The Big Bang

by Linda Joffe Hull

  “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.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  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.

  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.

  Dear Jim,

  I’ve cleaned the house and paid all the current bills.

  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?

  I’m sorry about any mistakes I’ve made, intentional or…

  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.

  I’m afraid you’ll have to deal with the violation notice. Given the circumstances, I think the homeowner’s board will give you an extension. If not, you’ll need to re-sod the lawn right away or fines will start to accumulate. If you have problems with anything, including the warranty coverage on the cracks in the storage room, just ask one of the neighbors for help.

  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.

  I’ve come to realize this whole fantasy of marriage, suburban life, and domestic bliss was just that, a fantasy—at least for me.

  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.

  Please try to forgive me for having to say good-bye like this.

  What choice did she have?

  I wish you only the best.

  With love,

  Hope

  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.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The Board may adopt the recommendation of a Tribunal or has the discretion to decline an enforcement action or grant a waiver, even where a violation exists, if the Board determines declining enforcement or granting a waiver is in the best interest of the community.

  Maryellen 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.

  She ran out her open patio door, out the side gate, and into the street to meet Frank, Tim, and Will.

  Will, smashing through the glass with his fist.

  Rope.

  Blood.

  Hope, in shock, sprawled out amid the shards of chandelier glass that sparkled like diamonds.

  The scramble for towels, first aid.

  Paramedics.

  Hope trying to explain how she was trying to clean the chandelier when it collapsed.

  Emergency room.

  The ER noise swirling around Maryellen, broken only by the sound of Will, Tim, or Frank dropping a coin into the coffee vending machine or unwrapping a candy bar.

  Wondering out loud how long before they got word.

  Sniping, ostensibly, over their interrupted argument.

  “We can’t sit back and pretend nothing’s wrong anymore.”

  “Things may be much more serious than they seem.”

  “No need to overreact until we see.”

  All three men looking grim as the doors to the triage area opened and a doctor appeared. “Who here’s responsible for Hope Jordan?”

  “I am,” all three said.

  In unison.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Homeowner Assessments are due the first month of each quarter. Accounts not paid by the last day of the month will be considered overdue and assessed a late fee.

  “Jim,” Hope said, the emotion of thirty-six hours’ worth of both dreading his

  arrival and desperately needing him by her side filling her voice. “You’re here.”

  “Came straight from the airport. I can’t believe I couldn’t get a flight from London any sooner.” Jim scooped an arm beneath the pillow and hugged and kissed her with an enthusiasm that caught her off-guard.

  As though she could ever be any more off-guard.

  He handed her a bouquet that dwarfed the substantial arrangements already sent over by the Trautmans and the Pierce-Cohns. “Can’t believe this happened.”

  “I’d learned some nautical knots for a nursery job and I thought I’d try one to help me keep my balance so I could clean the chandelier because I was trying to get everything done before I—”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “We’re lucky you escaped with just an ankle fracture.”

  “Didn’t expect…” Hot tears ran their familiar path down her cheeks. “The chandelier to collapse.”

  So much she didn’t expect.

  “Everything’s okay, honey. More than okay.” His face was unadulterated happiness. “You’re okay. We’re going to have a baby!”

  ***

  Maryellen exited the elevator on Hope’s floor, a vase filled with flowers in hand. She rounded the corner, headed past the nurse’s station, tiptoed down the hallway toward room 314, and peered inside.

  She couldn’t see around the curtain to confirm that Hope lay in the bed, but even in the darkened room there was no missing Jim Jordan’s broad shoulders and wheat-colored hair.

  Before she could knock on the doorframe, she heard the voice of a third person in the room. “How ’bout we give the daddy a look?”

  After some rustling, whoever it was added, “There’s the gestational sac and the yolk sac inside. We have a four-point-three-millimeter-long fetus,” he said, “and I didn’t think we’d be able to get it yet, but there’s a heartbeat.”

  “Heartbeat,” Hope repeated.

  Maryellen set the flowers beside the door and tiptoed down the hall.

  ***

  She’d slipped, broken her ankle, had shards of glass tweezed from everywhere, and the baby’s heartbeat was still strong as could be.

  “I really can’t believe this is happening.” Jim patted her cast gently. “I think I’m actually kind of nervous.”

  Hope cracked the car window, took a deep breath of fresh, nonhospital air, and looked out toward the mountains. “Me too.”

  No one knew.

  No one wanted to know.

  Wasn’t it better in a way, if there was more than one donor? How would anyone, including Hope, know for sure the baby was or wasn’t theirs?

  “Do you have any feeling yet whether it’s a boy or a girl?” Jim asked.

  “I’ve dreamt about a girl,” Hope said.

  “A daughter would be really cool.” Jim turned, headed down Parker Road toward the subdivision. “But so would James Jordan Jr.”

  Jimmy.

  When he or she wasn’t born a tow-headed blond, or even blond at all, she’d claim the dark hair and small stature came from some distant, long-deceased relative on her side of the family. Like the grass, details of house and home usually escaped Jim anyway.

  “It’s too early to start making plans, but if my job gets extended, which I should know here soon, we should look into renting out the house and have you come to London.”

  “Definitely.”

  “How great would it be to have my first child born in England?”

  She couldn’t tell him any more than she could hand down a marital death sentence to Maryellen, Meg, and/or Theresa. What would she even say? There’s a small addendum to the fabulous news? The baby is totally ours, but not exactly yours? I have no idea how it happened, but…

  They pulled into the cul-de-sac.

  All she’d ever really wanted was a baby.

  Maybe she just had to accept that she was getting her dream in a different way.

  Wood covered the spot where Will must have punched through the glass.

  An anything but normal way.

  Jim pushed the garage door clicker and eased the car into his parking spot.

  There was always a chance the baby could turn out to be blond after all.

  “Let me help you inside,” Jim said.

  All she had to do was get the note that said otherwise, and life would simply go on in a new incarnation of normal.

  “I’m good.” She got out of the car, ignoring the zing of pain up her leg. “If you’ll bring in the flowers, I’ll get a broom.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “I just wish I could have come home first to clean things up before you saw—”

  “Honey,” he hugged her. “Accidents happen.”

  While Jim headed for the trunk, she hobbled past the glass-filled front hall and into the kitchen. Stepping over the dishtowels splayed across the floor, she reached the counter and riffled through the toppled pile of paperwork that lay mixed in with odds and ends from her first-aid kit. She collected the violation notice, bills, and information for the warranty company. She picked up the towels, checked the floor, the first-aid kit, and the towel drawer.

  Her good-bye note was missing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The Melody Mountain Ranch Recreation Center is not responsible for any accident occurring on MMRC property.

  “It’s against company policy to touch, move, or otherwise disturb any item unrelated to an accident or assistance of the victim,” the ambulance representative said.

  “So they wouldn’t have taken anything with them from the scene?” Hope asked, the word victim buzzing in her head.

  “What day did you say the incident occurred?”

  “June twenty-eighth.”

  Keyboard taps punctuated the silence.

  “Report lists one dishtowel, assorted Band-aids, and glass shards from the chandelier in addition to any unknown items on the victim’s person.”

  She’d checked every cabinet, rooted through the trash, gone through the drawers, even stuck her hand down the disposal.

  No note. Anywhere.

  “Nothing like a bill or a letter or anything?”<
br />
  “Nope,” the woman said. “Wish I could help you.”

  ***

  The ideal Senior Librarian will have the ability to thrive in an environment of constant contact with people from all backgrounds and age groups. Essential is a positive attitude, excellent interpersonal skills, cultural sensitivity, and a sense of humor.

  Maryellen shouldn’t have sent in an application, especially when she couldn’t ever really consider taking the job.

  She did fit all the criteria, except for a single sentence that kept hanging her up: Ability to creatively problem-solve, negotiate, and handle stressful situations in a positive manner…

  “Leaving for a meeting at Henderson Homes,” Frank yelled from the back door.

  “Okay,” Maryellen said, not feeling that way.

  While he somehow seemed to be taking the Estridges’ misfortune, the playground problem, and Hope’s accident in stride, she couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling.

  The Estridges were doing better and the structural engineer was in the process of preparing a report that recommended insurance coverage for their damage and medical expenses. The sinkhole would be fixed. And, Hope, thank God, was okay.

  More than okay. Expecting.

  If only she hadn’t heard the ultrasound technician in Hope’s hospital room.

  A heartbeat.

  With the sound of Frank’s car backing down the driveway, Maryellen reduced the job website and typed fetal heartbeat detection into Google Search. Seemed like she was further along with Eva before the doctor could detect a fetal heartbeat, but the technology had undoubtedly improved.

  Via ultrasound, a heartbeat can be detected, at the earliest, by around 6–7 weeks.

  Frank told her that Hope had gotten her period the Monday after Mother’s Day at the rec center. The day after Jim left for London. If a pregnancy definitely “started” on the first day of the last period, two weeks before conception…

  Not daring to look down at her desk calendar, or count back weeks in her head, she clicked out of Google and enlarged the library job website.