We’d been working together in the same space for going on five years and I’d grown accustomed to her pointed looks, usually. Struggling to paste on my polite smile of perpetual calm, I glanced at the older woman. The kind of look parents everywhere administered to children when they were acting like a fool, as I sometimes caught Ms. It was the kind of look I imagined mothers gave their kids during teenage years. I sensed the older woman hesitate, and felt her disapproving eyes move over me. I stiffened, instinctively straightening my spine, and managed a raspy, “Yes, Ms. I stared unseeingly at the dark, solid wood surface of my desk while trying very, very hard not to FREAK THE FREAKITY FREAK OUT! Not waiting for his response, I ended the call and clutched my cell to my chest. “Your job.” His words were as flat as matzo. Uncle Eugene huffed, the sound ripe with impatience. Opal and anyone else who might walk through our shared space, I whispered, “Let me call you back.
“Please wait,” I whispered, dipping my chin to my chest, allowing my hair to fall forward. I heard a chair creak, and then he repeated, “He’s planning to have you committed.” The unexpectedly disastrous, panic-inducing call. It had been directed to the person on the other side of my call. “Sorry,” I said to her, even though my sharp question hadn’t been directed to Ms. Opal didn’t do this often-send me disapproving looks-just whenever I spoke too loudly. Mouth pinched into a disapproving pucker, my coworker’s gaze lingered on the cell in my hand. My sharp question earned me a sharp look from Ms.
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