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Of course, these days things are a little different. She never shuts up, and most of the time, I remember to be thankful for that. That’s not to say that I don’t brace myself whenever my phone rings. I know who’s calling. The church, Grant, but usually it’s the kids. This is the stage of parenting where you never quite know what the call will bring. Sometimes it's a forgotten lunch, sometimes it's a needed ride, usually it’s "I need money,” "Can you put money in my account?” or "Can I go home with so and so after school?”
The answer is almost always yes, and I’m sure that’s the problem. I once complained to Grant about it. He simply sighed, and shook his head like I was the most daft person on the planet. Afterward, he’d reminded me, this is my job, and if I only stopped to consider the stuff he has to deal with on a day-to-day basis, then maybe I wouldn't complain so much.
But he’s wrong about that.
I do think about the kinds of things he has to deal with. I think about those women, how he sculpts perfect breasts. I think about their perfect bodies, the kind of precision it takes to mold the perfect face, and I can’t help but wonder if he isn’t right.
Chapter Four
Izzy
“Thank you for covering for me,” Stacey calls out. Her voice sounds exasperated, but it’s always like that. From the corner of my eye, I see her slip the apron over her head. I notice the way the corners of her lips turn up as she ties it behind her back. It makes me roll my eyes. I can’t help myself. She loves this place, and I wish I had something I loved that much.
“No problem,” I answer, which is pretty much the same thing as saying: how could I say no when you offered me triple the pay?
That’s the thing about people like Stacey. She thinks I covered an extra shift to be nice, or more likely because I had nothing better to do other than save her ass. Even if she wasn’t right, even if I didn’t have anything on my plate not counting staring at those same beige walls and surfing the internet, that isn’t the point. The point is, it never occurred to her that I might actually need the money, and why would it? Stacey came by Lucky’s Sandwich Shoppe the way most people on this end of town come by the things they have. Inheritance. A member of the lucky sperm club, Stacey was born into the right family at the right time, without a care in the world, her last name practically a guarantee she’d never have to question where her next meal is going to come from. Even if she didn’t own a sandwich shoppe.
This is probably why she constantly talks of closing down, although we both know she’s full of it. Lucky’s was her grandfather’s, and she couldn’t bear to see it go. It’s in her blood, as she likes to say, which is another way of her saying it’s a nice hobby to keep her busy, seeing that she has all the money she’ll ever need. This and the fact it makes her look like she’s actually contributing something to the world, even if that something is just unremarkable coffee and mediocre sandwiches in an aesthetic environment.
“No seriously,” she drones on. “I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I shrug, because I’m not sure what to say to that. I don’t feel that way about anyone. Maybe not even Josh, back when he was alive. Also, I’m smart enough to know it’s better to say nothing when what I really want is to tell her she's being melodramatic. Thankfully, for the both of us, I know when to keep my mouth shut. About a lot of things.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I dislike Stacey. I guess you could say I’m indifferent. We have an agreement. It’s simple this way. I work. She pays. The gig feeds me, in more ways than one. It isn’t all bad. There’s amusement in it, at least. Stacey’s one of those eternally optimistic people whose every complaint is packaged neatly, at best, and backhanded, at worst.
I finger my earrings, the ones she bought for me last month after I saw someone on Instalook (@luckygirl242) wearing a pair and commented how much I liked them. She likes to do that, surprise me with things, just because she can. It’d be nice to say I appreciate her gestures. But mostly, it makes me hate her a little bit.
I type my employee number into the computer (3-2-1), officially clocking myself out. Finally. I’ve been counting the minutes to freedom. I’m in a hurry, so I wipe my hands on my jeans and instantly I regret it. They’re my favorite pair. I splurged on them after @fashionistaforver777 posted pictures on Instalook
calling them on trend. Thinking of her now, I close my eyes and exhale. I shake my head. If you hadn’t gotten so close, you wouldn’t have been so let down. @Fashionistaforver777 also known as Alice IRL (in real life) used to be one of my favorites to follow. I loved her vacation photos, and her makeup tricks, despite the fact that I couldn’t afford any of them. Well, not really.
It was her husband Saul who really drew me in. He loved her. I could always tell when it was him behind the lens. And so, when she announced her divorce, that was it for me— I couldn’t go on pretending to want to dress and look and vacation like her, when she was clearly not appreciative of any of it. She tossed Saul aside like she tossed the latest (#solastseason) trend. I shouldn’t have let it get me down the way it did. Things meant nothing to her. So why would people?
“See you in a few,” Stacey calls through the door, bringing me back to the here and now. It’s not a question, and I'm not sure how much of that is part of the problem for me. Before today, before I saw the two of them, I considered packing it all up. I thought about disappearing, getting away from this place. I thought what I needed was a fresh start. But seeing Grant Dunn and his lovely wife gave me hope, and now I'm not so sure. Maybe this morning won’t be my last shift after all.
“See you for second shift,” I say on my way out, unusually upbeat, and I actually mean it. For the first time in a long time, I'm buzzing with excitement. I don’t even make it to the car before I’m tapping the letters into my screen. I check Instalook for his name first. No dice. Then I go straight to Google. Grant Dunn. Tell me. Who are you? Who is that you’re married to? And, where do the two of you like to play online?
Chapter Five
Josie
“You’re home early.”
“Sit down, Jos—” Grant tells me, kissing my cheek.
I’m washing something in the sink, and I have to turn so I can see his face. Something is off. It’s there in the crease between his brow.
“What?” I ask, cocking my head. I turn off the faucet and dry my hands. “What is it?”
He presses his lips together and takes a deep breath in. “June is dead.”
The news comes out on the exhale, like it was nothing at all. I drop the towel I’m holding. Just let go. I shake my head. This can’t be right. “I just saw her.”
He smacks his lips and readies his doctor voice. The one with authority. “She died at 14:00.”
I suck my bottom lip between my teeth and hold it there. I can’t compute what he’s saying. Also, this is not an occasion that calls for military time. It takes me a few seconds to mentally calculate what that means. Finally, it hits me. “I don’t understand.”
“The infection was worse than they thought,” he says, scanning the mail I left for him on the counter. When I don’t say anything, he looks up. “She turned septic.”
