Chapter 7: The Garden Club

The Fairmount Garden Club met on the first Monday of the month in the ballroom of the country club.

Inez had chaired it for eleven years.

By Monday the video had two million views, and half the women at the club had watched it twice.

I walked in at noon with Bridget, past the greeter and past the flower arrangements, carrying a manila folder.

Sixty women in good cardigans were seated at round tables with chicken salad in front of them.

Inez was at the podium in her pearls.

"...and so I ask you to keep my family in your prayers," she was saying. "Joanna is unwell. Tristram and I will love her through it."

A few women dabbed their eyes.

I walked up the center aisle.

The room noticed me one table at a time.

"Joanna," Inez said, and her voice trembled with joy. "Dear. You came."

"I did."

I took the microphone out of its stand before she could reach for it.

"Good afternoon. I'm Joanna Mullane. Some of you watched me nearly die at my own anniversary dinner."

Nobody coughed.

"I'm going to show you what that video leaves out."

I opened the folder and held up the first page.

"This is my hospital chart from that night. It says my tryptase was high.

That means my allergic reaction was real. The doctor wrote it in her own hand."

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