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 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 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?
But at this point, can I really discount anything? I’m the one stuck in this damn time taco. “How do I get out of the loop?”
“You’ve been stuck for a long time. And now? You’re only stuck because you think you are. You’ve been living behind a veil and the veil has been lifted. This isn’t a trap you need to escape, it’s an opportunity you need to embrace.”
Frustration makes my jaw clench, my hands twist in my lap. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” she spreads her hands out in front of her, “you’re not stuck, you’re finally free. Isn’t it a beautiful day?” She leans her head back, as if feeling the sun on her face, but when I squint up at the sky, it’s still foggy. Then she smiles again. “Sometimes life is as ridiculous as comparing time to a taco. Time is a construct. Past, present, future . . . these are things we’ve decided exist in some kind of order to try and force logic onto a more complex world. Minutes, seconds, days, years—humans created those concepts because we like to put things in their place. But reality, the here and now, is timeless.”
I nod. I mean, I get it. And it sounds poetic and Buddhist and everything, but at the same time, philosophy can’t help me get out of this damn Monday.
“Live in the now? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying, focus on the things you can control and let go of the rest. You have today to have your tacos and eat them too. Does anything else really matter?”
Yes! Like living the rest of my life! She wants me to let go? Let go of what? I can’t hold on to anything. I take a deep breath. “But what can I do then? To make things change?”
Her eyes meet mine, full of knowledge and something else. Peace. “Change is inevitable. But it doesn’t matter. We all have to come to terms with the fact that we have no control over the world around us, regardless of the passage of time. Change isn’t anything to fear. Change that happens around you doesn’t matter. It’s out of your control. There is only one thing we truly have power over.”
“What is it?”
Her brows lift. “Ourselves, of course. If you truly want change, it starts with you. When you’re on the right path, you’ll know.”
“How will I know?”
“Look for the signs. Trust yourself. You’ll know.”
Easy for her to say. I bet most of my signs will say “dead end.”
“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “That’s great. I can change myself. Look for the signs. But that doesn’t really answer my question. How do I get out?”
“The only way out is through, and the only way through is to love, Jane.”
Well, that was basically useless. The only way out is through, and the only way through is to love. Love who? What does that even mean? Does it mean I have to fall in love with someone? Or get someone to love me? In one day? I’m twenty-five and I haven’t been able to get someone to fall in love with me in the two and a half decades of my life. Doing it in one day seems an exercise in futility.
I pace back and forth in front of my couch, wearing a path in the carpet, throwing my hands up periodically, and muttering to myself.
“I can control me.” Great. What about everything else? Everything that happens to me, everything other people do to me? How do I stop all that?
I cease pacing and close my eyes.
There have to be some positives to this situation and I have to find them or I’m going to drive myself into . . . something worse than what I’m already experiencing.
List. I need a list. Lists put things in order. Being able to see it all written out in black and white, something I can control.
Grabbing a pen and small notebook, I sit on the couch and start writing.
What can I be grateful for?
I’m still alive.
I’m not in any kind of physical pain, only emotional.
I never have to pay rent again. Or any other bill. My bank account balance will revert back to normal each day—at least I think it will since I can’t check it anyway. Should I write it down if it can’t be confirmed?
Might as well.
I can do whatever I want and no one will remember the next day. I could go into work naked and it wouldn’t matter. It would be like it never even happened.
I snort out a laugh. As if I could ever do something like that, even if it would be forgotten by everyone forever. I can barely handle talking in front of people fully clothed, let alone naked.
I want tacos. Food might help me think more clearly.
A couple hours later, I’m heading home with a bag of food and a crap ton of beautiful fabric I’ve been eyeing for months but was never brave enough to buy without risking homelessness.
And I found an old pay phone I had never noticed, back in the corner of the shopping center near the freeway. It was dirty and there was gum on the mouthpiece, but it worked. Tomorrow, if it’s still Monday, I’m taking a cab.
I’m halfway down my block, almost to the front gate of my apartment, when a tall figure with sleek black hair emerges from the front entrance and turns at the sidewalk, heading in the opposite direction. Even from a distance, I know the stride, the set shoulders, the shiny hair.
Eloise.
My sister.
I don’t call out. I don’t say anything. I don’t want to talk to her.
Not yet.
I glance at my watch. It’s just after three. Now I know what time to avoid running into her.
Once she’s disappeared, I head upstairs and eat my tacos, alone in the comfort of my familiar apartment.
Then I resume my endless thinking. And pacing. Thinking and pacing, while writing up a new ad idea for tomorrow. Something with love. If the child psychic says I need to get through this with love, that’s what I’ll focus on. Two lovers estranged, brought back together with the Splice app?
I scribble down notes, mind a whir of activity.
I’m going to fix this day. I’m going to come up with a new pitch and show them I can do it. That I have value. That I can fit. Maybe I’ll even get to keep my job. Maybe I can keep going over and over until I get it right, figure it out. Maybe this is a chance from the universe to get what I want.
Or I’m dead and this is hell.
Or tomorrow, I’ll wake up and it will be Tuesday and I’ll just have ruined my own life by blowing most of my money on fabric, tacos, and teenage psychics.
I put all the fabric I purchased in the closet, along with some written ideas for a new pitch.
Tomorrow, we’ll see what happens.
I lie in bed and try to think more positive thoughts. I can find a way to do something—take action. Like with the magic closet.
The neighbor is crying again. Muffled sobs. The soundtrack of my new life.
I pull a pillow over my head.
I have control of my choices and actions. I can get out through love.
The teenage psychic told me so. Spiritual advisor. Bah!
Except . . . disbelief wars with hope in my brain, a thought I’ve been avoiding all afternoon rising to the surface.
She called me Jane. I’m sure I never told her my name.