I stare at my briefcase. Maybe I shouldn’t go to work. But what if today is different? The shirt thing was already different. I can’t risk it. What if today I don’t get fired? What if Mark doesn’t . . . ugh I don’t want to be with Mark, even if he suddenly decides he loves me and wants to run away together and get married and have a million babies. My stomach wrenches at the thought of yesterday. Both yesterdays.
I can’t do that to myself. Not anymore. But the thought of confronting him makes me equally sick. I don’t even want to talk to him. What do I do? Maybe I can find a way to avoid him. Good ol’ reliable plan B.
I make it out of the apartment building to the sidewalk, wearing the blue boobie blouse. My gaze drops periodically to check out the buttonhole situation, which is precarious at best.
One thing I can do . . . I can avoid the BART.
Screw the train. If I’m stuck in this day, the money will magically reappear overnight in my bank account anyway, right?
Except I don’t have a phone to call a cab. I glance up and down the block. There probably hasn’t been a pay phone here in decades.
Sigh. Train it is.
When it lurches to a stop, instead of grabbing the pole, I grab the redhead in the bright clothes.
“Excuse me,” she snips.
“Sorry.” So not sorry. My hand is clean. I would never grab someone, normally, but my hand is too clean for me to care.
I walk briskly down the sidewalk toward the Blue Wave building.
Work is the same nightmare, except worse. I’m so flustered and befuddled that I have a hard time eking out more than a few clipped words to pitch the same old idea I already know they hate.
Of course the results are the same.
I would have fired me too.
Leaving the room, I make it two steps before Mark approaches with his trademark smile.
Panic stabs me in the gut, a cold and slimy blade. I won’t do this again.
Spinning away, I bolt in the opposite direction, but not before his cocky smile turns into a confused frown.
The hallway leads to a back door and I open it, ending up in a narrow alley next to a dumpster.
I can’t handle Mark today. Or any day. Definitely not sleeping with that guy ever again. I would rather jump in this stinking garbage than let him touch me again.
Just in case he follows me—though I doubt I’m worth the effort—I slip down the alley and stop where it merges into the sidewalk, leaning back against the brick wall to catch my breath.
I need to think. What do I do? How do I fix this? Why am I reliving the same day over and over and how do I get out of this . . . this loop?
Maybe I can fix my phone and call someone. But who?
My parents would be like, Oh Jane, having a nervous breakdown. Again. I don’t need another lecture about all my problems and everything wrong with my life. All they want to hear from me is good news about being successful. Something I have yet to accomplish, really, which is why I avoid their calls.
I could call Eloise.
My sister. Maybe I could . . . no. I can’t face her yet.
I have nothing else to do. But if I can get my phone fixed up, I can access the internet to research or something.
I take a train back to Emeryville and stop at the electronics store in the shopping center near my apartment.
“Can you help me fix my phone?” I ask the brunette woman behind the counter.
She tinkers with it, opening the case and pulling out the battery and trying different things I already tried yesterday that didn’t work.
She puts a new battery in, but it still doesn’t turn on. “Everything seems to be in order. Must be some kind of internal defect. We can order a new one to be shipped out overnight. You’ll have it by tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning,” I repeat.
“Yes. That’s the soonest we can get a replacement to you.”
“Right.” A giggle bubbles out of me. “Tomorrow would be great.” I laugh. And then I can’t stop. I’m laughing so hard, tears escape out of the corners of my eyes, and it turns into high-pitched cackling. The poor clerk glances around, probably wondering if anyone else is witnessing her customer dissolve into delirium.
This is exactly the scenario my anxious mind likes to concoct for me, when I have to go places and interact with people. You’re going to make a fool of yourself, it tells me.
Well, here it is.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say to the befuddled store clerk when I’ve pulled myself somewhat together and wiped my eyes. “Thank you. I’ll leave now.”
I leave the store, moving in the general direction of my apartment, careful on the scarred and uneven sidewalk.
Now what?
I’m only a minute away from home, passing a row of shops I’ve walked by a thousand times, when I stop. And turn.
There’s a store here, one I haven’t seen before. It’s possible I missed it, I guess. I don’t get out much, and it’s a small storefront shoehorned between a Thai restaurant and a dry cleaner.
The Druid’s Stone, the sign reads in old English font.
Crystals hang in the window beside a little sign with a list. Candles, incense, tarot readings.
On autopilot, I open the door and a little bell dings, announcing my presence.
I glance around the narrow space devoid of people but cluttered with items. One wall is made entirely of dark wood shelves and stuffed with books. A mantel in the rear is lined with candles and repurposed wine bottles full of essential oils, labeled in script. The cash register on the counter in the middle of the space is old, made entirely of some kind of heavy ornate metal and
