Remarkably Bright Creatures(33)
Something sloshes behind her, and when she turns, the octopus is already partway out of his tank.
Tova freezes, rapt. “Terry was right,” she whispers, watching the creature flatten one of his thick arms and, in a way that seems to defy the laws of physics, squeeze it through the narrow gap between pump and the lid. It should be impossible. The gap can’t be wider than a couple inches. When he somehow morphs his enormous mantle, easily as large as a late-August watermelon, into seemingly liquid goo and works that through as well, Tova realizes she’s actually holding her breath in anticipation.
She exhales as he slides down the wall, then slinks across the tile and slips under one of the cabinets against the wall, vanishing completely. When he doesn’t promptly reappear, Tova wonders whether he intends to return. Perhaps he’s escaping for good. She swallows, surprised at the sting she feels at the thought. Like he ought to have at least said goodbye.
“Oh, there you are,” she says as he emerges from under the cabinet a moment later. Looking her directly in the eye, he slides over and, with one of his curled arms, deposits a small silver object at the toe of her sneaker.
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.