Unmissing(5)

“Hello?” I call out when I find the cash register abandoned.

Pan flute music plays from a room in the back. To my left, a wall of vibrant crystals requests my attention. Buckets upon buckets of them. Some raw, some shiny. Each container labeled with feminine handwriting on silver cardstock. Lapis lazuli. Obsidian. Tiger’s eye. Sodalite. Amazonite. Rose quartz. Citrine. Pyrite. Moonstone. Malachite. There must be a hundred of them.

Moving on, I pass a rack of angel cards with Archangel Barachiel prominently displayed as the “Angel of the Month.” Angel of blessings, it says.

I could use one or two of those . . .

“Anyone here?” I move closer to the main counter, stopping to examine a display case of evil-eye jewelry before moving to a shelf of various essential oil elixirs, some claiming to ward off negative energy and others promising to elicit true love.

A hollow quartz vessel rests on a stand on the countertop, along with a note that says STRIKE SINGING BOWL FOR SERVICE. I reach for the mallet . . . until a faint voice carries over the music.

A second later, the lace-and-paisley curtains in the back of the shop flutter, and a heavyset woman in a red parka emerges. Her wide stare catches mine, but her thin lips fail to transform into a greeting smile. As she comes closer, I spot streaks of wet mascara beneath her lower lashes.

“Hi, I’m—” I begin to introduce myself and stop when I spot the second woman—this one willowy and lithe, with Alaskan-blue eyes, frizzy white-blonde ringlets, and high cheekbones.

“Can I help you, angel?” she asks with a voice like spun sugar.

My response gets caught.

No one’s ever called me “angel” before.

The first lady pushes past me, making a beeline for the door and almost knocking over the angel card rack in the process. I turn and watch her tromp down the sidewalk before ducking inside her gray Mazda hatchback and slamming the door. She flicks the visor down, fixing her smudged makeup before tearing out of her parking spot.

“Is she okay?” I point toward the window.

“Oh, that’s just Gloria,” the woman says, a hint of a chuckle in her tone. “Comes in once a month for a reading. Apparently she didn’t like the one she got today . . . but she’ll be fine. Spirit never gives us more than we can handle.”

She speaks of “spirit” as casually as a waitress discussing blue plate specials.

I don’t let myself react.

I’m not here on some mystical journey, and I’m not here to judge—I’m simply here to get this job so I can find a place to live in Bent Creek and reunite with my husband.

“What brings you in today?” She clasps her hands together and rests them over her heart.

“I noticed the help wanted sign in your window,” I say.

Her oceanic eyes glint. “Ah. You’re looking for a job?”

I nod. “I’ll be honest—I’ve never worked retail before. But I’m a fast learner. And reliable.”

I’d add trustworthy, but in my experience, the only people who verbally label themselves as trustworthy to others are anything but. It’s one of those things that needs to be earned, proven, and shown.

“It would only be part-time.” She squints, studying me, and whether or not she realizes it, her gaze drops from my head to my toes and back. “Twenty, maybe thirty hours a week? Seasonal, too. Next month things start to pick up, and they don’t die down until about September.”

“That’s fine,” I say.

I thought about walking into the temp agency on Landmark Avenue, but given my appearance, I doubted they’d take me seriously. Not to mention, if they were to run my Social Security Number, it’d show up as belonging to a dead woman. While I’m fully prepared to get my life back in the very near future . . . first things first.

Last night I slept in the entryway of the post office on Fifth Street, and as soon as they opened, I bolted for the bathroom, washing my body and hair with handfuls of industrial pink hand soap until I no longer smelled like the outdoors and the musk of unwashed flesh.

This morning I passed a Laundromat, making a last-minute decision to kill some time inside, where it was warm and smelled like fabric softener. It was there I came across a frazzled mother of four who was mumbling under her breath about “assholes who take up dryers.” And then I watched in elated shock as she shoved an abandoned load of women’s clothing into a plastic basket and placed it on a table designated “lost and found.”

Two hours later, she loaded her sticky progeny and clean laundry into the back of her dusty minivan, and I wasted no time rifling through the deserted garb. It was impossibly wrinkled, likely left there for hours, if not all night. Days, maybe. But I managed to snag a complete outfit—and a spare, which I shoved in my backpack along with two mismatched pairs of socks.

I shift on my feet before stepping closer to the Bohemian-esque woman before me.

“I’m Lydia, by the way.” I extend my hand. Maybe I should’ve done that first—introduced myself—but this woman doesn’t strike me as formal, so I won’t sweat it.

I’m not exactly dressed for an interview in skinny black denim and a baggy leopard-print sweatshirt, but this is better than the ripped jeans and gray hoodie I’ve been wearing for the past two weeks as I hitchhiked my way up the coast. I only pray she doesn’t notice my shoes . . .