“Seriously, Grandma? In my lunch?”
“It’s not like I have a lot of options, dear. You really should clean up around here. Trying to find a shiny surface where I can catch your attention is a feat. When was the last time you dusted?”
I assumed that any other person would be thrilled to see the image of a departed loved one wherever she might manifest herself. I, however, preferred my otherworld manifestations to show up after I’d had enough coffee. Or scotch. That, and I wasn’t too keen on having my housekeeping judged by a woman in a cantaloupe.
“Do you have more news for me?” I asked, pouring myself a mug of coffee.
“It’s good to see you, too, darling,” Grandma said haughtily.
I smiled into my cantaloupe. “You, too, Gram. Really. I’m sorry. It’s just that this whole thing is horrendous bordering on ridiculous. I got fired, people are trying to kill me... .”
“You’ve been fired?”
Good to see Grandma was concerned with what counted: my employment status over my still-alive status.
“Yup. Apparently I’m not UDA material.” I scooped a heap of cottage cheese into my mouth and licked the spoon.
Grandma harrumphed. “Well, I wish I had better news. I’ve been poking around to try and find some information on this Ophelia character, but everyone is just so—so pious here. It’s hard to get anyone to shovel any dirt.”
“I appreciate you trying, Gram.”
“Now about that Alex ...”
I put my spoon down, could feel the flutter of my stomach. “You have information on Alex?”
“No. I was hoping you could give me some.” Grandma grinned, her grey-white eyebrows raised.
I rolled my eyes. “No. But how was your bingo game with Ed McMahon?”
Grandma waved her hand dismissively. “Not everything I thought it would be.”
Just then the phone rang and Grandmother gave me a finger wave before disappearing. I eyed the cantaloupe half and then rolled it into the sink, my stomach souring at the thought of chewing on my grandmother’s face. I slurped another spoonful of cottage cheese and chewed while I answered the phone.
“’Lo?”
“Sophie Lawson, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Elizabeth Wells. We received your online application this morning and we’re hoping you could come in for an interview. This afternoon. I know it’s rather short notice... .”
“No,” I said, swallowing quickly, “not at all. I would love to. What firm did you say you were from?” My mind reeled, counting back over the heap of applications I had filled out this morning. The law firm? The accounting place? The San Francisco Chronicle?
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m calling from People’s Pants.”
My heart sank. People’s Pants was a discount clothing store in China Basin; it was one of the last applications I filled out after I had done the math in my head and realized that my savings account would last me for a good, solid twenty minutes of unemployment.
“Great,” I said. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
The city of San Francisco is technically seven square miles from borders to bay. That means, of course, that it takes a good thirty minutes to get just about anywhere in the city, depending on bus schedules, traffic, weather conditions, and the Earth’s magnetic pull. I climbed into my car with a printed Google map in hand and pulled out into traffic, negotiating my way between Muni buses, wide-eyed tourists, and the occasional gruff man in a collar and leash being walked by a dominatrix. My little Honda heaved its way up steep grades, and I bit the inside of my cheek as I hit a stoplight at the top of a straight-up hill, saying a quick prayer and taking the leap of faith that the road would continue as I veered over the edge. I let out my breath and watched the hulking mansions of Pacific Heights slide by, then edged my way around the standstill traffic of cars with out-of-state license plates lined up to traverse the red-bricked switchbacks of Lombard Street. I was enjoying the quiet quaintness of Chestnut Street when I glanced back at my directions and cursed up a blue streak, realizing I had spent the last twenty minutes going in the exact opposite direction of People’s Pants.