We hope to see you back very soon. We so appreciate our special customers.” The door slid closed and he was gone.

I looked down at the business card he had given me. Listed below the gold Nordstrom logo was his full name—Mr. Bingham R. Cowan-Smith—and his title: Executive Vice President of Nordstrom Mid-Atlantic.

Pretty special, indeed.

I watched as the little Asian lady, name still unknown, dressed Gloria in a maroon-and-khaki Saint Andrew’s School uniform, then sent her and her plaid backpack off with Oscar. Next, she insisted on taking Sam for one of his two daily walks. I tried to figure out her name, but all I could tell about her was that she liked Drexel University basketball, the team’s dragon mascot visible through her white housekeeper’s uniform. I kept catching her looking at me suspiciously as I loitered around her and the kids. She made me feel like a nuisance, as if she was the mother and I was a visiting in-law trying to help but really just getting in the way.