The One That Got Away by Leigh Himes Page A

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 thebright 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 ploppedhim 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