Tova gapes. A screw. The missing doohickey.
“Thank you,” she says, but by then he’s already slipping back into his tank.
THE NEXT MORNING, when Tova wakes and steps into her slippers, she crumples to the ground again.
“What on earth?” She blinks. Her left ankle. Only when she sees the blush of purple spread over her foot does she realize it’s throbbing painfully.
On her second attempt to stand, she’s ready. Wincing, she shuffles down the hallway to the kitchen and puts on coffee.
She lasts until lunchtime before even considering a phone call to Dr. Remy.
By late afternoon, she’s convinced herself to retrieve the booklet of phone numbers she keeps stashed in the console in the den. She sits in Will’s old spot on the davenport, her leg propped on the coffee table with a sack of frozen peas balanced on her ankle, and flips through the pages. Then she sets the book down next to her on the cushion and turns on the television.
It’s nearly five when she finally places the call. Dr. Remy’s office closes at five.
“Snohomish Medical Associates.” The voice is tinged with annoyance. Tova pictures Gretchen, the receptionist, leaning over the desk, phone receiver cradled under her ear as she juggles the jacket and pocketbook she’s already gathered. Perhaps she ought not to have called. But her ankle has swollen to the size and color of a plum, and as much as she dislikes admitting it, she might need medical attention. She gives her name and date of birth, and briefly explains her predicament, omitting the part about the incident having occurred at work. And she definitely doesn’t mention it happened while talking to a giant Pacific octopus. She simply says she fell from a stool while cleaning, which is technically true.
“Mrs. Sullivan, how awful.” Gretchen’s tone softens. “Hang on, let me see if I can catch Dr. Remy.” The line clicks over to staticky music, some soft-jazzy number that Tova supposes is meant to be soothing.
When the receptionist returns, her voice is more clinical. “The doc says as long as the pain is manageable for now, he’ll see you first thing tomorrow morning. I’m booking you an appointment for eight o’clock. He says to keep it elevated. And stay off of it.”
“Certainly,” Tova says.
“Mrs. Sullivan, this means no mopping at the aquarium tonight.”
Tova opens her mouth to protest, then snaps it shut. What business is her employment to Gretchen? First Ethan lecturing her while ringing her groceries and now this. Does anyone in Sowell Bay know how to mind their business? “Of course not,” she finally answers.
“Great. See you in the morning.”
Tova hangs up, then dials another number.
She drums her fingers on the davenport cushion as she waits for Terry to pick up. Has he noticed the damaged stool in his pump room yet? She’d gotten the screw back in, but apparently it needed some other sort of doohickey to tighten it all the way, so the top rung was still crooked. She thought she might bring Will’s old bag of tools tonight so she could repair it fully. Now, who knows when that will happen?
And then there’s the matter of the floors. Who will mop them tonight? Anyone?
Will Marcellus wonder at her absence? He understood the importance of fetching that screw, after all. This fact still marvels Tova.
“Tova?” Terry answers. “What’s up?”
With a grave sigh, she relays the same technically true story to Terry that she told to Gretchen.
It’s the first time in her life she’s called out of work.
Got Baggage?
Cameron scans the conveyer, looking for his green duffel. It should be easy to spot among the gray and black suitcases, but after a couple of minutes he takes a seat on a nearby bench. Figures his would be the last one out.
With one eye on the carousel, he grabs his phone and reviews the list of hostels. There’s one a few miles from Sowell Bay. And that’s where he’ll start his search, of course. According to the sleuthing of county property records he did while waiting to board, Simon Brinks owns three properties in the area. He zooms in on a photo of one of the hostel’s rooms. It’s not exactly a brand-new apartment with fluffy carpet and a flat-screen, not even a shitty apartment above a bar, but it looks reasonably clean, and it’s cheap enough that he should be able to stay there for a few weeks on the cash he’ll get from pawning the jewelry.
Speaking of which, where is his bag? The class ring is in his pocket, but the rest of the jewelry is tucked in his duffel. The conveyer is still spitting out suitcases but sporadically now. He pictures the workers in their orange vests piling the last of the luggage from the plane’s hold onto one of those carts to be driven across the tarmac. What a terrible system. A million inefficiencies, too many handling points. A zillion opportunities for shit to go sideways.
“Figures, right?”
A guy about his age wearing rimless glasses plops down the other end of the bench and unwraps a sub sandwich, jamming one end in his mouth, which he doesn’t bother to close as he chews. The steady release of spiced pastrami turns Cameron’s stomach. Who eats pastrami at eight in the morning?
“I’m sure they’ll come out,” Cameron says.
“Not a frequent JoyJet flier, are you?” Spiced Pastrami barks out a laugh. Pickles and lettuce tumble around in his mouth. “Trust me, they’re notorious for it. We’ve got better odds in Vegas than of our suitcases coming down that belt right now.”
Cameron inhales, preparing to explain that a top-tier equity firm just bought in at a multibillion-dollar valuation for JoyJet and investors are giddy at rumors of an IPO, and even when you’re an ultra-budget airline you don’t get there by habitually losing customer property. But then the carousel grinds to a halt.
“Shit,” Cameron mutters.
That bag of jewelry. Why hadn’t he kept it on him? Now it’s somewhere between Sacramento and Seattle, or, more likely, shoved away in some baggage worker’s locker. He drops his head into his hands and groans.
“See? I called it,” Spiced Pastrami says with a nod at the conveyer, which is still as a dead snake. “Well, let’s go file claims.”
Cameron eyes the line forming outside of a tiny office on the far side of the baggage area. Of course, the fine print on the back of the baggage ticket states that they won’t pay for valuables in checked luggage. He’d skimmed it as they hauled off his duffel after the agent insisted it wouldn’t fit in the overhead bin. But he’d shrugged off any possibility these disclaimers could apply to him. They’re meant for other people. Cameron Cassmore doesn’t have valuables.
By the time he gets to the baggage office, the line is twenty people deep. Spiced Pastrami leans on the wall beside him, still gnawing on his sandwich. It just keeps coming.
“I’m Elliot, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you.” Cameron tries to look like he’s concentrating hard on his phone, as if there’s some Very Important Business happening there.
“Well, we didn’t meet, technically. I told you my name, but you didn’t tell me yours.”
Doesn’t this guy have anything better to do? “Cameron.”
“Cameron. Nice to meet you.” He holds up his insufferable sandwich. “Hungry? Happy to share.”
“No thanks. Not really a pastrami fan.”
Elliot’s eyes widen. “Oh, this isn’t pastrami! It’s a Yamwich.”
“A what?
“A Yamwich! You know, vegan? From that one place on Capitol Hill? They opened a kiosk here at the airport last year.”
Cameron stares at the oily hoagie, loaded with thinly shaved slices of . . . something. “You’re telling me that’s made from yam?”
“Yep! Their reuben kicks ass. You sure you don’t want some?”
“Pass.” Cameron suppresses a scoff. Seattle hipsters, living up to their stereotype.
“Are you sure? I’ve got a whole ’nother half here, haven’t touched it . . .”
“Fine,” Cameron agrees, mostly to end the conversation, but also to appease the nagging voice in the back of his brain reminding him he’s in no position to turn down free meals.