The Truth About Mallory Bain (23 page)

I enjoyed visiting with my dinner companions, especially Lance. We'd been having such an enjoyable conversation that he accompanied me from the dining room. He captivated my attention with a story about two black bear cubs ransacking their campsite during his vacation up north. He and his younger brother jumped into their boat, narrowly escaping a skirmish with the mother.

“She marked us as dead men,” said Lance.

“I'm glad you survived,” I nodded and smiled. “Do you live here in Plymouth, too?”

“I have a condo in the Crocus Hill neighborhood. St. Paul.”

“I've been there. Quaint.”

He went on to entertain me with one amusing story after another. He admitted how much he, too, disliked set-ups and explained how that dislike caused his hesitation when Dana first introduced us.

I opened my mouth to speak when my stomach convulsed. I bent forward against an intense cramp in my abdomen. Pain sent
me reeling with dizziness. “I need to sit.” I tipped sideways. My legs gave way.

Lance scooped me into his arms. “Too much wine.” He carried me over to the sofa.

“Lemon water.” I struggled to stay awake—fight the wooziness, calm the pain. I heard a voice mumble, my voice sounding disconnected and not coming from me. “I'm driving home.”

He knelt beside me. “Tonight you're not.”

Lying down eased the pain but a bitter taste permeated my mouth and my dinner churned. “I am not at all well.”

“Let me get you an antacid. A cold, damp rag?” A cute grin formed. He whispered, “A barf bag?”

I choked out a chuckle. “Either the rag or the antacid. Thank you.”

Jillian sat down beside me and lifted my wrist for a pulse check. Lance rattled off an explanation of what had happened before he left us.

“Were you sick before dinner?” she asked.

I shook my head no. My eyes shifted between her mentally assessing my radial beats and Lance jogging down the hallway, presumably toward a bathroom.

“I'm overtired,” I told Jillian. “Been doing too much. I need to sleep.”

She laid the back of her hand against my forehead. “Maybe you need to throw up. I can help you into the bathroom.”

“I want to lay still.”

Rachel sat down on the sofa arm by my feet. Lance appeared with a white bottle and a damp cloth. Maria saw his intent and left for the kitchen.

Jillian folded the washcloth. “I'll put this on your forehead.”

“Will she be all right?” asked Lance.

“I'm not sure.” Jillian took the spoon from Maria and poured out a dose of the white liquid.

The antacid took the edge off the nausea but not the pain. Dana brought a fresh bed pillow and spread a lightweight cotton quilt over
me. I turned on my side and pulled my knees up into a bent position to ease the pain. Rachel removed my shoes and set them on the floor. She, Lance, and Dana remained with me, while Jillian stepped aside. I heard her talking to someone standing behind Dana.

My heavy eyes stayed closed under the damp cloth. My swimming head pressed deeper into the soft pillow. Although newly acquainted, these people gave me comfort, showed me that other friends of the Fowlers were good people.

When either sleep or unconsciousness fell upon me, that familiar male voice shouted inside my head.

“Get
—
out
—
of
—
here! Get out now!”

I raised the cloth and searched for Lance. He was gone. Rachel and Maria, too. Dana and Jillian were sitting with me.

“What did you say?” Dana sounded stern.

Had I spoken aloud?

Jillian shook out the damp cloth and refolded it into quarters. A sudden pain punched my stomach. I sat upright to stand but then rolled sideward and groaned.

“This could be appendicitis,” said Jillian.

“Erik is calling for an ambulance,” said Adam.

“I'm hot. I'm going to be sick.” I raised myself up. Adam and Jillian helped me stand.

I overheard Erik in the background talking about my symptoms. Lance asked Rachel to grab my car keys from my purse.

Rachel. Not Dana.

I pulled from Jillian's support and burst into the bathroom toward the toilet. Blackness shrouded my eyes. My body folded onto the hardness of floor.

Unfamiliar voices were talking. A radio squawked. I was being lifted onto another cold but softer surface. Powerless to awaken fully, I acknowledged the voice telling me to get out had not been Lance or any of the other men's voices I'd been hearing all evening. A familiar male face flashed through my mind but his image never took hold for me to remember. Sleep pulled me under, and I succumbed.

“Mallory. Mallory honey, wake up.”

Mom.

Her voice was no less real than the man's voice shouting at me to get out. I strained to raise my eyelids. My mother stood beside me clutching my hand as if I were dying.

“I'm in a bed.” My voice came out weak. I scanned the bright room behind her. Stark. Unfamiliar faces atop scrub-clad bodies walked by. A few looked in my direction and smiled. My brain drifted in a fog.

“You're in North Memorial with food poisoning. They're giving you intravenous fluids and talking about more tests.”

I glanced up to my left. A clear bag, nearly full of clear liquid, hung from a stainless pole rising above my head.

My throat felt parched, achy. I coughed. “What kind of tests?”

“More blood, urine.”

The memory of a clipboard, papers, and a thick white pen with a pink breast cancer ribbon printed on the plastic. A calm woman speaking softly above my face flashed through my mind, as did the memory of a woman wearing pink scrubs who spoke softly before sticking a needle into my forearm.

“Not appendicitis?” I asked.

“No. They emptied your stomach. We won't know the results of all the tests for a few days.” Her face showed worry. “The doctor suspects poison. A gastric irritant.”

“Well, that's just nasty.”

“No chemicals. You must have eaten tainted food.”

“I ate takeout, and then Dana's dinner, but everybody would be sick.”

Mom shook her head and gave my hand a squeeze. “You were heavily sedated.”

“Here we go again.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I need water, and don't you dare accuse me of taking drugs.”

She reached for the styrofoam cup and held the straw to my mouth. “Small sips. You were out cold when the paramedics arrived. The initial drug screening was negative. I'll give you that.”

“How big of you.”

“I am sorry, Mallory Anne, but as your mother and Caleb's grandmother, I need to ask. People do slip things.”

“Not those people.” I closed my eyes at her.

“A lady named Jillian called me. You passed out completely when she and I were on the phone.”

“Rest assured, Mother, I have never taken drugs. Shame on you.”

“You'd have asked the same about me.”

I chuckled. “I wasn't born yet in nineteen seventy-four, but had I been there, you'd be first in line for a screening.”

“Hush up. There's a nice young man in the waiting room— Lance.”

“He is nice.” I closed my eyes and smiled. “He saved me from a bad fall.”

“So he said. You've been jabbering to me the past half hour.” Mom leaned close to my ear. She squeezed and patted my right hand. “You've been asking for Ben.”

Hearing that widened my smile. “Where are the boys?”

“Asleep at home. Caroline promised to stay until Rick gets there.”

“My stomach hurts.” I lifted my left hand, dragging the plastic tubing with it. “My new dress . . . my purse. What about my car?”

“Your clothes and your purse are in a bag on that chair in the corner. A friend of Erik's drove your car home and Erik followed to bring him back. If Dana misses you tonight, she'll call you.”

“I suppose she's upset.”

“She is . . . concerned.”

I laid my hand against my forehead. “I better be well by Wednesday—the clinic.”

“If you aren't better by Wednesday, you will miss work.”

My sickness gave Mom an important job to do. I had her back, and that felt good.

A happy grin spread across Lance's face when he showed up at my bedside. “You're gonna live.”

“Of course. I ruined the party, though.”

“Nah. You won the Oscar. I haven't had this much excitement in ages. Driving behind an ambulance with lights flashing and blaring sirens trumped the bears and Mrs. Fowler's soirée.”

I let out a small, bubbling laugh. “You might find a less nerve-wracking activity next time. How about a funny movie?”

“As long as you go with me.”

“Promise.”

Declining his invitation seemed impolite, considering his kindness. He stayed by me like a dutiful friend until hours later, when he and Mom secured me in her car for the drive home.

N
ot one day passed without Dana either texting or phoning me at least a half dozen times. She fished for reassurances there were no litigating attorneys lurking behind the scenes, jingling the coins in their pockets. I had to give her a flat out no before she relaxed. She then insisted on treating me to lunch, even if only soup.

Lance stayed in touch, too. His texts and calls were welcomed and his interest assured me that accepting his movie date invitation was smart despite my reservations. Granted, my divorce was less than a month old, but my marriage ended long ago. Lance wanted to know me better, and after mulling over the idea, I decided his knowing me better was good.

Mom argued whether or not I was fit to drive all the way to Plymouth for lunch with Dana. I think she conceded because the roads were dry, not because she completely believed me when I said I hadn't taken sedatives.

Dana greeted me with her customary hug outside the restaurant entrance. Her habit of hugging baffled me owing to the fact she never before engaged in gushy shows of affection.

She spoke over her menu. “I wish I had more of an appetite. I hope your health has returned.”

“Pretty much.”

She looked over the top of her menu again. “Any more test results in?”

“Still waiting.”

“Erik said Lance called you.”

“He has.”

She smiled coyly. “Nice of him to help out the other evening.”

“You just won't stop pushing,” I chuckled.

“Probably not.”

She flicked an insignificant strand of hair away from her eye. “How do you like work?”

“The staff is professional, friendly. The décor needs redoing.”

“Any attractive and eligible dentists?” She smirked and winked.

“One man at a time, Dana.”

Every conversation since I returned to Minneapolis was loaded with pestering, rambling on about how I needed to be doing this and needed to be doing that. I fidgeted with my tableware until she shoved the metal stand holding the salt, pepper, and sugar packets out of my reach. With hands clasped together in front of me on the table, I sent her a resolute glare.

“Caleb keeps me plenty busy.”

She straightened her napkin rolled tableware. “Why don't you tell me what happened with Chad.”

The server appeared at our booth.

Dana frowned at her menu while I ordered. “Nothing really appeals to me,” she said. “Bring me the half Caesar, dressing on the side, and a cup of French onion soup. Coffee. Black.” She snapped the menu closed and shoved it at the server without looking up.

I hoped my smile showed appreciation for the server's courtesy, contradicting Dana's sharp tone.

“About Chad.” Her eyes turned cold and penetrating.

Chills tingled my spine. She looked determined to get the specific answers she wanted. I had no idea what triggered her question. This was none of her business. No suitable response that skirted the issue jumped into my head until a soft whisper in my ear.

“Keep it simple.”

“Incompatible pretty much covers it.”

“I assumed you were good friends, especially when he took the first flight out of Memphis to comfort you after Ben died.”

“He eventually got me smiling again.”

“See, he cared.”

“At first.”

I felt prompted to keep private the details of my years in Tennessee. I took note that she wasn't the first person to mention Chad rushing to Minneapolis after Ben died. Natalie pointed it out the Sunday we had pizza at their house. I'd never given his motives any thought. He acted out of concern. Now his comfort and concern were not sitting well at all.

Our server set our plates on the table. “Anything else, ladies?”

Dana flicked her hand. “That'll be all.”

I wish I'd added a kinder word than my subdued “no, thank you.” Her interruption gave me the chance to deflect the conversation.

“I am glad you and Erik are hanging in there.”