Chapter 2

Elle

I barrel through the glass doors of the lab, my heart hammering in my chest like a drumline. I'm late—again—for the Carrier meeting, and the smell of Lysol does nothing to calm my nerves. I scan the room; there's no escaping it, every seat is taken. With a silent curse, I kneel awkwardly at the only space available, a gap between two chairs at the long table.

"Elle, since you've just joined us," my boss starts, his voice dripping with amusement, "perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts on the new specimen tracking system?"

My hand shoots up before I even register the snickers around me. Too late, I realize that from behind the table, only my eyes and furrowed brow are visible to the rest of the group. I launch into my answer anyway, determined to prove my worth beyond my punctuality—or lack thereof.

As I talk, I can feel the laughter bubbling around me like a pot threatening to boil over. The moment I finish, the room erupts. My cheeks burn, but I shrug it off, raising my arms in a helpless 'what can you do?' gesture. I can’t do anything other than laugh along, letting the sound wash over me.

"Classic Elle," one of my coworkers says and chuckles.

"Next time we'll get you a booster seat," another Carrier teases.

"Or maybe a periscope," I quip back, and our laughter melds together.

It only takes me a few minutes to grab my empty coolers with dry ice, load up my lab assigned minivan, and hit the road.

The lab fades in the rearview mirror as I steer my vehicle onto the roads of Charleston. The day's mission: to collect samples from clinics dotted around the city. At each stop, I exchange pleasantries with receptionists and medical staff.

"Morning, Elle! Late rush today?" asks the smiling receptionist at the first clinic.

"Always racing against time," I reply with a chuckle, gathering vials like precious gems.

"Tell me about it," she sighs, handing me a clipboard. "You're like the sandpiper—swift and uncatchable."

"Better swift than slow," I shoot back, my thumb unconsciously finding its way to my mouth. I catch myself and pull it away, replacing the nervous habit with a grin.

"Take care, Elle!" she calls out as I leave, the door jingling behind me.

Each interaction is brief but genuine. There's comfort in this routine, in the easy banter that flows naturally.

The sun climbs higher as I make my way to the next pickup. But this time, the clinic's door opens to a flustered nurse who greets me with an apologetic frown instead of the usual batch of lab samples.

"Elle, I'm so sorry, but we're running behind. The labs aren't ready yet," she explains.

"Hey, no worries," I say, leaning against the counter with practiced ease. "I'll just do a quick Charleston shuffle around your waiting room. You know, for the cardio."

She chuckles, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction. "I'll try and hurry them along for you."

"Take your time. Quality over speed, right?" I offer a reassuring smile, though inside, I'm calculating the ripple effect this delay will have on my schedule.

"Thank you, Elle. You're always so understanding," she says, rushing back to the chaos beyond the reception area.

"Understanding is my middle name," I call after her, earning a smile from a patient in the waiting room. "Well, not really. It's actually Rebecca, but that doesn't have quite the same ring to it."

"Rebecca's a lovely name," the elderly man responds, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Thanks, but I prefer Elle. It's short, sweet, and to the point—like me!" I wink, leaning one hip against the counter while I wait.

"Except when you're waiting on lab results, I bet," he laughs.

"Got me there," I concede, my laughter mingling with his.

By the time the nurse returns with the samples, and I collect the vials with a nod of gratitude, my internal clock is urging me to make up for lost time.

"Good luck out there, Elle. And thank you," the nurse says, relief clear in her voice.

"Anytime," I reply, slipping into the driver's seat of my van. The day's hiccup won't derail me; it's just another part of the rhythm of life.

I close the door of my company van with a gentle click. My thumb finds its way to my mouth, an old habit when the stress begins to simmer beneath my skin. I chew thoughtfully as I tap the steering wheel, mulling over the next stop, the ticking clock, and the delicate balance of tasks.

The van hums softly, a background lullaby to the racing thoughts in my head. My next stop is break time under a tree in an empty parking lot. With each nibble on my nail, I reiterate to myself that I can't afford to slip. Not when every moment is a step toward the future I've painstakingly charted for myself. The burdens I carry, the goals I have for myself that are nestled deep within, they're mine to conquer. And I will – one chewed nail at a time.

After I’m safely parked, I pick up my phone from sitting quietly beside me. I swipe through pages of online programs, nursing schools that are pinpricks of light in the distance.

"Online classes," I mutter to myself, "flexible schedules, financial aid..." The words are ones to transform dreams into reality. I take a deep breath and exhale out.

"Let's see... prerequisites completed, personal statement polished," I recite the checklist. My gaze catches the reflection in the rearview mirror of my crystal blue eyes that hold stories untold, framed by laugh lines and the sheer force of will.

My thumb hovers away from my mouth now, poised instead above the 'Apply Now' button. One click, and the journey begins. Or ends with a swift rejection letter.

I move my thumb a centimeter closer to the phone screen but freeze. Maybe I need some more money first. Just a few more months of my nighttime job and this job’s paychecks, then I’ll be ready.

Anyway, break's over, school applications will have to wait. I start the engine and merge back onto the road.

The sun is setting as I pull into the Lab processing center.

"Last stop of the night, and then home to Love Beach," I whisper to myself, thumb now idly tapping the steering wheel to the beat of an old tune humming from the radio.

With practiced efficiency, I gather the plastic coolers containing the day's lab samples. The clang of the car door shutting behind me is the sound of the end of another segment in my daily rhythm.

"Evening, Elle!" greets the lab technician on duty, his voice echoing slightly in the sterile hallways.

"Hey," I reply, flashing a quick grin before placing the containers onto the floor in front of the counter.

My eyes flicker over the list, mentally ticking off each collection as I hand them over. That's when I notice a discrepancy. There's one missing, an important sample that should have been picked up from Dr. Hammond's office, but it's not among the others. My heart skips a beat, then races.

"Got everything?" the tech asks, nonchalantly scanning the labels.

"Almost." I frown, rifling through the cases again, hoping for a mistake on my part, that the vial has been misplaced.

"Let me check the van." My casual tone belies the knot of tension in my stomach. I'm already calculating the delay, the drive back to the office, the search.

"Sure thing," he nods, unaware of the gravity that one missing sample holds over my schedule and making it on time to my second job.

Outside, I comb through the vehicle, lifting mats, peering into crevices, but come up empty-handed.

"Where are you?" I mutter to the stupid little missing thing.

I lean against the van and close my eyes, take a deep breath, letting the distant murmur of traffic fill my ears, trying to steady the tremor of uncertainty.

"Come on, Elle, think," I urge myself. I can't afford mistakes, not with missing tonight’s shift and not making the much-needed paycheck, not with the need to prove I’m capable of making the money to achieve my goals of nursing school.

"Okay, do a mental backtrack," I say aloud, opening my eyes. "Dr. Hammond's, the receptionist, the hand-off..."

A memory clicks. The receptionist had been flustered with the office busier than usual. The sample could've been mixed in with the others because she only handed me one bag. It has to be there. I nod to myself, and I head back inside to double count that collection bag.

"Hey, Greg," I call out as I enter the processing area again. "I think the missing sample might be in the bag from Dr. Hammond's office."

"Really?" he raises an eyebrow. "Let's take a look then."

We carefully empty the contents of the bag onto a clean table, sorting through each vial and comparing them with the list of pickups.

"Here it is!" I exclaim, holding up the missing vial. "It was just hiding among the others."

"Nice catch." Greg grins.

"Now let's get this all wrapped up so we can call it a day,” I reply.

"Agreed," he chuckles, helping me reorganize the samples and checking off the corrected list.

"That’s all of them. Thank you, Greg." I smile, appreciating his help. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Take care, Elle," he calls after me as I wave goodbye and head out.

As I drive through the streets of Charleston and onto the highway that’s a short drive to Love Beach, I think about what kind of calls I might receive during my shift as a phone psychic. Lately, all the callers seem to think I’m more of a therapist rather than telling their fortune.

"Maybe someone will ask for advice on their love life," I muse, tapping my fingers lightly on the steering wheel. "Or perhaps they'll need help choosing a winning lottery ticket." I chuckle at the thought, knowing that despite its comedic nature, this job helps me connect with people who are seeking comfort and guidance. Ironically, that’s something I can relate to.

The beach comes into view first, and then with a right turn at the seawall, I arrive at Serenity Village, a tiny home community. I park the car and stroll toward my front door, taking in the scent of the ocean air. With a sigh, I unlock the door and step inside, immediately kicking off my shoes. My blue and white cozy little sanctuary of a home fills me with a sense of comfort.

I grab a glass of water and settle down at my small two-seater table that dubs as a desk. "Time to switch gears and prepare for some interesting conversations."

I log into the phone platform, adjusting my headset and waiting for the first call to come through. Within moments, the line buzzes, and I wait for the electronic system to connect my first call.

"Thank you for calling into Miss Tusaine’s Readings for the Divine. I’m Lavender Meadows, your psychic for the next thirty minutes. How can I assist you?"

"Yeah, uhm," the caller begins hesitantly. "I, uhm, have a bit of an unusual situation. My cat, Mr. Whiskers, has been acting strange lately. Do you think he's trying to tell me something?"

Suppressing a grin, I lean back in my chair, ready to offer any counsel I can. "Well, let's see if we can figure it out, shall we? Tell me more about what's been going on with Mr. Whiskers."

As the caller recounts their feline's antics, I listen intently, offering occasional words of encouragement to keep talking. Though my psychic abilities may not be, let’s just say, up to par as what others claim to be. I do understand that sometimes people simply need someone to talk to, and I'm more than happy to be that person.

I diligently watch the minutes tick down on the computer screen that’s connecting our call, and to the second when the thirty minutes are up, I interrupt Mr. Whiskers life’s story. “So sorry, I don’t mean to cut you off. Thank you for calling in, our time is up for the night.”

"Oh, uhm, yes. Of course. Thank you," the caller responds. "Have a good night."

"You as well. If you ever need to chat again, don't hesitate to call back into Miss Tusaine’s Readings for the Divine. Thank you." With that, I hang up the phone and brace myself for bizarre requests or entertaining stories my next few callers might have in store.