Story: 2021, Week 20 – Quarantine, Chapter 1: Surprise!

Alright, this is a day late. And I wanted to let this play out a little bit. It’s unapologetically weird. And it’s in chapters! Chapter 1 today, and I hope to get new chapters soon (like, maybe tomorrow? Saturday? Soon…). Okay, let’s see how Amie’s pandemic started…

Monday, March 2, 2020 started pretty normally. I woke up late – normal. I found a mostly clean dress and set a reminder to do laundry – still normal. Put food down for William Ignatius George Grover Lawrence Eliot Smith II (my cat, WIGGLES) – normal. He looked at me, looked at the food, then looked back at me like, “This is the best you’ve got?”

“Yes, Wiggles, that’s what you’re getting.”

He looked back at his food. Then back at me like “You wore that dress on Friday.”

“I know, Wiggles, I know,” I said tying my hair back. “We’re doing laundry tonight.”

He meowed dismissively and begrudgingly started eating his cat food.

I recognized that I need to stop having imaginary conversations with my cat – still normal.

Balanced my grande non-fat chai latte and my breakfast sandwich as I hit the button for the second floor. Didn’t spill anything (okay, very little), hung up my purse, started my computer booting, leaned back in my chair and took a long breath and tried to get myself into the headspace for a new week – normal. 

“You know you they frown at sleeping on the job,” a voice startled me and I jumped in my seat. “Whoa! Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you!”

“Peter!” I said, trying to regain my composure. He was early and I wasn’t prepared to flirt this early – okay, so, yeah, this is the start where things got less normal. “Ahem, sorry, just, you know, meditating for the new week. What, err, how was your weekend?”

He smiled.

I melted.

“Good, good. Have you checked your email yet?” he looked past me and saw my machine just got to the Windows log in. “Oh, guess not.”

“No, what’s up? Who’s fired?”

“No, no one. It’s that virus…”

“Ooh,” I leaned forward, “Who got a virus? Was it from porn? Who downloaded porn at work? Eliot in QA, right? It was totally Eliot!”

“What?” Peter looked confused. “No, no, not that kind of virus. That Covid 19 one that came over from China?”

“That’s a lot less exciting than Eliot getting busted for porn,” I said. I looked at my watch, “Day’s still early, though. He still might… Wait, Covid 19?”

“Weirdo,” he smiled again. Why does he keep doing that?!

I bowed my head. “Guilty,” I said. “So… Covid-19?”

“We’re going home. I’m heading out right now. Didn’t know if Dean talked to you guys yet?”

“Going home?”

“Work from home. Quarantine. Guess this shit’s serious!”

“What? Seriously?” My desk phone rang. “It’s Dean,” I said looking at the caller ID.

“That’s probably it. I’ll catch up with you later!” he said and then disappeared and all my plants immediately wilted for his absence.

“Dean, you’re here early,” I started. In his office, grab Terry and Jessica on the way. Peter was right, we were going home, quarantine indefinitely, do we have the necessary equipment to do our job from home, yada yada yada.

Not. Normal.

Back at my cube, I stared around, evaluated what I needed to take and headed home.

As I approached the door I heard the deep thumping bass. At 10am? Seemingly coming from my door? I took my pepper spray out of my purse and cautiously put my hand on the knob. I could feel the vibrations of the loud music through the cool metal. I listened… “Mind Playing Tricks On Me” by the Geto Boys? What the hell? I jiggled the knob experimentally and it was still locked.

I should have been scared. I probably should have retreated to my car and called the cops. But I was pissed my morning flirting was cut short. I was pissed someone was listening to tracks from the golden age of hip hop without me (the song had changed to Pete Rock and C.L. Smooth’s “They Reminisce Over You”)! Someone’s getting pepper sprayed.

Here was my plan: quietly unlock the door, throw it open with one hand out ready to pepper spray whoever’s in there and has great taste in hip hop. The other hand will be ready to dial 911. Lock clicked, placed my keys in my purse, keyed 911 on my phone with my left thumb hovering over the dial button. Pepper spray ready, I threw open the door.

First thing I noticed was the disco ball. That was not hanging from the ceiling when I left. Second thing, the orange couch. I loved it, but it wasn’t mine. Third thing, my cat, Wiggles, sitting on said couch like a person would, in the middle of taking a rip off a bong that was literally the same size as him.

So far from normal I couldn’t find normal on a goddamn map.

My pepper spray clattered to the floor.

“What the fuck?!”

I said it. Wiggles said it. Well, coughed it as he nearly dropped the green bong. The goat that stood in front of him caught the teetering glass cylinder in his horns.

“Good catch, Chuck,” Wiggles said to the goat.

“No, seriously, what the fuck?!” I yelled.

Wiggles looked back at me. “Uh Oh….” Appropriately, the song changed to “Scenario” by Tribe Called Quest. The cat stared at me. I stared at the cat. ‎Phife Dawg flowed on the track. Wiggles snapped (I still don’t understand how) and the music stopped, the goat disappeared, as did the disco ball. The couch, too, was replaced with my boring beige free couch. It was my house again. Wiggles flipped from his seated position to a more standard four-legged standing position, tilted his head and let out a perfectly normal, “Meow?”

Story: 2021, Week 18 – A Motorcycle Story: Jasmine

Not actually Jasmine. But same model, same year, same color. *sigh*

One of last week’s Five Things was Bring A Trailer and in the description, I mentioned a recent auction they had for a 1974 Honda CB360G motorcycle in practically mint condition. Since watching the walk-around video in the listing and listening to the engine settle into its sewing-machine like parallel-twin cadence, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about my old 1974 CB360T, or, as I called her, Jasmine. Remembering exploits on that thing remind me of the crazy, idealistic, reckless kid I was. There’s the old saying, “God looks out for old folks and fools,” well… I wasn’t an old man, but somehow I survived that transition from teenager to “adult” on that CB360 — which, I will note, had the same birthday as I did: October, 1974.

That wasn’t the first thing I noticed when I saw the motorcycle. Shawn had just gotten off at Orchard Supply Hardware and one of his coworkers was selling it. I noticed the color first – a teal green. It was the nineties, after all, and I don’t know how that color went over in 1974, but in the early nineties it fit right in. I also noticed it wasn’t running. Shawn was confident we could get it running easily. One of the mistakes I’d made was trusting Shawn’s mechanical acumen. I mean, he told us he rebuilt the engine in his Chevy stepside pickup himself and that was a lot more than any of us did, so…

I usually refer to the CB360 as my first motorcycle, but that’s not quite true. The summer after my dad died, I picked up a smaller Honda CB200. That first motorcycle was short lived. It was 1991 and we nicknamed that CB200 “Perot” because you never knew if it would run or not — nothing as evergreen as a 90’s political joke. It wasn’t long, though, until Perot wouldn’t go into first gear. Shawn said we could fix it. It would be easy. We’d have to “crack the cases” to get to the transmission, but that was fine. We started dissembling the bike, then we pulled the engine. To keep track of what nut and bolt went where, Shawn had a great system: everything went into a bucket. One bucket. All. The. Nuts. And. Bolts.

Perot (my Perot) never ran again. We never did crack the case. And knowing what goes into that process, it’s for the best.

But I suspect Shawn was feeling a little guilty for Perot’s fate when we looked at the CB360. “It’s just the carbs – we can rebuild those!” he said. I still believed him. Come to think of it, his truck never did seem to run perfectly. But I didn’t think about that then. We got it back to the garage at the house on Bonita we had moved to not too many months back and started working. True enough, it was just the carbs. Though, I think I managed to mess up the rebuild of at least one. But I learned. And soon enough Jasmine coughed to life.

So a note on the name “Jasmine.” Given when I got her (again, early nineties) I think most of my friends believed I had named the motorcycle after princess Jasmine in the Disney animated movie “Aladdin.” Not true. No, there was a flowering jasmine bush outside my window and in the morning I loved waking up to the smell of jasmine coming in through my (always) open window. Similarly, working on the motorcycle I found myself drawn to the smells of things in the garage – the metallic tang of used motor oil, the stale funk of old gasoline, the acerbic sting of carb cleaner. It wasn’t some kind of “Let’s huff fumes!” attraction, it was more that this was the olfactory imprint of the mechanical world, of a well-used garage and tools, and I was falling in love with it, like I had fallen in love with the morning scent of that jasmine bush. Jasmine. That’s where it comes from.

In high school I had the luxury of not relying on Jasmine as my primary transportation. I had a car (oh, stories there…), and I even acquired an old Spanish moped that my mom sewed a tiger striped seat cover for, I hose clamped a golf flag to the back, and with my Little Mermaid lunchbox bungied onto the front rack I’d mosey to school more often than not with my Birkenstock-clad feet stretched out on the running boards.

Yeah, I was that kid.

But I sold my car to pay for part of the first year at UCSC, and the moped wasn’t going to make it to Santa Cruz, so anytime I wanted to go farther than the bus would take me I had to rely on Jasmine. For a kid born in 1974, I was just coming into my own in 1993. But for a Honda twin of the same age, it was vintage. And I was pushing it way beyond what I should have…

The RA of my dorm that first year, Sol, and his friends were putting together the Cigar Aficionado club. It was their way of sort of putting a finger in the eye of the UC Santa Cruz hippie image, and I wanted in. I told my then-girlfriend about it and she couldn’t have more strenuously objected. She thought it was disgusting and how could I even think about it? That was a long-distance relationship that carried over from high school. She had gone to UC Berkeley, and I to UC Santa Cruz. I cared about her opinion even if she wasn’t there and I told Sol in the dining hall at lunch I wasn’t going to take part in that night’s first gathering. I still vividly remember what he said: “Jordy,” he had this cadence and presence that reminded me of Vito Corleone even though he was from Fremont, California, “I totally understand.” Dramatic pause. “But I’m going get an extra cigar for you in case you change your mind before tonight.” I thanked him, but assured him I wouldn’t be there.

After lunch I decided to take advantage of the gorgeous fall day and go for a ride. I still try to go back to Santa Cruz in the fall because the smell of the leaves mixed with the sea breeze… it’s utterly intoxicating. My mom forbid me to take the underpowered motorcycle on the notoriously dangerous Highway 17, so I knew well the serpentine Highway 9 that ran through the Santa Cruz mountains from Los Gatos to Santa Cruz, meandering through little towns among the redwoods. But on the other side of town ran Empire Grade, a road I’d never heard of (this was way before I could trace it on Google Maps) but looked inviting. I strapped on my helmet, zipped up my leather jacket and pointed Jasmine up Empire Grade.

We passed the West Entrance to campus and the road swept up and carried us out of sight. As the road climbed parts of it reminded me of the roads around Lake Tahoe where, only a few years before I’d ridden my bicycle with the redwoods giving way to pines as the road traced the ridge between the coast and the inner forests. Where the bike was underpowered on a contemporary freeway, this road with its gentle sweeping curves and undulating rises and falls were a perfect match and I was enjoying the hell out of it. I came over a rise and twisted the throttle to gain a little more momentum for the next rise ahead… and the throttle cable snapped.

I coasted to the side of the road and realized, for the first time in my life, I was stranded. The University lay at least a dozen miles back down the road. There were no cell phones back then, and even now there’s relatively no service up there. I was screwed. I locked my bike and tried hitchhiking – I’d already seen plenty of folks around campus hitchhiking into town and even if the notion scared the crap out of me what choice did I have? But it wasn’t a well-traveled road, and the dozen or so cars that passed didn’t even slow.

I went back to the bike and tried to reassess the problem. The Honda CB360 has a parallel twin engine with two carbs behind the cylinders with a little wheel between them that housed the throttle cable. Twist the grip, the cable gets pulled, the carbs open to let in more gas and air. The motorcycle still ran just fine. It just… idled, and that was it. But maybe I could feather the clutch to get a little motion and even if I had to push uphill, there were enough downhills that maybe I could coast it back – I mean it was Empire Grade after all. So I sat astride the bike, kick started it to life (the optional electric starter had long since died), pulled in the clutch, stepped down into first, and tried feathering the clutch. It… really didn’t work. But… you know… if I could get my hand down under the seat just so… between the carbs and the crankcase… if I could move my fingers in there between the carbs and push that wheel….

Vroom!

Holy crap.

Half bent over the right side of the bike, I manipulated the throttle again and, sure enough, the RPMs went up. I experimentally let the clutch out a little as I hunched over and gave it a little gas and… I was moving again! Yes, I only one hand on the handlebars. And, yes, I had the other arm contorted under my seat, but, goddamnit, I was moving again! I could make it home!

I knew it was crazy dangerous at the time. How do I know I knew? Because at some point as the wan light of the ancient Honda’s halogen headlight split the growing dusk descending on Empire Grade that night, my reptile hind-brain decided it was the appropriate time to start singing the theme to “Indiana Jones And The Raiders Of The Lost Ark.” As I awkwardly steered the bike around curves with one arm I bellowed, “Duh duh duh-duh, duh duh duh! Duh de duh DUH, duh de DUH DUH DUH!” like a wildman.

I made it back through the East entrance and up the panoramic sweeping Coolidge Drive. I managed to turn in to Stevenson College, and pulled into the narrow motorcycle parking below my dorm. Only then did I extricate my arm from mechanical linkage and flipped the engine kill button. The headlight darkened as I turned the key off and I sat there in the twilight listening to the heat ticking of the quiescent engine and what I just did, the insanity of what I just managed to do swept over me like a cold wave of “What the hell were you thinking?!” The adrenaline that fueled my Indiana Jones bellowing body had drained and I was shaking.

I don’t remember dropping my helmet and jacket in my room, but I must have. I do remember making a beeline for the dining hall where Sol was finishing dinner. I walked up to the table and he stopped talking to someone mid-conversation. “Jordy,” he said, “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Sol,” I said, “I’m going to have that goddamned cigar tonight.”

I did, too. A Macanudo Portofino. It was divine.

I’ve got myriad Jasmine stories – the time I didn’t take her to the nude beach, the time I took her rear wheel on the bus over the hill to get a replacement tire, the time Owen and I rode it over the aforementioned Highway 17 TOGETHER…  yeah… crazy.

A few years later I got a new used bike and Jasmine languished under a tarp until I could find time and money to properly restore her. As these things do, it never happened. Fortunately, my friend Mark was interested in getting into motorcycling and was wondering what a good starter bike might be. Funny, I said, I happen to have one…

Story – 2021, Week 16: Ghost Therapy

Finding inspiration has been difficult lately – that goes for the whole pandemic, if I’m honest. So, when pressed for this one, I went to the (haunted) well that I usually use in October – ghosts. In April. Why not? Long after the fake skeletons are put away, and the fake spider webs are taken down, what happens when you’re still sharing your house with a ghost?

A popup reminder about her next Zoom therapy appointment boinged onto Aileen’s screen and she sighed deeply. She took a deep drink off the cold coffee next to her laptop, cleared her throat, set her features in her practiced Professional Therapist face and clicked the button to join the meeting.

Her picture, of course, and two others appeared on the screen. One, a woman in a lavender sweatshirt, her hair in messy bun, and the other… nothing.

“Hello, Sarah. Good to see you.”

“Hi Doctor,” the woman replied.

“And, Emma, I trust you’re there?”

“Oh, she’s there…” Sarah rolled her eyes.

“Will you let me answer for myself?” came the voice of an old woman. “Do you see what I put up with, doc? Do you see this?”

“What you put up with!” Sarah yelled back.

“Ladies, ladies, please,” Aileen calmed. “Emma,” she addressed the blank window, “How are you doing today?”

“Oh, glorious!” she said sarcastically. “This nimrod keeps pressing my buttons and will not get out of my house!”

“Hard to get out of your house when it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Besides, how can I go out with this pandemic still going on?”

“You don’t have to remind me about the pandemic, missy,” Emma’s voice retorted. “I’d still be living in this place if it weren’t for that stupid Covid…”

“Let’s talk about that,” Aileen tried to steer the conversation. “You’ve been dead, what, six months?”

“October 21st,” the voice said bitterly but got melancholier as she continued, “Alone. In the hospital…”

“Should have haunted there…” Sarah mumbled under her breath.

“I heard that!” Emma boomed. “You see, Doc? You see?”

“Sarah,” Aileen started, “Was that constructive?”

“It’s not constructive for the previous owner to haunt your dream apartment! It’s been six months, Doctor. A ghost is spooky in October, you know? You move in, things go bump, then she shows up and starts criticizing your breakfast, your clothes choice… everything!”

“It’s not my fault she’s a mess!” Emma’s voice commented.

“I tried to be understanding,” she turned her head to look where Emma ostensibly sat. “You died in a horrible way, and I’m really sorry about that. But this…,” she waved at Emma, “you need to cross over already!”

“How am I supposed to do that when you’re hear 24-7?” Emma said.

“It’s a pandemic! Where am I going to go? I have to work from home. Home! My home!”

“It’s still my home, too, missy.”

“Ugh!” Sarah gritted her teeth in frustration and blew a stray hair out of her face. “You’re a doctor of paranormal psychology. Why am I sharing my apartment rent-free? Still?!”

“I understand the frustration on both sides,” Aileen said calmly. “Emma, I’m guessing you’d prefer to move on instead of haunting this place that’s clearly no longer yours.”

“Darn right, toots.”

“Emma’s energy is understandably tied to this place you lived for, what? Twenty years?”

“Twenty-three,” the voice corrected.

“And, Sarah, it’s understandable that you’d want your own space without criticism.”

“I don’t think I’m asking too much…”

“No, but here we are six months after Emma died and she’s still here. You both understand that in October as you near Halloween the veil between this realm and the spirit realm thins… becomes more… permeable.”

“Okay,” Sarah said.

“When Emma passed in the hospital, without anchor, her energy…”

“My ghost.”

“Energy, ghost, spirit, whatever you want to call it, came back to this apartment.”

“Sure,” Sarah said, “That makes sense. But it’s April. Why is she still here?”

Aileen nodded thoughtfully for long moments. “I believe she’s basically… trapped on this side.”

“Trapped?” Emma and Sarah said in unison.

“So, you mean I’m stuck with Miss Sweatpants and sourdough until October?!”

“And I’ve got to put up with this biddy all up in my business?”

“Oh, as if you had any business to get up into! Maybe you’d be nicer if someone got up in your business!”

Aileen felt a blush as Sarah stared agog to the side of the screen where Emma would be sitting. “Ladies,” she said suppressing a smile, “Ladies, let’s get back on track. There’s not a lot of ghost business in April because it’s when the veil is the strongest. I suspect that if Emma were left alone in her house she might find a way to cross over on her own…”

“So, this is my fault?” Sarah asked accusingly.

“No,” Aileen interjected quickly, “It’s no one’s fault. It’s just the situation we’re in. Sarah, do you have an appointment for the vaccine yet?”

“I don’t.”

“She hasn’t even tried!” Emma said.

“Sarah?”

“For your information, Emma, I have been trying. And, in fact, I have an appointment on Friday.”

“Well, hallelujah!” Emma’s voice said. “I’ve only been prodding you since they released it!”

“That’s great news, Sarah,” Aileen said. “That’s a positive note that we’re going to have to leave this session on. I’ll see you both – well, I’ll speak with you both next week the same time?”

“Thanks Doc,” Emma said.

“That works for me,” Sarah said.

A week passed and the popup reminder boinged onto Aileen’s screen. She clicked on the link to join the Zoom meeting and was surprised to see just Sarah sitting there.

“Sarah? Is Emma not joining us today?”

“No, doctor. Emma is gone,” Sarah said and Aileen heard a distinct note of sadness in her voice.

“Gone? When?”

“After I got my shot. I came home and she said, ‘Took you long enough,’” she imitated Emma. “’Glad you’re not going to die like I did’, she said and then… faded away.” Tears welled up in Sarah’s eyes. “Doctor, do you think she was sticking around just to make sure I got the vaccine?”

“I think…” Aileen started but was cut off by a disembodied voice coming from the speakers.

“Nah, I was just there to watch that bum get voted out of office.”

“Well, that tracks,” Sarah said smiling.

“Of course, hon, I wanted you to get the shot,” Emma’s voice said. “Enjoy the place like I did. No, enjoy it more. Also, that guy in 309 has a thing for you. And you should take him up on it – I spied on him and, hubba-hubba, girl!”

“Emma!” Sarah said blushing deeply. But Emma had gone again.

“Well,” Aileen said after a prolonged silence. “I think we’re settled here.”

A popup reminder about her next Zoom therapy appointment boinged onto Aileen’s screen and she sighed deeply. She took a deep drink off the cold coffee next to her laptop, cleared her throat, set her features in her practiced Professional Therapist face and clicked the button to join the meeting.

Her picture, of course, and two others appeared on the screen. One, a woman in a lavender sweatshirt, her hair in messy bun, and the other… nothing.

“Hello, Sarah. Good to see you.”

“Hi Doctor,” the woman replied.

“And, Emma, I trust you’re there?”

“Oh, she’s there…” Sarah rolled her eyes.

“Will you let me answer for myself?” came the voice of an old woman. “Do you see what I put up with, doc? Do you see this?”

“What you put up with!” Sarah yelled back.

“Ladies, ladies, please,” Aileen calmed. “Emma,” she addressed the blank window, “How are you doing today?”

“Oh, glorious!” she said sarcastically. “This nimrod keeps pressing my buttons and will not get out of my house!”

“Hard to get out of your house when it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Besides, how can I go out with this pandemic still going on?”

“You don’t have to remind me about the pandemic, missy,” Emma’s voice retorted. “I’d still be living in this place if it weren’t for that stupid Covid…”

“Let’s talk about that,” Aileen tried to steer the conversation. “You’ve been dead, what, six months?”

“October 21st,” the voice said bitterly but got melancholier as she continued, “Alone. In the hospital…”

“Should have haunted there…” Sarah mumbled under her breath.

“I heard that!” Emma boomed. “You see, Doc? You see?”

“Sarah,” Aileen started, “Was that constructive?”

“It’s not constructive for the previous owner to haunt your dream apartment! It’s been six months, Doctor. A ghost is spooky in October, you know? You move in, things go bump, then she shows up and starts criticizing your breakfast, your clothes choice… everything!”

“It’s not my fault she’s a mess!” Emma’s voice commented.

“I tried to be understanding,” she turned her head to look where Emma ostensibly sat. “You died in a horrible way, and I’m really sorry about that. But this…,” she waved at Emma, “you need to cross over already!”

“How am I supposed to do that when you’re hear 24-7?” Emma said.

“It’s a pandemic! Where am I going to go? I have to work from home. Home! My home!”

“It’s still my home, too, missy.”

“Ugh!” Sarah gritted her teeth in frustration and blew a stray hair out of her face. “You’re a doctor of paranormal psychology. Why am I sharing my apartment rent-free? Still?!”

“I understand the frustration on both sides,” Aileen said calmly. “Emma, I’m guessing you’d prefer to move on instead of haunting this place that’s clearly no longer yours.”

“Darn right, toots.”

“Emma’s energy is understandably tied to this place you lived for, what? Twenty years?”

“Twenty-three,” the voice corrected.

“And, Sarah, it’s understandable that you’d want your own space without criticism.”

“I don’t think I’m asking too much…”

“No, but here we are six months after Emma died and she’s still here. You both understand that in October as you near Halloween the veil between this realm and the spirit realm thins… becomes more… permeable.”

“Okay,” Sarah said.

“When Emma passed in the hospital, without anchor, her energy…”

“My ghost.”

“Energy, ghost, spirit, whatever you want to call it, came back to this apartment.”

“Sure,” Sarah said, “That makes sense. But it’s April. Why is she still here?”

Aileen nodded thoughtfully for long moments. “I believe she’s basically… trapped on this side.”

“Trapped?” Emma and Sarah said in unison.

“So, you mean I’m stuck with Miss Sweatpants and sourdough until October?!”

“And I’ve got to put up with this biddy all up in my business?”

“Oh, as if you had any business to get up into! Maybe you’d be nicer if someone got up in your business!”

Aileen felt a blush as Sarah stared agog to the side of the screen where Emma would be sitting. “Ladies,” she said suppressing a smile, “Ladies, let’s get back on track. There’s not a lot of ghost business in April because it’s when the veil is the strongest. I suspect that if Emma were left alone in her house she might find a way to cross over on her own…”

“So, this is my fault?” Sarah asked accusingly.

“No,” Aileen interjected quickly, “It’s no one’s fault. It’s just the situation we’re in. Sarah, do you have an appointment for the vaccine yet?”

“I don’t.”

“She hasn’t even tried!” Emma said.

“Sarah?”

“For your information, Emma, I have been trying. And, in fact, I have an appointment on Friday.”

“Well, hallelujah!” Emma’s voice said. “I’ve only been prodding you since they released it!”

“That’s great news, Sarah,” Aileen said. “That’s a positive note that we’re going to have to leave this session on. I’ll see you both – well, I’ll speak with you both next week the same time?”

“Thanks Doc,” Emma said.

“That works for me,” Sarah said.

A week passed and the popup reminder boinged onto Aileen’s screen. She clicked on the link to join the Zoom meeting and was surprised to see just Sarah sitting there.

“Sarah? Is Emma not joining us today?”

“No, doctor. Emma is gone,” Sarah said and Aileen heard a distinct note of sadness in her voice.

“Gone? When?”

“After I got my shot. I came home and she said, ‘Took you long enough,’” she imitated Emma. “’Glad you’re not going to die like I did’, she said and then… faded away.” Tears welled up in Sarah’s eyes. “Doctor, do you think she was sticking around just to make sure I got the vaccine?”

“I think…” Aileen started but was cut off by a disembodied voice coming from the speakers.

“Nah, I was just there to watch that bum get voted out of office.”

“Well, that tracks,” Sarah said smiling.

“Of course, hon, I wanted you to get the shot,” Emma’s voice said. “Enjoy the place like I did. No, enjoy it more. Also, that guy in 309 has a thing for you. And you should take him up on it – I spied on him and, hubba-hubba, girl!”

“Emma!” Sarah said blushing deeply. But Emma had gone again.

“Well,” Aileen said after a prolonged silence. “I think we’re settled here.”