The One That Got Away (4 page)

“What’s up?” I whispered.

“Can you tell me what is a ‘bucket bag’ and why the hell is it
five hundred and ninety-eight dollars?” he asked, half-laughing, half-serious. “I’m really hoping it’s some sort of marketing stunt that you’ll be reimbursed for.”

“First of all, I’m in PR, not marketing, and second of all, it’s none of your concern,” I said, attempting to grab the envelope.

He held it out of reach, knowing I was trapped by hot tea on a lumpy bed. He stared at me until I confessed.

“It’s a purse, okay? I bought it a couple weeks ago.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I was having a bad day. And I guess it caught me in a weak moment.”

“So you spent six hundred dollars on a purse? That’s crazy.”

“No, it’s not. Lots of women I know carry purses
way
more expensive.”
And those women don’t work half as hard as me
, I wanted to add but didn’t. We glared at each other.

“Abbey, you know we can’t afford it.” He sighed and looked away. “God, why do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Make me the bad guy.”

“You’re not the bad guy; obviously I am for wanting to spend
my
money on something for me.”

“
Your
money?” he whisper-shouted. “How come when you make money, it’s yours, but when I make it, it’s ours? That’s not fair.”

What’s not fair is that you’re not making any money at all
, I wanted to scream back.
You sit in your office just waiting for the phone to ring or drinking at your brother’s bar, while I run myself ragged with work, the kids, the house, and the four thousand other responsibilities that somehow got dumped on me when I married you.

But instead, too tired to fight any longer, I told him, “I’ll take it back.”

“Tomorrow.” He threw the envelope down in front of me, his
brown eyes almost black with anger, and walked out, the creaking floorboards underscoring his rage.

I picked up the bill and attempted to toss it back at him, but its pages separated and fluttered back down into my lap, mocking me. I shoved them onto the floor, set aside my mug, then flopped back onto my pillows.

I should have gotten up and brushed my teeth and wiped the mascara off my eyes. But I didn’t care. I turned off the light and curled up under the bedspread, the bitter taste of tea still on my lips.

The next morning I made Jimmy watch the kids while I headed straight for Nordstrom. I was dreading it, knowing the saleslady would take one look at my fake Uggs and even faker diamond studs and give me that “we both know you shouldn’t even be in here” look. As I turned onto Route 1 toward the City Line Mall, I found myself thinking of that photo of Alex van Holt in
Town & Country.
What was his Saturday morning like? Was he married? Did he have kids? Had he ever thought about me again after that day?

At a stoplight, I pulled up behind a smooth navy BMW, its glossy windows hiding the glossy family inside, and wondered why the choices you make when you are young don’t ever seem to matter until you’re too old to go back and fix them. Or too tired to even try. I was a thirty-seven-year-old woman who had worked full-time her entire adult life, yet I belonged wholly to other people—my kids, my husband, my boss, my clients, even my mother. My daybook was filled with grocery lists, half-written press releases, dry-cleaning receipts, appointment reminders, overdue cable bills, and a prescription for something my vet swore would heal those spots on the dog’s back.

And I wasn’t even allowed a designer bag to carry it all in.

So it was with a mix of irritation, anger, and self-pity that I walked into the busy first floor of Nordstrom and onto the escalator, feeling exposed and vulnerable, not just from the Betsy/Ellen run-in, but from the department store’s overly bright lights. Clomping up the moving steps and muttering to myself, my hands occupied with an umbrella and coffee and bags and boxes, my heart beat fast and my body felt strangely unsteady. As the first-floor accessories receded, I lost my footing—and my balance.

What happened next was so fast, there was no time for me to be truly terrified, and I must have looked to others as if I was performing some strangely choreographed high dive. I swooned backward, my hands windmilling, as coffee flew upward in a thick arc. I tried to connect to the railing but overcompensated, so when I turned toward it, I hit it like a gymnast on the uneven bars, flipping over easily. Together with the umbrella, my old purse, and the silver box, my body twisted downward.

A second later, my head hit the Nordstrom piano bench and then smacked the floor, a one-two punch of the most unforgiving wood and marble. I saw the red purse free itself from its box, then skid away on its little gold feet.

And then I smelled roses and heard a few bars of a classical tune, the overly sweet scent and dramatic music making the whole incident seem all the more ridiculous.

I
woke to the soft, repetitive drip of an IV machine in an otherwise still and silent room. As my eyes opened and began to focus, I saw spotless cream paint on smooth walls, the warm glow of a crystal lamp on a walnut dresser, and a small silver frame with “No Smoking” stenciled in calligraphy. Also on the dresser—and strangely out of place in this perfectly curated room: a blue plastic pitcher of water and some gauze.

I lifted my head, then shut my eyes and grimaced. It felt like someone had hit me with a hammer, leaving a pulsing ache above my right ear. I reached up and gently touched the spot, expecting to find matted blood and a gaping wound, but felt only smooth hair over a slight lump.

I took a few deep breaths, and when the pain subsided, or I adjusted to it, I took another look around. And better understood. I was lying in a bed, in a hospital. But not one of the shared and shabby rooms in Delaware County Memorial, where I had given birth to my children. Here, there were tasteful watercolors on the walls; a flat-screen TV; a private, en suite bath; and beside me on another pretty mahogany table, an obscenely large bouquet of
peonies. Eyeing the explosion of pink petals, I became scared. Just how long had I been here? And how badly was I hurt? The only way Jimmy would spend more than $12.99 on flowers was if something was
really
wrong.

Oh my God, I’m paralyzed. I’m permanently disfigured. Or worse, I’m bleeding internally and have only days to live. I’ll be the first person in history to die from shopping… how humiliating.

But then, before my racing heart could accelerate into a full-blown panic attack, in walked the most gorgeous doctor I’d ever seen, all straight teeth and bright eyes and strong shoulders, smiling at me like I was Marilyn Monroe back from the dead. He wore a beautiful suit, not scrubs, so I wondered if his shift was ending and he was heading out for a meeting or for dinner. If it was a date, she was one lucky lady.

“You’re awake!” he said as he moved alongside my bed, grabbing my hand. “Sorry, I wanted to be here when you opened your eyes.”

Wow, this hospital keeps getting better and better,
I thought, staring up at the man. Then, slowly, as if he were a blurry photo coming into focus, I recognized the hair, the jaw, and the face from the magazine. His eyes, then dulled by the limitations of print, were sparkling and intense in reality. What a weird coincidence after all these years. I had no idea that Alex van Holt had planned to go to medical school.

“What happened to me, Doctor?” I asked, hoping he didn’t recognize me.

“Doctor?” He smiled adorably. “That’s a new one.” He laughed for a moment but then turned serious as he registered I wasn’t joking.

“It’s me, doll,” he said quietly. “Alex.”

“Yes, I know,” I said, attempting to smile. “Small world, huh?”

His concern only intensified as I babbled, “Why am I here? What happened? And where is my husband? Did anyone call Jimmy?”

His eyes got wider, and he squeezed my hand. “What do you mean?
I’m
your husband.”

I blinked at him, confused.

“Don’t you recognize me?” he continued. “We’ve only been married for ten years.”

I moved my eyes up and down, taking in his anxious expression, his warm hands, his thick silver Rolex, his thin gold wedding band. I figured I must have been dreaming, so I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, expecting to open them and see Jimmy’s tattered baseball cap and five-o’clock shadow.

“You’re in the hospital. You had a fall while you were shopping. The doctors say you are going to be just fine. No permanent damage. Nothing but superficial bruises, really.”

I opened my eyes again. He was still there. I snatched my hand from his and pulled down the sheets, looking for the nurse’s call button. I started to get out of bed, but with the sudden movement came a rush to my head that sent me reeling back toward the pillows.

The handsome nutjob claiming to be my husband started shouting to the nurse’s station, and in rushed two women clad in scrubs the same tasteful color as the walls, urging me to be still. “Mrs. van Holt, please lie back!” Their warm hands gently but insistently held me down.

The older nurse began to speak loudly and slowly: “Mrs. van Holt, Abigail, you’ve been in an accident. You’re going to be fine but you must calm down. You’ve suffered a head injury and we want you to be still…”

I kept thrashing, trying to get up, looking around wildly for my family. And then I felt a prick in my arm, warmth rush over my body, and a heaviness in my head.

As I drifted away from them, I heard the words “my wife” and “Mrs. van Holt” several more times.

“But, I’m not…,” I said, fighting to hold on to consciousness. “I’m not…”

And then I was sinking into a pharmaceutically induced sleep the same deep blue as the eyes of the man beside me.

When I woke again it was dusk, the setting sun turning the walls orangey pink. No one else was in the hospital room, so I had a chance to take it all in and—and think.

What the hell was going on? If this was a dream, when would I wake up? I eased myself up on my elbows by degrees, waiting for the pain to subside, until I was sitting up. I kicked off the thick sheets and swung my legs around until they hung off the bed like overcooked spaghetti. The top of one knee had an angry black-and-purple bruise, fortunately more ugly than painful.

I heard a male voice in the hall, and I strained to hear—

“The doctor says it is not unusual for someone with head trauma to experience confusion… We’re canceling St. Joe’s and KYW; let’s see what happens tomorrow… Well, yes, Mother, I am concerned about the press… kids okay?… No. Yes. Okay. Ciao.”

Was he talking about me? My kids?
Our
kids? And why was he concerned about the press? And what kind of a man calls his mom “Mother”? Or says “ciao”?

I was still pondering, my brow quizzical, when he appeared in the doorway. Even more handsome than when I’d last seen him, if that was even possible.

“You’re up. Are you feeling better?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Does your head hurt?”

“Not as much.”

“Do you recognize me?”

“Yes. You’re Alexander van Holt. We met years ago,” I told him. Then I smiled and asked, “Did Jules put you up to this? How did she find you?”

This time when his blue eyes looked into mine, I saw tears.

That night, thanks to another shot from a nurse, I slept deeply and dreamlessly from nine at night until eight the next morning. When I woke, I was still confused and anxious, but the throbbing in my head had quieted. In fact, I felt better and more rested than I had in months, miraculously caught up on five years of lost sleep.

With no one in the room and no sound from the hallway, I decided to have a look around. Clad in fuzzy hospital socks and wheeling my IV pole around with me like a dance partner, I tiptoed around the room. I read the cards on the flowers and balloons, all addressed to “Abbey van Holt.” I looked at the clipboard hanging from the foot of the bed and learned I had been admitted on Saturday, the twenty-fifth of October, at ten thirty-five in the morning.

I found some clothes in the closet that definitely didn’t belong to me: Rag & Bone boots, Current/Elliot skinny jeans, a J.Crew T-shirt, and a yummy cream sweater from Theory. In the pocket of the jeans was some cash and an appointment card for a facial at Bellevue Salon & Spa. The appointment was for Saturday at two o’clock. Guess I missed that one.

On the back of a chair near the door hung a man’s size forty-two long black cashmere sports coat, presumably Alex’s. I patted down the pockets and found an iPhone. I slid it on, but it was locked. I slipped it back into the breast pocket, jiggling the fabric. I heard something clang the metal arm of the chair. I reached into the lower inside pocket and found a BlackBerry. Unlocked.

Van Holt for Congress? Election? Events? The man claiming to be my husband was also running for office. And apparently that made me, and my retail swan dive, front-page news. Before I could read further, I heard footsteps approaching.

I quickly shoved the BlackBerry back in its pocket and then dragged the IV pole back to the bed. I was just smoothing the sheets over my legs and catching my breath when two little children came running toward me in a blur of navy blue and white.

“Mommy,” they cried as they flung themselves at the bed.

There they were—my children. Gloria’s hair was a little darker, a little thicker, and her eyes were blue, not brown. Sam was just as cute and pudgy, but with a tiny cleft in his chin and close-cropped hair, not his usual dark blond ringlets. And yet, despite these differences, it was still them, all shiny cheeks, bright eyes, and unbridled enthusiasm. They stretched their tiny arms across the hospital bed, with Sam’s little fingers just barely reaching my thighs. I pulled them both up on top of the bed and breathed them in.

“Whoa, whoa,” said Alex from the doorway. “Let’s not hurt Mommy.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m fine, really.”

After hugs and kisses and giggles and testing out the nurse’s call button forty times, they plopped back down with double slaps of leather-soled shoes, eager to inspect the room’s bounty of balloons. Their clothes were neat, their faces jelly-free, and their voices low. Even Sam’s cowlick was behaving.

Alex looked relieved. “So you remember them?” he asked quietly. “How about me?”

I knew that I would never get out of there and find out what was really going on if I kept on about Jimmy. “Of course,” I told him with a smile. “You’re my husband, these are our kids, and I had
some sort of an accident. But I feel fine now.” I gave him a little jazz-hands maneuver for emphasis.

“Are you sure? Yesterday you insisted you were married to someone named Jimmy.”

“I did? That’s funny,” I said, trying to act natural. Then I put my hand over my mouth as if to whisper and added, “They must have way overserved me.” He didn’t laugh, just continued to stare, so I told him again, “I promise you I feel fine.” And I wasn’t lying about this; I really did feel pretty good.

I looked up and around the room, then back at him. “Can we get out of here?”

Finally he smiled, and I couldn’t help but smile back. I had no idea how this happened, or what was going on. But I also knew that I wasn’t going to figure things out from the confines of this hospital room. Or on lockdown in a mental ward.

I needed to be there for my kids, who obviously had no problem with the new me or the new Daddy. I also figured that if this was a dream or an out-of-body experience or temporary insanity, I might as well enjoy it. And him.

Since I had no dizziness, nausea, or double vision, and since there was no swelling or bleeding detected by the CAT scan that Alex had insisted upon, the hospital had to let me go. I signed oceans of paperwork with a smile, promised to be more careful, and, following hospital protocol, even relented and used a wheelchair. After a ride across town in a huge black Suburban with tinted windows and a quick trip up a wood-paneled elevator, I found myself rolling along the top floor of an ornate mid-rise condo on Philadelphia’s exclusive Rittenhouse Square. Because I was being pushed by a tall
black man named Oscar, whose warm smile and joking attitude clashed with his secret service–style suit and sunglasses, and whom the kids knew well enough to call “Big O,” no one could tell I didn’t know which door was mine. But then again, on this entire floor, there were only two to choose from.

Alex let Gloria and her jumble of balloons walk ahead, while Sam rolled along with me, perched proudly on my lap. It seemed like an excruciatingly long roll, but eventually we made it to the door marked with a cursive “Twelve,” which Alex pushed open without a key. On the other side was a living room the size of a Banana Republic.

Two lacquered consoles lined the short entryway that led to an open-plan living and dining area decorated in various shades of cream and white. In the center, wide beige velvet couches flanked a low glass-and-metal table perched on a soft white carpet. On one wall, a built-in bookshelf housed decorative bowls, gold Buddha heads, and oversized books, and to the right, a long polished-wood dining table gleamed under the largest drum shade I’d ever seen. The walls were filled with large canvases of modern paintings, some with just a few smears of color, some antique-looking mirrors, and, in the dining room, a massive black-and-white photograph of sheep. It was the kind of effortlessly elegant look that only the very rich could pull off.

I lifted Sam off my lap and stood shakily. I began to walk around the room as if in a trance. I ran my fingers down the glossy dining table and felt the soft cashmere throw on the sofa. I breathed in the faintly lemony smell of all-natural cleaner mixed with orchids in full bloom. Moving to the windows, I pushed aside the filmy sheer curtains and looked down at the tops of the trees, their leaves just beginning to turn yellow and red, that filled the square. Between the branches, I could make out the fountains, the strollers, the wrought-iron benches, and the large bronze statues. I could also see people moving around like windup dolls, walking straight, then
turning, then disappearing from view. They moved in ordinary clothes toward ordinary jobs and ordinary houses, oblivious to the luxurious paradise that floated just twelve floors above.