For a rundown of my symptoms. “Any shortness of breath? Muscle or body aches? Loose stools or diarrhea?” he asked. Keeping the romance alive.
Daanis was silent. I squirmed at the sympathy in her gaze.
A knock on the door rescued me. “That’s probably another delivery. From Chris. He called and left a message. Earlier. I should go. You know, in case”—what?—“I need to put things in the fridge,” I finished, inspired. “All those vegetables.”
I ended the call and hobbled to the door, still swaddled in the comforter.
And maybe…maybe Chris was here, I thought, hope infiltrating my chest. I wasn’t being stupidly unrealistic. Imagining things. It had been two weeks. We could keep our distance. If I could just see him…
I yanked open the door, realizing—too late!—I should have grabbed a mask first.
My elderly neighbor stood in the hallway, his thin gray hair combed over his balding head. I took a step back. “Mr.Banerjee?”
“You have not collected your mail,” he said.
Warmth flushed my face. “Er, no. Sorry. I’ve been sick.”
“I thought so. I brought you tiffin.” He held out a pyramid of stainless steel containers, clamped together with a handle.
“Thank you! But you didn’t…I can’t…”
“A year ago, when I could not go out, you fed me,” he said. “Now I feed you.”
I smiled mistily, undone by his kindness. “Mr.Banerjee, I could kiss you. Iwouldkiss you, except I’m probably contagious.”
He withdrew in alarm. From the virus? Or the threatened show of affection? “I will leave it here for you.”
He set the lunchbox on the floor and retreated across the hall. I kept my distance, waving vigorously when he paused at the door of his apartment. He turned pink, ducking his head and smiling. Cheered, I grabbed the stack of containers and retired to my nest on the couch.
“Howareyou?” Sarah Thompson asked a few days later.
“Better,” I said optimistically. Which could have been more magical thinking, except I’d tested negative that morning. “That’s why I’m calling. I should be able to come back to work on Monday.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Sarah said. “Take this time to make a full recovery.”
“Thanks, Sarah. But, honestly, I want to come back.” I missed my kids. Stuck alone in my apartment, the minutes crawled and the hours flashed by. I couldn’t rest or read or relax. Instead, I’d spiraled down wormholes on the internet, googling articles on post-Covid hair loss and brain fog. “You and Ned can’t handle my classes forever.”
“Anne. You’ve been out a long time. I had no idea when you’d be back. Under the circumstances, Jim felt…” A pause, while a premonition crawled on the back of my neck like a spider. “We’ve hired a substitute for the remainder of the academic year.”
I struggled to breathe. There had to be something I could do. Something I should say. But my mind had gone blank. Static. It felt horribly like two years ago, when the university shut down. Everything changed. Nothing finished.
“The academic…” I repeated. “You mean, this year?”
“We haven’t made any permanent arrangements for the fall yet,” Sarah’s voice was measured. Kind. Professional. “You’re an excellent teacher. I’d hate to lose you. If you’d only apologize to the Quinns…”
I imagined it.Dear Mr.and Mrs.Quinn, I am sorry that you are stupid, closed-minded, book-banning fascists.
I swallowed. “What about my students? They’ll wonder what happened. They deserve an explanation. They need closure.”
“The students are used to your substitute now. I thinkyour return so close to the end of the school year would be more disruptive for everyone, not less.”
“But Colin—”
“Will not be in any of your classes next year,” Sarah said firmly.
“I’d like to at least say goodbye.”
Sarah sighed. “Anne, you know how short their memories are. These kids were raised on TikTok. They have the attention span of fruit flies. They won’t retain anything over the summer. Which makes this the perfect opportunity for you to put all this behind you.”
