Once the shower got underway, I suppressed my mutinous wish that we'd cancelled after all. Watching Samantha unwrap and wave about frothy bits of lingerie ranked very low on my list of ways I'd like to spend one of the hottest days of the summer. I envied Mother, who had pleaded a headache and gone home already. Looking at
Samantha's carefully matched set of bridesmaids depressed me. They were all there: Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer, Kimberly, Tiffany, Heather, Melissa, and Blair.
I'd made a little rhyme of it to help me remember all the names, and was working on matching them to faces.
I was in a lousy mood, but I was the only one, and as far as I could see, the shower was going fine until Samantha vomited into the onion dip.
One minute she was chatting and laughing with Kimberly and Jennifer II, and then, suddenly, she bent over and puked right onto the dip platter. Conversation, naturally, screeched to a halt.
"Oh, dear," she said, faintly, putting her hand to her mouth. And then she turned and fled upstairs. I was still staring after her, wondering if I should go and see if she was all right, when suddenly I heard more retching. In stereo. Kimberly on my right, and one of Samantha's college friends on my left, were also throwing up.
It was the beginning of a mass exodus as, one after another, the guests either threw up and ran out or turned pale and walked unsteadily to the door. I considered going after them and rejected the idea. I'm not much of a nurse. And my stomach was beginning to feel a bit queasy. I hoped it was my imagination. I went out to the kitchen, told the housekeeper and Mrs. Brewster what was going on. The housekeeper fainted. Mrs. Brewster dialed 911. Good move. I began gathering paper towels and spray cleaner to mop up the living room as my penance for not going to the aid of the patients.
Just as I was beginning to think that perhaps luck--or my finicky eating habits--had been on my side and that I wasn't going to be sick, I felt the first faint tremors.
You'd think that in a house with seven bathrooms you could find a toilet to puke in when you wanted one, but after trying the hall powder room door--locked, with audible retching sounds emerging--I passed by the kitchen and saw three guests fighting for room at the sink while another was lying on the floor with her head propped over the dog's waterbowl. That's it, I told myself. I'm going home while I still can.
It wasn't easy. My head was beginning to ache badly, and even though it was twilight, the light hurt my eyes. I made it up the Brewsters' driveway and almost to the end of the next yard when the dizziness got so bad I had to stop and clutch the fence to stay upright. A horrible cramp went through my stomach, and I felt a sudden, uncharacteristic urge to strangle whichever of the Labs was barking just inside the fence.
"Meg?" I opened one eye to see Michael, with Spike in tow. Spike was trying to claw his way through the fence to get at the Labs. Serve him right if he succeeded, I thought.
"Meg, are you all right?" I shook my head, then wished I hadn't.
"Samantha's poisoned us all," I gasped. "At the shower. Food poisoning."
"For God's sake, why didn't you stay there if you're sick."
"No place to be sick," I muttered. "Can't even squeeze into a john. Everyone's having hysterics. Going home to be sick in peace." I began to lever myself off the fence and toward home.
"Hang on a minute, damn it! Let me set Spike loose and I'll help you. He can find his own way home." He caught up with me before I'd gone two steps, and picked me up remarkably easily, considering that I'm neither short nor skinny.
"What if I throw up on you?" I protested feebly.
"It'll wash out."
I shut up so he could save his breath for carrying me. Mother, Dad, Jake, and Mrs. Fenniman were sitting on the porch chatting when he staggered up with me.
"Someone should get over to the Brewsters' house right away," Michael ordered. "Apparently all the guests are dropping like flies from food poisoning. Don't worry, I'll take care of Meg."
All four of them took off immediately. Even, wonder of wonders, Mother. Dad had his ever-ready black bag, so I figured I could stop worrying about the others. Michael carried me upstairs, correctly figured out from my feeble gestures which bathroom I wanted and deposited me there just in time.
It was a long night. About the time I thought I had finished throwing up, some of the neighbors began setting off their fireworks, and for some reason that set me off again. Maybe it wasn't the neighbors' fault; maybe I was destined to get the dry heaves at about that point anyway, but the light hurt my eyes, the noise made my headache worse, and I wasn't in the mood for celebrating anything.
I think Dad came by once or twice to check on me. Michael stuck it out to the end, holding my head when I threw up, and then always ready with a glass of water, a clean washcloth, or a cold compress. It's a good thing it's Michael seeing you puking, I told myself, and not Mr. Right. I couldn't bear to think of Mr. Right, whoever he might turn out to be, seeing me heave my guts up seventeen times in succession. It was embarrassing enough having Michael see it.