She shrugged and talked to her pre-recorded self. “Whoever picks this up Monday, it’s Kelly. Starting to feel a whole lot better, so I’ll try to drop by today and get back into the swing of things. Hopefully I’ll be back to full-time Tuesday or Wednesday. Oh, and Ganj, don’t forget to call the folks at Berkeley Dairy and make sure they bring our order out today – you know their dispatcher will forget if we don’t remind her. Talk to you later!”
Only then did she remember to check for messages. There were three. The first was from Tuesday morning. “Heyyy, Kelly, this is Ganj. Looks like whatever you caught is going around. I had to send Sarah home ‘cause she could barely keep her eyes open – I thought she was gonna face-plant into the salad mixes. And I don’t feel one hundred myself. But it’s been slow, so I think Ravinder and I can handle things until the evening. Just wanted to keep you in the loop. You rest and get better, duuude.”
Kelly smiled at that. As a native Californian, Ganj used “dude” as a unisex term, with the meaning dependent on tone and context. The “duuude” in that message was one of friendship and support, she was pretty sure.
Next one was from Tuesday evening. “Dear, it’s your mother. Pick up. C’mon, pick up … I know you can hear me. (Sigh.) I don’t know why you do this to me, dear. I pray for you every day, that you’ll just meet me halfway …”
“Ugh.” Her mother’s idea of “meet me halfway” was “do everything I want you to, including move back to Oklahoma, and have no will of your own.” She’d grown up in a college town, but still went away to school in California just to get away from the woman, from the manipulation, the holier-than-thou attitude, the constant pick-pick-picking at her psyche.
“… I just wanted to check on you and make sure you’re okay, what with everything that’s going on. I know how you get sometimes when you’re in one of your moods …”
Enough was enough. The mention of her “moods” – as if she had any control over those – set her off like lighting a fuse. She deleted the message and moved on to the third, which had come in Wednesday afternoon.
“Heyyy … heyyy … it’s me, dude … it’s … me. I … uh, you still sick? ‘Cause … not good, y’know, I … no Sarah, no Rav, no … uh, no … mmmuh, what’s her name … so I, uh …”
Ganj sounded even more stoned than usual. He’d better not be using on the job, or she was going to hang him by his ponytail when she came in the next day. He’d never done it before – he was very careful about that – but he might’ve slipped with her gone for so long.
“… I … don’t feel good. Gonna siddown. Not a lotta … customers today … quiet. Too quiet … don’t … feel right … uh … gonna … gonna … uh …” There was a clatter, maybe Ganj setting the phone down, followed by distant mumbling and then silence before the message ended a minute later.
“Well, that was weird.” She thought about calling her mom back, but decided she didn’t need the hassle while she was still recovering. She noticed a few news alerts on her phone, and decided they could wait too. Instead, she chose to make dinner – her first honest-to-goodness meal in a week. Two burger patties, some rice and part of a bagged salad kit later, she felt quite a bit better. She went back to bed, read for an hour, then slept again, and this time stayed asleep through the night.
Monday, Kelly woke with the sunrise, feeling refreshed and, if not 100% healthy, at least 80%. A long hot shower and a hearty breakfast brought the number up a little farther. Yes, it appeared she was back. Good – she hated not working. The sense of accomplishment, no matter how minor or menial the task, was one of the most helpful medications she had. She put on khakis and her SBN&N polo shirt, brushed her hair out, and called work to talk to Ganj or LaSheba or whoever was in charge today.
Three rings. Four. Five. “You’ve reached Sayler Beach Necessities & Novelties, home to all your grocery and tourist needs. Our hours are from 7 a.m. to …”
She hung up and looked at her phone. 7:28. Someone should be there. But why didn’t they pick up the phone? Odd. She called again, with the same result. Something was wrong if no one was getting to the phone.
She took a few minutes before trying again to rinse the dishes in the sink and put them in the dishwasher, then make her bed in the guest room in the Matchicks’ house. She sat three vacation houses in Sayler Beach: the Matchicks’, the Ashcrofts’ and the Molinaros’, all owned by rich Bay Area couples. Pete Molinaro, who’d made his money in canned vegetables, was currently in town with his family. Julian Ashcroft owned Sayler Beach Necessities & Novelties and about eighty other small stores in the region. She usually stayed at the Matchicks’ (husband and wife ran a software firm in Santa Clara), because it was the largest, and checked the others on alternate days.
Third time’s the charm? She dialed the store number. The phone rang five times and then … “You’ve reached Sayler Beach Necessities & Novelties, home to …”
She hung up. Her own voice wasn’t the one she needed to hear, but it was the only one she was getting. “What’s going on?” she mumbled. Had something happened at the store?
