Huh?
The fear takes a minute tokick in. It starts as confusion, because this shouldn’t be possible. Then, the hairs on the back of my neck raise, and the room closes in. I must be super tired today for it to lag, because normally it’s banging down the door of my mind.
This number—myold number—is the one I had before the mugging.
I got a new one when I was trying to fix the identity theft issues. My phone hadn’t been in my bag, but the thief had opened additional phone lines on my credit cards, and I’d needed to cancel them all just to be sure. So this number shouldn’t be active. Or, it should belong to a total stranger.
Don’t get me wrong, New Hampshire is small, especially compared to other places, but it’s not like everyone here actually knows everyone else, especially not those of us that aren’t from around here.
I pull my front curtains closed, something I almost never do during the day because you can’t even see the road from my house, let alone other people.
Is someone watching me? No. It’s got to be a coincidence.
“I am safe. I am in my home. I am safe in my home.”
The first three numbersdocorrespond to the town of residence, so it’s possible that one of my neighbors got my old number. That’s got to be it. Maybe they’re trying to talk to someone else in our town and have one of the numbers off. I’ve fat fingered my fair share of things before. I’m not one of those people to fuck with wrong numbers or telemarketers, so I’m going to ignore it.
In no universe does my mugger have my number. The police said it wasn’t possible, I changed it, and they didn’t have access to my service account. My fingers twitch toward where I have the local police department saved in my contacts, but I stall. They aresosick of my shit by now… I don’t want them to have to calm me down. Again.
I certainly don’t want to listen to Sergeant Monotone drone on about the statistical unlikelihood of my attackerbothering me ever again, with such quips as, “Opportunists just want to get away from the situation.”
No. I am safe. This is a weird coincidence, that’s all. Whoever has my old number now doesn’t know they’re talking to me. They think they’re talking to someone else. It’s a wrong number.
It has to be.
And if that’s the case—and itis, it has to be—the last thing I need is for some busybody in my town to find my new number so they can add me to bridge club or something. No, I am content to be the hermit lady in the woods, please leave me out of bridge. That’s it. That is what is happening.
Person A is trying to contact Person B and nag them about their lights. Maybe they are in one of those big communities where they all decorate. Hell, if I don’t answer, I’m doing Person B a favor! Person A won’t know they have the wrong number, and I’ll have bought Person B more time to do it when they please! Before I know it, I’ve built Person A up in my head to be some Karen, head of the HOA (of which there are extremely few here, but let’s ignore that) that corrals their neighbors into adequately performing holiday cheer.
No matter how I try, I can’t seem to believe my own story, so, for the rest of the day, I blame my unease on Person A.
Damn you, Person A, for ruining my day with even more anxiety than I normally experience!
My superpower, thankfully, is getting through a day while freaked out, yet not letting my clients see even a hint. I got into VA-ing because I have a background, and even a degree, in Stage Management for the theatre. But I decided after my third and final internship at an adorable local company that the hours really didn’t suit the kind of life I wanted, even if I was really good at it. My advisor always told me to be like a duck, smooth above the water and paddling like hell below. “Actors can sense fear,” she’d say. “Never let ‘em see you crack.”
Now my clients are my actors, and it’s all worked out really well. Sure, I had to work some jobs that had absolutely nothing to do with my degree for a few years before I fell into VA-ing when my old boss needed to suddenly work remotely, but once I’d gotten a taste, I knew that I’d be stellar at it. And I am.
Days like today are a dime a dozen for me. I go about my day on the edge of a panic attack, Henry sleeps, and I keep my clients’ lives running like a well-oiled machine. Reservations are made, tickets are purchased, school lunch accounts are refilled, and resumes for new nannies are sent along in spite of my brain.
The monotony of the day doesn’t lull me into a sense of security; I jump when the delivery truck crunches down my gravel drive. When he was younger, Henry used to bark at sounds outdoors, but now I’m lucky if he wakes up. Soon, even the delivery trucks won’t be able to get down my road, and they’ll leave them with the intrepid mailman instead. Those big corporations might not let their trucks come down my snowy dirt road, but the good ol’ postal service doesn’t stop service here unless it’sreallybad. I’ll get them when I can bring myself to walk down my long driveway to the mailbox. Or, lucky me, Tom will take them to put on my porch even though I’ve asked him not to.
As soon as I hear the wheels, I yell at my smart speaker to turn off all the lights and run to my kitchen where I can watch the drive from a safe distance. Henry doesn’t move from his space by the fire—he’s used to my antics by now.
“I am safe. I am in my home. He cannot come inside.” My mantra is flexible when needed.
I crouch low and look over my countertop, past the dining table, past the couches and ideally placed cushions, and out the front window to where I can barely make out the truck through the sheer curtains. My heart thumps as if I’m running a marathon as I watch the shadows outside while repeatingmy mantra. The brakes squeal as it pulls to a stop, and I hear the door roll open before there is the telltale clomp of footsteps on my porch.
This poor delivery man must think I’m never home, because no matter what day or time he comes, the lights are out. Some days, when I can’t bring myself to open the door and fetch the packages, he has to pile new ones on top. The only way he probably knows I am real is because the packages do eventually disappear, and I gave him a holiday card and a gift card for coffee last year. Otherwise, my house might as well be uninhabited.
This time, between my mantra and how quickly he leaves, it seems I’ve beaten back my panic. See! Iamsafe. He brought the packages and left, and now I get to look through the boxes!
It’s the little things that help me keep it together these days.
I’m eager to see the wrapping paper for Fae, so I wait for him to drive out of sight before turning the lights back on and scurrying out to claim all of my packages. There are more than I expected, but that’s notthatodd. After my freak out last night, I can barely remember what all I even bought.
It’s a blur.
I want to ensure they are all right for Fae, so I start piling the boxes on the dining table and immediately open them. The first few things look as I expected, but things turn south when I open a secondbox long enough for wrapping paper. It’s entirely wrong.
