The Big Bang (37 page)

“Where is she?” she asked.

“Waiting for you.” He turned toward a hallway papered with words and arrows pointing in every direction.
Frank, Will, Tim, Stay, Go, Silence, Truth, Paternity, Maternity, Terminate, Procreate…
“Down there.”

“I have absolutely no idea what to do,” she said.

The baby cooed, “Mamamamama.”

Jim gave her a peaceful, serene smile. “Just follow the signs, babe.”

Hope awoke to brilliant sunshine for the first time in days. As soon as she processed the transition from dream world back to day-mare she couldn’t help but wonder if the morning sun was a sign, in and of itself.

If so, the oversweet stench of the browning lilies on the table next to her sent a conflicting message.

So did the rest of the signs that began to appear all around her.

The answering machine blinked three messages, one confirming her afternoon nautical nursery meeting, another a front hall re-do, and the third, a backyard.

Did the sudden spike in her business mean
stay
?

She threw on a pair of sweats and headed downstairs to the kitchen for a stomach-settling piece of toast and a glass of the fresh orange juice she was constantly craving. On her way, she stopped to grab the newspaper, but spotted the Griffins’ garage door roll open first. While she waited for Frank and Maryellen to back down the driveway and go wherever it was they were going, she broke into a sweat.

Frank?

She was about to open the door again when Will emerged from his side gate.

While he jogged up out of the cul-de-sac, she tried, but couldn’t quite catch her breath.

Will?

How could she
stay
if she had to spend the rest of her life avoiding them?

She cracked the door, grabbed the paper, rushed back into the kitchen, and opened the paper to a full-page ad for Planned Parenthood.

Terminate?

After she’d stopped shaking enough to head back to the kitchen, she poured herself some juice, flipped on the TV, and went over to her computer. Two e-mails—a flight confirmation notice for her trip to London and a decorating question from Theresa Trautman—popped up at the same moment as the theme song for
Sesame Street
blared from the television.

Go? Tim? Procreate?

With her only clear chance of avoiding a chance encounter with Frank or Will, she headed out the door and down the cul-de-sac to grab her mail from the community mailboxes.

Amid the circulars, bills, and catalogs was a violations notice:
Dear Resident: Your property at 46919 Songbird Canyon Court is in violation of Homeowner’s Covenant 6.2: Only approved sod shall be permitted for landscaping purposes. Please remove nonconforming ground cover by July 15 or face up to a $500 fine.

She walked back down the street, onto her driveway, and glanced at a few tufts of sun-drenched fescue dotting her otherwise perfect Kentucky Blue Grass.

The wrong seed had indeed been planted.

Tears ran down her cheeks.

As she headed back inside to stare at the melted butter congealing on her toast, she prayed for a definitive sign, a message so clear, she would know exactly what the hell she was supposed to do about it.

E
va lingered in the shadows, waiting for the last two members of the coven to collect at the playground pavilion.

Tyler finally emerged from his front door and shuffled across the street.

“Tyler,” she said.

He stopped beside her.

She looked down at her watch. “I said, nine sharp.”

“Best I could do.”

“Where’s Lauren?”

“Not coming.”

“I thought I’d made it clear this meeting was mandatory.”

“I told her.”

“So she knows she has to be here?”

“Eva,” he looked straight at her for the first time since their last conversation at the playground. “I told her, told her.”

“Oh,” she said. In the darkness, there was no way he could see how hard she had to try not to smile. “Why’d you do that?”

“Didn’t want,” his voice cracked, “I didn’t want her to hear it from you. Tonight. In front of everyone.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“You practically did at the yard sale.”

“How’s that?”

“Telling her you’re growing out of your jeans.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Why did you call this meeting?”

“To let everyone know I’m taking off on the Fourth of July. I needed to tell everyone exactly what to say and how to say it so my parents can’t find me before camp’s over.”

“And that’s all?”

“That’s it.”

“So you’re just running away?”

“That’s the plan.”

“You’re not running away to some place for unwed mothers or anything?”

“I thought I might have to,” she said.

“But you’re not now?”

“Got my period, finally.” She smiled. “Thank God… ess.”

He looked like he was going to explode. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was waiting to tell you tonight,” she said.

“You’ve put me through total hell.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Like that’s going to make it okay? Did you do this just to break me and Lauren up?”

“Why would I do that when I need you to take over while I’m gone?”

“Were you even pregnant in the first place?”

“Tyler, I …”

“Don’t bother.” Tears ran down his face. “I’m outta here.”

She tried to grab his arm but he’d already taken off across the playground.

“Tyler, wait!”

He ran faster.

She tried to catch up, but tripped and fell. “Son of a bitch.”

“What?” He stopped and turned. When he realized she was looking up at him from a big, mucky hole at the edge of the playground, he shook his head. “Karma’s the real bitch and you’ve got a lot coming.”

A
sinkhole on the playground.

There was no missing the symbolism there.

They—she—and the baby, had to go.

Why had she even bothered to ask for another sign when the violations notice said it all?
Please remove nonconforming ground cover by July 15 or face up to a $500 fine.

A nervous cough escaped her throat and echoed off the vaulted great room ceiling as she reached for a pen and a sheet of stationery.

She’d had everything—a tall, handsome husband with an upwardly mobile career, a loaded-with-extras, semi-custom home, and the financial security to dabble in interior design when the mood struck her or there was a sale at the Design Center.

The joists of her house groaned with a sudden gust of summer wind.

She’d had nothing.

In truth, wasn’t she really just a well-compensated employee whose job it was to play fair-haired corporate wife in an on-paper perfect union and tend to the details of a façade almost as flimsy as the sheets of brick lining the front of the house?

Hope rubbed her belly.

Still,
this
wasn’t Jim’s fault.

She swallowed hard to stem the rising tide of nausea.

If only she knew whose fault it was.

Tim Trautman was nothing, if not fertile. Will Pierce-Cohn was the world’s most present, compassionate, involved dad. Frank Griffin had a direct line to the Son of all sons.

What had she done?

God forbid, had she done all three?

She scratched out
intentional or…
careful to cover her words until they were illegible. Instead she wrote,
I’m truly sorry.

A tear rolled down her cheek and landed on the maple hardwood.

He wouldn’t have to ask. The minute she drove out of the subdivision, a line of eager-to-help-in-any-way neighborhood housewives would form at the door. Whoever eventually beat out the others for Jim’s attentions could roll any additional basement repair costs into the Country French or California Contemporary redecorating budget that came with her marital trade-up incentive package.

She hated to put Jim through the inevitable pain, but she had to do whatever she could to minimize or possibly even avoid the collateral effects, not only on him, but the innocent wife and children of whomever it turned out was responsible.

Besides her.

What choice did she have?

Hope took a deep breath of fresh air from the windows she’d opened before she closed the house up. She folded the good-bye note and put it atop the homeowner’s violation notice, the warranty paperwork, and upcoming bills. All that was left to do was spray clean the chandelier and finalize the plans for the last nursery she’d decorate in the neighborhood—two jobs she could combine.

She picked up the length of rope destined to adorn the walls of the Thompsons’ nautical nursery and opened the knot instruction manual sitting on the counter in front of her.

Pass the bitter end through the piece you are trying to secure. Form an overhand loop in the standing end, laying the loop on top. Push the bitter end of the line up through the loop, around the standing end, and back in the loop. Draw tightly and evenly. Make a hole. Take the standing end and slip it through the hole.

She slid off the barstool, walked into the front hall, grabbed the ladder from the closet, and left it below the chandelier. Rope in hand, she started up the curved stairway toward a landing designed to sweep light down the empty children’s wing.

Careful not to lean against the oak rails, she swung the rope over the chandelier. A neighborhood kid had once broken through and tumbled onto a well-placed sectional in the great room of a Blue Heron model. It hadn’t happened in a Lark Bunting like hers, but considering the circumstances, she couldn’t risk a fall that might result in an eternity spent haunting her semi-custom as a ghostly housewife, not in flowing robes, but a shimmering sweater set and Capri pants.

Surely it was against the covenants.

She went back down the stairs and stepped up the ladder. The sweat of her palm smoothed the rough hemp as she tied the running knot.

As she took a test tug, Frank Griffin’s too-familiar voice rattled the leaded glass panes framing the front door. “Go to Hell!”

She was already there.

Through the windows above the door she watched in horror as Frank, Tim, and Will materialized around the sinkhole.

“I’m not going anywhere you’re going to be.” Will’s response drifted through the air and into her hall.

“There was no foreseeing this would happen,” Tim said.

“What are you planning to do about it?”

“Not that big a deal.

“A huge deal.”

“Just a hole.”

The verbal arrows aimed at each other pierced her heart.

“I take full responsibility.”

“Overzealousness.”

“Lack of judgment.”

“Another sign something’s very wrong.”

The most definitive of final signs, really.

Hope had prepared the house, she’d written a good-bye note, and she had a rope around the chandelier. Where she was going was undecided.

Or was it?

Hadn’t she already sentenced herself to an eternity of slamming hollow doors and flipping the switch on the gas fireplace, anyway?

“More to the story than you’re willing to admit.”

“Don’t look at me.”

“Who should I look at, him?”

She could just as easily step down and add a line or two to her note:
The Spic and Span in the utility closet works well on the faux marble. Be sure to tell the insurance company it was an accident.
She’d climb back up the ladder and slip the rope around her neck…

Their voices fell, but their conversation looked more heated.

Will, Frank, and Tim Trautman turned toward her house.

Would the last people she wanted to see be the last people she saw on Earth? Even if she deserved the worst, she couldn’t think only of herself. Not anymore. Heart pounding, she ducked, pulling frantically at the rope dangling in full view of the windows above her front door.

The rope snagged.

Her foot slipped.

M
aryellen stared at her kitchen computer and tried to ignore the heated debate unfolding at the playground by fantasizing about the impossible:
Senior Librarian, Denver Central Library, 40 hours per week. Required Education: master’s degree. Experience: 5 years required. Languages: Spanish proficiency preferred. Benefits . .
 .

The crash jolted her from her dream.

From that moment on, everything happened in both slow motion and double-time.