The Big Bang

by Linda Joffe Hull

I thought I saw her feeding one to Frank.

  They were high as kites, all of them.

  She’d looked straight ahead, not daring to look at anyone who might have provided or partaken, or, God forbid, Jane Hunt, Tess Miller, or anyone else she’d practically force-fed a brownie. While Frank diffused tension by waxing eloquent on temptation, intentional and otherwise, she’d spent the hour trying to forgive herself for her unintentional, but no less mortifying, gaffe.

  The week’s library job openings somehow only served as a reminder.

  Part-Time Barista—Branch Coffee Carts Multiple Locations (15 hours).

  Job description includes preparing beverages, sandwiches, and baked goods.

  Her stomach clenched with the thought of what she’d unknowingly ingested, then eaten in the aftermath.

  Circulation Security Clerk—Pauline Robinson Branch library (30 hours).

  After Frank’s sermon, no one dared mention anything in the social hall beyond the usual and expected great party or some slightly more telling variation along the lines of good times were had by all. The what-can-you-do-shrugs that followed said enough.

  If Frank hadn’t been so downright clear-headed, she wouldn’t have made it to the safety of their car before bursting into tears.

  “No need to feel shame when it wasn’t your fault.”

  He was right, of course, and everyone did get home without incident and no real damage seemed to have been done. Still, she couldn’t help but draw comfort in the fact he lay awake beside her the last few nights, dozing off just before her, an hour or so before dawn.

  She let her gaze drop to the final listing.

  Coming soon:

  Senior Librarian—Central Library.

  Heart thumping, she looked again to make sure she wasn’t imagining things.

  She exited the website.

  Better not to imagine.

  Better to set her mind on the grim reality of the party picture download that had begun to populate the computer screen:

  Laney putting a tablecloth on the main course table.

  Daisies floating on the surface of the lighted pool.

  Various neighbors arriving with their contributions to the potluck.

  No pictures of a culprit, platter of brownies in hand.

  She took a deep breath. Really, there was nothing to suggest the event wasn’t entirely on the up-and-up.

  Page two was much the same: An effusive Frank greeting various partygoers. Jane Hunt mugging for the camera. She leafed through a few more pages and began to agree with Frank that people would start to laugh it off and eventually forget about it.

  Until the shot of the dessert table popped up on page three.

  The following picture was of her, eating a caramel-drizzled brownie.

  She deleted both photos, then recoded each .jpg that followed so there’d be no discernable break in the number sequence.

  Frank looked a little confused two pages later while he gave directions to Eva and a cluster of teens, but not enough to get rid of one of the few photos she’d seen of the kids.

  The taste of licorice filled her throat every time she thought about what the kids were doing in the basement. Had they eaten the brownies too?

  That might explain why it sounded like they were chanting when she opened the door.

  Maryellen edited out a red-eye photo of Jane Hunt and another of Roseanne Goldberg looking suspiciously squinty.

  Then she turned to page ten.

  Every photo seemed to put the filmy reality of the evening into clear focus: a group of glassy-eyed neighbors, including Laurie Owens and Anne Thompson, Laney, Frank, and Hope Jordan admiring the small plate of brownies she held in her hand. Frank, his hand placed protectively on Hope’s lower back, just above the waistline of her coordinating floral dress.

  She erased the entire page except for a shot of the three of them beside the diving board.

  On the next page, Tim stood at the dessert table talking to Laney.

  They’re especially delicious. If you know what I mean.

  Sarah said Laney had found the brownies in the kitchen and put them out. She thought someone from the Melody Manor patio homes brought them, which made sense since quadrant three was assigned to bring dessert, but no one seemed to have any idea who.

  Maryellen flipped quickly through the remaining pages of pictures to see if there were any more potentially telltale pictures.

  There were, but not that shed any light on the hash situation.

  Hope and Tim sat huddled together on a picnic table in the first photo.

  In the second, they were standing together, behind and to the right of a group party scene just outside the rec center.

  They appeared to be kissing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Meeting Agenda: Meetings of the board shall proceed on issues as generally set forth in the agenda distributed prior to the meeting.

  The doc at Southeast Suburban Family Walk-In was new, or at least new to Laney, and older than she tended to trust, but intelligent-looking with deep-set eyes and a widow’s peak.

  “I thought I wasn’t feeling well because, well to be honest, we had this party in my neighborhood, and in the midst of some mild overindulgence, someone thought it would be clever to add hash brownies to the dessert spread.”

  Thunder rattled the room.

  “I see,” he said, looking at her chart. “But you do indulge recreationally?”

  “Almost never.”

  “Almost?”

  “I’m really not a drug user.” Other than the occasional hit off Steve’s prescription pot, the Ecstasy she’d tried twice with Sarah, and the occasional line of coke she’d love to indulge in more often.

  “Nosebleeds are consistent with inhalant use,” he said.

  “My nosebleeds started with this asthma inhaler the allergist prescribed for my sinus issues,” she said.

  He put the stethoscope in his ears to hear her heart.

  “Vomiting?”

  “Just the morning after the party.”

  “Cramping, diarrhea, or bloody stools?”

  “Some diarrhea, but generally I just feel weak and lethargic.”

  The cold flat edge of the stethoscope found its way to her back, stomach, and kidney area.

  “Any night sweats, heart palpitations, unexplained bleeding?” the doctor asked.

  “Other than the nosebleeds, not really.”

  “How’s the joint pain you reported when you were in a few months back?”

  “Advil seems to help.”

  “Is this nausea similar to the nausea you reported in the appointment before that?”

  “That was more sporadic.”

  “But your congestion has improved with the inhaler?”

  “I haven’t been using it all that long,” she said. “But after that young doctor in your office said he thought my stress levels were affecting my resistance, I read this book that taught me how to visualize good health and other stuff that has totally changed my life. I even have my husband reading it because he has Chronic Fatigue, although getting ready for the Memorial Weekend party, which I chaired, was pretty stressful so I’ve had a hard time maintaining my attitude.” She paused to take a breath. “So I’m not totally surprised that my health has kind of fallen off.”

  “Hmm,” the doctor said, leafing through the chart. “I do notice you’ve been in seven times in the last four months.”

  “I’ve gone from sinus infection to flu and back again since last fall, so naturally I hoped this was from accidentally overeating those brownies.”

  He grabbed a tongue depressor.

  “And, I didn’t want to come in today, but my pharmacy couldn’t refill my antibiotic.”

  “Standard protocol.” He put the tongue depressor in her mouth and flashed a light toward the back of her throat. “Excessive over-prescription and misuse have caused a sharp spike in antibiotic resistant infection.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed away the taste of
sterilized wood.

  He pressed his latex-covered fingers along the base of her neck.

  “Do you think I have an antibiotic resistant strain of something?”

  “Doubtful.”

  He moved the stethoscope on her chest. “Breathe normally.”

  The room filled with the sound of her congested breathing.

  “Chest is clear.” He lowered the stethoscope, picked up her chart, and began to jot notes onto the blank first page.

  “It’s mostly my guts that are bothering me.”

  He palpated her stomach.

  “Do you think maybe I picked up some salmonella or something at the potluck?”

  “Not in the absence of uncontrolled vomiting, diarrhea, or bloody stools.” The doctor notated something. “It’s possible you ate something a little off at the potluck in addition to those brownies.”

  “So, maybe not a food thing?”

  He leafed through her chart again. “I’m more concerned about the sheer frequency of your visits for recurrent symptoms.”

  The sound of crinkling paper drowned out the rain as she shifted on the exam table.

  “Your blood workup in April was normal and ruled out most anything of concern…”

  Laney broke out in a cold sweat. Except for possibly a strain of leukemia so rare only certain doctors in the country including myself have been trained to put together the seemingly unrelated symptoms?

  “But there’s no harm in running another chem panel for comparison’s sake.”

  “I’ve wondered if the different illnesses I’ve had may be related.” Her heart thumped in her chest. “You don’t think I have some sort of unusual immune—?”

  “Unlikely.”

  Despite his reassuring smile, Laney didn’t feel reassured at all.

  “But I do think it’s worth a look through your file to see if we can come up with any ideas going forward to improve your overall resistance.”

  “I’m all for that,” she said.

  “Imodium for the diarrhea and I’ll send you home with a sample of something stronger you can use as needed.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Log in to our website at the end of the week. I’ll post your results and any further recommendations in your patient profile.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  No boats may be stored in such a manner as to be visible

  from any other property for longer than 72 hours in a seven-day period. Periodic movement to circumvent this rule

  will be considered a violation.

  Eva glanced at the rain beating on the safe egress basement window and then at Lauren, who was sitting on the couch, pretending not to text Tylerpoo or whatever stupid-ass pet name she probably already had for him.

  “This weather sucks,” someone said.

  “Didn’t have to work at the rec barely at all this week though,” a Goth said.

  A bolt of lightning sent an illuminating flash through the darkened room.

  Lauren the lifeguard, who was still a nice pasty white, practically jumped out of her chair.

  Eva resisted the urge to taunt her for being a scaredy-cat, imitate the way she twitched in her seat, or otherwise threaten to wring her neck. Just like she’d promised.

  Instead, she reloaded the bong and passed it left.

  “Can’t believe our parents like ate the hash brownies.”

  “Totally classic.”

  “Sign from the Goddess.”

  Eva couldn’t deny the freaky fortune of finding out her mom had gotten wasted and was too distracted by candy to think anything much about what they were doing in the basement. Things weren’t close to how they were supposed to be, though. Her dad was very much around, camp was looming way too large, and Tyler and Lauren were still going far too strong.

  A crack of thunder shook the room in agreement.

  “I hope it’s not raining like this up at camp,” Margaret said.

  “No using the C word,” Eva said.

  “My jeans are wet on the butt,” Libby said.

  “Gross,” someone said.

  “I think it’s from your carpet, Eva,” Libby said.

  “Whatever.” Eva sighed.

  “I was planning on wearing these to… away tomorrow.”

  “I’m so screwed,” Eva said.

  “When are you supposed to leave for cam—?”

  “I told you, no C word.”

  “Maybe it won’t be that bad,” Hannah said.

  “Right.” Eva didn’t even bother to give her the evil eye.

  “The spell could still work,” Heather said.

  “It wasn’t supposed to work immediately,” Margaret said.

  “Something should have happened by now.” Eva barely restrained herself from leering at Lauren as she checked her phone for another text. “What does Tyler think?”

  Lauren looked up nervously. “Couldn’t we maybe try again when he gets back?”

  “This is a good-bye party for the twins.” Eva held up her end of the deal with Tyler by trying her best not to sound bitchy, despite how desperately the situation called for it. “And we’re having this little good-bye because they leave for you-know-where in the morning, so when Tyler’s back, we’ll have only eleven members.”

  “Right,” she said looking appropriately dissed.

  “What are you going to do?” Heather asked.

  “Try to pressure my mom to get me out of going, I guess.”

  “Will that work?”

  “Yeah, right.” She stared directly at Lauren who wasn’t even pretending not to furiously text her bonehead comment to Tyler. “Which is why I’m also working on a Plan B.”

  ***

  Hope had exactly a million errands to run before Jim came home Saturday night.

  She opened the car door to a blast of wet.

  A million errands that had to be done in nonstop, driving rain.

  Hoping London would be as unseasonably sunny as Denver was rainy, she made a run for it across the parking lot, into the foyer of the library, and into a blast of cold air that sent a chill through her rain-soaked skin.

  Or, maybe it was Maryellen’s icy expression as she looked up from the book she was reading.

  “Bring It On,” Hope said brightly. “That’s supposed to be a great book.”

  “It’s interesting, anyway,” Maryellen mumbled.

  They’d exchanged e-mails where Maryellen apologized for serving the offending brownies and Hope assured her there was nothing to apologize for. Still, there was the awkwardness of not having chanced into each other since the potluck. Hope focused on rubbing water droplets out of her hair. “I can’t believe it’s just nonstop rain out there.”

  “In here, too.” Maryellen pointed to a bucket placed to the right of the circulation desk. “Supposed to continue through the weekend.”

  “I’ve already got a few hairline cracks in my basement.”

  “We have a wet spot in ours.”

  “I feel like we’re going to have to get around in boats soon.”

  “If it keeps up like this, you may be right.”

  The conversation was so stilted Hope knew Maryellen still felt terribly uncomfortable. “Which leads to the reason I’m here,” she said, hoping to relieve some of the tension. “I’m looking for books on boats, sailing—general nautical stuff for a nursery project I’m working on for a friend of Theresa Trautman.”

  “I see.” Maryellen looked down at the computer screen and pushed a few keys. “Looks like there are a number of things we can order from other branches.”

  “If we have to,” Hope said.

  “All we have here are a few children’s titles.”

  “Depending on the photos and illustrations, they could be even better.”

  Maryellen stepped out from behind the desk. “Follow me.”

  Hope fell in behind her as she headed over to the children’s corner.

  “It really was clever of Tim Trautman to have you plan out the twin
s’ nursery the way he did,” Maryellen said.

  “For Mother’s Day no less,” Hope said.

  “Such an incredibly nice gesture.”

  “Wonderful,” Hope said. “I’m dying to see the finished product.”

  “You haven’t yet?”

  “Thought I’d give the Trautmans some time to settle in before I show up on their doorstep.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Thing is, I have these gift baskets with the girls’ names in wooden letters shaped and painted to look like flowers. They’re so darling I can barely wait to see them in the nursery.”

  Maryellen stopped in the kids’ section. “I’m having one of those On the Day You Were Born charts made up for the girls.”

  “Great idea,” Hope said.

  “All I have so far is the birth date.” Maryellen turned and scanned an upper shelf. “Can’t forget that day.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Wish I could.”

  Hope pretended to look at a nearby row of books during the awkward pause that followed. “Wish I could remember much of it.”

  Maryellen looked surprised. “You don’t?”

  “Very, very little. I rarely, if ever, have more than a glass of wine, but that whole day…” Hope somehow managed to swallow back the bubbling ache she’d managed to keep at bay. “The evening is largely a blank.”

  “You did have quite a bit to drink over the course of the day,” Maryellen finally said.

  “Embarrassing to admit.”

  “I saw you making a plate of food and talked with you by the diving board.” The taut lines around Maryellen’s mouth seemed to soften. “And I recall you were chatting with Tim Trautman.”

  “I do remember sitting with him at the picnic tables.” Hope nodded with the vague memory. “And the next thing I remember I was eating chips from the vending machine, but not with him.”

  “We were really worried about you,” she said quickly. “Frank was trying to keeping an eye out to make sure you were safe.”

  “I really appreciated that,” Hope said. “Along with Will Pierce-Cohn getting me home.” Hope felt her face redden. “Which I know because he left a note.”

  The pain etching Maryellen’s face felt like a reflection. “I can’t believe anyone would be so evil as to put out those brownies for all of us to eat without thinking—”