Chapter 8 Tash
Tash
If there's one thing worse than waking up early to beat the Knoxville traffic, it's driving all the way there with the hope of a breakthrough only to find yourself right back where you started, hunched over water samples, hoping your nose isn't just buried in data for nothing.
I'd moved my girls halfway across East Tennessee, signed a lease with a view of the southern mountains, and still, some of my days felt like a bad rerun.
Punch in, collect coffee-stained printouts, and wait for the lab machines to groan to life while the ductwork rattled overhead.
All so I could stare at creek water under fluorescent lights.
Today's haul was lined up in a row on the bench, each vial labeled meticulously with date, time, coordinates, and a code only I understood.
The samples from the field site at the edge of the SkyArc construction project had looked suspicious from the start.
The water right under the best new lanes always did.
My field book still smelled faintly of that slick coal-tar stench and the peppery bitterness of brine.
I'd worn gloves, of course, but the smell had a way of sticking.
I had three sets of standards, four control blanks, and enough duplicates to make the techs down the hall whisper that I overdid it. Guilty. I'd even gone back to the creek on Sunday to pull fresh grabs from the same location, just to be sure. Data survived on certainty, not gut feelings.
The screen flashed its results in neat columns, blue font for normal, angry red whenever the readings jumped. Today, they screamed.
First, the chloride. One hundred and seventy milligrams per liter.
Almost six times the background in the reference stream.
Conductance numbers were just as ugly. Off the charts, with a clear calcium-magnesium dominance in the cation panel.
The pH was steady, right where it should be.
For a half second, I let myself hope that it meant something, but then I saw the TSS, total suspended solids, clocking in at over 200 mg/L. Not a typo. So much for good news.
Polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons? Up there, every fraction of a part per billion spelled trouble.
Not just a seasonal bump, either, it was the classic fingerprint of coal-tar sealants.
Probably brand-new, barely set. The brine run-off was textbook, too.
Chloride spikes paired with that weirdly high TSS and all those alkaline metals. Nothing about it happened by accident.
I sat back and exhaled hard through my teeth. I'd seen a lot of "questionable" land management, but somebody here was gunning for the record.
I reran the tests on all the duplicates, not because I expected the machine to lie, but because when it came time to show this data to someone official, backups helped.
Every time, the numbers matched. I double-checked the instrument logs, even called up a past file from last year's control site, just to be sure the calibration hadn't wandered.
No luck. The data was ugly and getting uglier.
I was making copious notes, writing out a play-by-play, almost like I was prepping my own crime scene report, when a shadow blocked the light near my shoulder.
"Do you always run this many duplicates?" That was Sasha, the new lab tech. She had a way of lurking.
I glanced up at her. She held a rack of fresh pipette tips and waited for my answer, lips twitching with gentle humor.
Back to the keyboard. "I've raised teenage twin girls. If I can identify which one used my expensive shampoo based on a single hair in the drain, I can absolutely track who's dumping trash in the river."
Sasha snorted. "Remind me never to cross you."
"I wouldn't recommend it."
I finished logging the last of the readings, hands cramped but determined. After sixteen years of parenting, I'd gotten good at solving a mystery.
I pulled up the field logs and started a draft email to my supervisor, careful to keep the language cautious but pointed.
"Elevated chloride, TSS, and PAHs at site 401.
Suggests brine and coal-tar sealcoat run-off.
Recommend immediate site visit and enforcement review.
" I attached the full dataset, then started reading back over the email to make sure it was all accurate when my phone went off.
I reached for it, but my elbow clipped my mug, sending cold coffee sloshing straight onto a pile of printouts.
Perfect.
I snatched paper towels from the shelf and started mopping up while juggling the phone, which flashed "Mere" in bold letters. My gut dropped. The girls never called me at work unless it was bad.
I answered with one hand, still soaking up the mess. "Hey, sweetheart. What's up?"
Mere didn't mince words. "Fifi's freaking out again. She heard the voice. It was loud this time. She couldn't catch her breath, started rocking on the new bed, and I thought maybe she'd pass out."
My hands froze. The edge of the coffee puddle crept under another stack of chromatograms. "How is she now?"
"That's the weird part. I gave her the hug trick, you know, wrapped her up tight, like the therapist said.
But this time, something happened. My skin went all prickly, and then it felt like—" She stammered a little, searching for the right word.
"It felt like a warmth, I guess? It moved from inside me into Fifi.
Right through my hands. And she stopped shaking.
Instantly. She just went limp and said she didn't hear anything anymore. "
A chill crawled up my back, even though the air in the lab was warm and dry.
I tried to sound calm. "You did perfect, honey. That's exactly what she needed. Maybe it's just a twin thing, you know? You girls always had a way of 'fixing' each other."
Mere let out a long breath. "I hope so. I was scared at first, but then it felt really good. Like I'd done something important."
"You did. I'm proud of you. How's Fifi now?"
"Wiped out. She's lying on the couch with a blanket. Still quiet, but calm. She wants to eat, so I'm thinking about making mac and cheese."
I had to swallow twice before I could answer. "That's great. Keep her comfy. If she wants to talk, just listen, but don't push. And if the hug trick works again, keep using it, okay?"
"Will do."
We hung up, but the worry didn't leave. If anything, it drilled deeper. Fifi's "voices" had always spiked under stress, but these attacks were coming faster now. The therapist said it was normal for teens to have rough patches, but nothing about Fifi's experience felt normal. Not to me, anyway.
I sat there worrying, phone in one hand, printouts stained and curling at the edges. Sasha peeked over again, caught the expression on my face, and wisely decided not to ask. She just set a fresh box of wipes on the bench and slipped away.
I cleaned up the mess, stacked the damaged papers to reprint later, and ran my hands through my hair. I checked the clock. Barely 2:30. My brain had already checked out.
I put everything in order. Labeled the vials, logged the last instruments, and saved all the raw files to the secure drive.
I left a sticky note for the next day's tech so nobody would panic over the brine readings.
Then I packed up my bag, checked my phone for messages, and headed for the parking lot.
The air outside smelled like distant rain and fresh mulch. The highway hummed in the background. I loaded my samples in the trunk and climbed in the car, fingers still tingling from the phone call.
I'd come to Laurel Gap thinking I could fix something, that maybe my expertise would help protect one tiny slice of river from the slow crawl of pollution and greed.
Instead, I was rattled. The data screamed disaster, the agency process would move as slowly as molasses, and my own daughter needed something I couldn't figure out. The guilt stayed with me, crawling under my skin, right between the nerves.
The drive home was a blur. Every time I hit a curve or crested another rise in the road, my thoughts circled back to the same problems. Brine run-off, chloride, calcium, and magnesium.
Coal-tar bits drifting down the creek. And Fifi, my baby, all tangled up in a brain that wouldn't leave her alone.
Mere, picking up the pieces, no complaints, always the problem solver.
I gripped the wheel until my fingers ached. By the time Laurel Gap's Main Street came into view, I could barely remember the drive. I just knew I needed to be home, with both girls in my sight, safe and sound.
One last stop at Sweet Dragon Bakery. I'd promised the girls before I left for work. Hell, I'd promised myself, too.
I turned in, parked, and took a few deep breaths before I got out, determined not to let the stress follow me inside.
Opening the door to the bakery was like stepping inside a cinnamon bun. The punch of vanilla, orange, and something floral I couldn't put my finger on. Cardamom, maybe? Hard to say. The air vibrated with so many warm, sweet notes it almost felt like a hug.
I let myself breathe, really breathe. The weight in my chest loosened just a little.
Behind the counter, Maeve worked with a rhythm that was pure muscle memory. Twist, fold, punch, sprinkle, every movement so smooth I wondered if she even knew she was doing it. She smiled at me. "I'll just be a moment."
The display case was full, thankfully. Someone had just refilled the hand pies.
Golden, glossy, and stacked with military precision.
Three types, each labeled in neat handwriting on little folded cards.
Bacon & Egg, Traditional Beef Pasty, and Chicken Pot Pie with tarragon and carrot.
Not a hint of green in sight for the garnish, which was probably intentional.
These were the kind of pies you bought for hungry teenagers or folks who'd just finished a twelve-hour shift.
Both categories applied to my household.
I snapped a quick photo on my phone and sent it to the girls.