Time of My Life Read online

  When the food arrives, I pay the delivery guy and step on a piece of paper that’s been shoved under the door.

  Eloise.

  It’s the same note as before, except I was home all day and didn’t hear her knocking. Maybe I missed it over all the excessive cleansing.

  I take the food and my laptop into the living room. I want to google stuff about mental health and dreaming things that then come true. But after pushing on the power button multiple times, followed by every other button on the keyboard, it doesn’t turn on. Dead. Why are all my electronics on the fritz?

  I put the ripped blouse in the closet on top of my old sewing supplies, pausing for just a second to touch a bit of satin and chiffon I bought years ago at a craft store in the city. A purchase from back when I first moved here and had design dreams dancing in my head. Dreams that were crushed inch by inch with every day spent at Blue Wave, every time I put on a black or gray sensible outfit, every phone call from Mother exhorting me to work harder, to be better, until there was nothing left.

  With purposeful movements, I place my cell phone inside a paper bag and then put in in my briefcase, closing up the whole thing and setting it in the bathroom, under the sink, then closing the bathroom door to keep everything inside. I triple and quadruple check my ducky PJs are in the hamper. Then I put on an old oversize Les Mis T-shirt.

  I get in bed and stare at the ceiling.

  I can’t sleep, the thoughts spinning and lurching through my mind like a busted merry-go-round.

  When Mark first started flirting with me, I ignored him. Avoided him. I thought he was messing with me, and I’m good at avoidance, it’s practically an art. But he was persistent.

  After the first month of constant attention, compliments, and flirting, I started to believe he actually liked me.

  He told me he appreciated my shyness and nerves. It made me different. Unique. He thought it was cute.

  Then we were at the office late one night working on a project alone. He kissed me, and then we . . . well, it went further. And then it turned into a thing. But only around the office. Over the course of a month or two, the thoughtfulness and conversation became less and less until it was purely physical.

  I should have stopped it before. I was weak. I am weak, and I regret it. All of it.

  This whole day is an exposure of every fault I’ve tried to hide, every time I’ve tried to pretend I’m happy when I’m not.

  I lie in the dark forever, judging myself and coming up lacking over and over.

  I can’t sleep.

  Then the broken sobs whisper through the walls.

  This happened last night too. Or this night. Whatever. I thought it was me drunk weeping, but it’s not.

  It’s coming from Hugo’s. The music man. Why is he sad? His cries are the perfect soundtrack to the past two days. One day. Ugh.

  I take deep breaths and try to calm my mind. I just need some sleep.

  Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow will be Tuesday. This was just a weird blip. It has to be.

  Otherwise . . . what if I’m dead? Or something is wrong with me? Anxious thoughts crowd my head. I can’t let myself spiral.

  I focus on my breathing.

  Everything will work out. It always does . . . doesn’t it?

  Chapter Five

  Burping.

  Music bumping.

  Bass thumping.

  I open my eyes and stare up at my ceiling, moving from dead sleep to full-blown panic in half a second.

  What is happening?

  I lurch up in bed, taking in the contents of my bedroom with a sharp glance.

  My briefcase is there, next to my desk.

  “No. No no no no no.”

  I’m in the ducky PJs. My phone’s on the nightstand. I pick it up. Dead.

  I try to take deep breaths, but I can’t. My throat closes up. It’s not working. I think I might throw up. Black spots cloud my vision.

  “Sprinkle me,” the music says.

  “Sprinkle yourself!” I yell and then immediately gasp for air.

  Blackness surrounds me, coalescing into a dark tunnel of denial, anger, shock, depression, you name it. I’m a living stew of swirling emotions.

  Knocking.

  I’m breathing heavy, air sawing in and out, and still I go out to the hall and stare at neighbor man in his red robe outside Hugo’s door.

  “It’s Monday! I have a call in thirty minutes. Help me out here, huh?”

  I slam the door, leaning back against it and blindly staring into the living room. I haven’t had a full-blown panic attack in a while. I’ve been safe. I’ve had a routine. I’ve avoided doing things that trigger too much anxiety. And now, all of that hard work has been shattered to smithereens.

  Think, Jane, think.

  I race into my bedroom. I can’t make sense of any of this. What do I do? Isn’t the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting something to change?

  But what are my other options? Hiding from the world sounds great, but . . .

  I stop by the chair in my bedroom and stare at the clothes set out. The blouse is gone. Only the pants are there, laying in the same position they were the past two days. The shirt’s missing. Why is the shirt missing?

  I open the closet. There it is. Where I put it, yesterday, which was also Monday. The blouse is still there, on the sewing box. I pick it up. And it’s still ripped.

  My mind isn’t working at an efficient enough pace to figure this puzzle out. It’s still Monday. Yesterday, the second Monday, when I woke up, the tear was gone and it was sitting on the chair, where I had left it before. What does this mean? Why is this the only thing that’s different? Is this the only thing that’s different?

  I press both hands against my head. Why did the torn shirt stay in the closet where I put it, but everything else is the same as it was that first Monday? But it’s still Monday!

  The closet is magic? Sounds about as rational as any other theory right now.

  There’s no time to ponder the ramifications of a mystical closet. I have to go to work. I have to . . . Why am I going back there to be fired again? How can I make it different? How can I prevent being fired? What if I can keep my job somehow? What if this whole thing is an opportunity to get it right?

  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 o
ut 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 shined up like polished silver. An ink pot with a feathered quill rests next to it. Patchouli mixed with sage and sandalwood infuse the air. It’s like I’ve stepped into an apothecary from a hundred years ago. A cuckoo clock in the corner ticks the seconds. It’s the only sound. The street noise is gone too. It’s kind of eerie.

  An arched doorway leads down a hall to another door—a windowed french door. Green is visible through the doors, like a garden is back there, but how can that be when the block is so narrow and there’s an Ikea behind this building?

  After a few minutes of glancing around, I wander over to the checkout and lean over the counter to get a better look at the register.

  “Hello.”

  I jump and spin around. A young lady is right behind me. And I mean young. She can’t be more than sixteen. She’s wearing a Wonder Woman T-shirt and ripped jeans.

  She’s too close, in my bubble. I want to step back but can’t since the counter is behind me. I’d have to step around her, but I don’t want to be rude.

  “Hi. Um. How do I get my fortune told?” I ask.

  She stares, silent, a small smile on her face. The silence stretches and stretches. Can she speak? How can she stand there without moving or talking, not breaking eye contact? She doesn’t seem uncomfortable with the quiet or the closeness.

  Her head tilts as she considers me. “We don’t do fortune telling.”

  I flinch with the sudden answer. “Oh, right. Well, then tarot readings?”

  She stares at me.

  “It said it on the sign.” I point to it, even though it faces out the window and you can’t read the words from here.

  She neither confirms nor denies, her gaze unmoving from mine.

  I fidget, having a hard time maintaining eye contact. This is why I hate talking to people. They’re unpredictable. What is she thinking? Why is she staring at me? Is there something on my face? Shouldn’t she be in school? Can she tell I’ve lost my ever-loving mind?

  I can’t handle the silence.

  The clock in the corner ticks. Like it’s a bomb about to go off and still, she stares.

  “So. Um. Can I get some . . . tarot reading?”

  She pauses again for so long, I think I’m going to have to repeat the question, but then she finally speaks. “Let me see if I can fit you in.” She steps around me, going behind the counter.

  I count out a quiet minute while she opens the dusty, leather-bound book and drags a finger down it.

  She looks up. “It seems we’re free. It’s a ninety-seven dollars. Paid up front.”

  “Ninety-seven dollars?”

  She nods.

  I frown. That’s oddly specific. Well, guess it doesn’t matter anyway. I have some cash I’d been saving for a rainy day—which happens to be exactly ninety-seven dollars—tucked in a pocket of my wallet.

  And well, it’s raining. I used to have an even hundred, but I spent three dollars on a breakfast sandwich from a food cart the other week. Is it weird she asked for the exact amount I happen to have? I don’t really want to give up my only cash, but I don’t think the ancient cash register will take my credit card. Besides, what are my other options? What else am I going to do? I hand it over and she pulls a lever and tucks the money into the drawer.

  Then she steps out from behind the counter. “Right through here.”

  I expect to be led to a dark room with candles, maybe to a table with a glowing crystal ball or something. But instead, she leads me through the arched doorway, down the tiled hall, and out into the garden.

  Green vines weave over the muted red and brown brick walls enclosing the space. There’s a miniature koi pond and fountain on one side, a stone bench overlooking them.

  She motions for me to take a seat, so I sit, the cool stone leeching through my pants and chilling my thighs and butt.

  She sits next to me. A little too close. I scoot as far over as I can without falling off the edge.

  “Is there anything specific you are seeking guidance on? Any questions you want to ask of the universe?”

  “Wait. Are you the psychic?”

  Another lengthy silence. If her eyes weren’t open, I might think she was sleeping. “I’m more of a spiritual advisor.”

  She’s a teenager. What is she going to advise me on? TikTok and the rise and fall of Justin Bieber? This may have been the worst decision I’ve made on this day so far, and that’s really saying something. But I doubt I’ll get a refund. And I have no one else to talk to.

  I think about how to phrase my question for a few seconds, to tell her the truth without coming off as completely unhinged, and finally settle on, “Every day is the same, over and over. And I have no control over anything. Do you know what I mean?”

  She nods slowly, not meeting my eyes, instead looking out at the garden. I follow her gaze over the greenery to a statue of an angel perched on a concrete bust next to the pond.

  She inhales and exhales a couple of times.

  “Every day is the same,” she repeats slowly. “Yes. It seems you have an issue with time.”

  My attention snaps to her, watching her profile. My breath catches in my chest. “Yes.”

  Her lips thin. Her head tilts. Then she shakes her head. “No. Time isn’t your real issue. You just think it is.”

  “What do you mean? Time is the issue. It’s exactly my issue.”

  She turns and meets my gaze head-on, unblinking. Then she grins. “Time doesn’t exist.”

  “Oh,” I laugh. “I beg to differ.”

  She shakes her head. “Time is not linear. It’s more of a circle. But even that is too simplistic.” She thinks for a minute and then snaps her fingers. “Time is like a taco.”

  “A taco?”

  “You have something against tacos?”

  “No. I love tacos. Especially the little street ones with the double tortillas, but how is time like a taco?”

  “The tortilla is malleable. And you can fold it up to where one piece barely touches the other end. Creating a kind of loop.” She watches me, eyes narrowing.

  My heart stutters. I didn’t tell her I was stuck in a loop. How does she know? Or does she? Is this one of those phishing attempts where they are like, “You had an uncle with brown hair” or “You knew someone who died with a J name—John? Joe? Jerry?” and the dummy gasps and shouts “Javier!” and believes they’re legit?