I took the box to the counter and filled up my electric kettle. I used to microwave my water for tea until a British student in my dorm saw me one night and insisted on giving me her old electric kettle.
After using it a few times, I had to admit I could see her point. It still worked even now, four years later, so I used it whenever I had a yen for tea or the homemade hot chocolate mix my mother made up for me every fall.
While my tea steeped, I stuck two pieces of wheat bread in the toaster and left them inside just long enough to give them a light crust. The idea of the crunchy toast I usually made left a sour feeling in my already tender belly.
Sure enough, after a piece of dry toast and half a cup of tea, I was already feeling better. By the time I finished my small meal, I was nearly normal so I risked a carton of yogurt.
At least if it came up later, it wouldn't be so bad.
I checked my temperature but it was normal, so I assumed that my blood sugar had gotten too low because dinner last night had consisted of four crackers and a couple of pieces of cheese. I'd been too tired for anything else before I fell into bed and slept ten hours.
As I was eating my yogurt and drinking another cup of tea, I glanced out my kitchen window and saw the little plastic bowl overturned on the back porch. It seemed my friendly neighborhood raccoon had come to eat last night. I walked outside, righted the bowl, dropped a scoop of food in it, and slid it under the short plant stand against the house. I always left a snack out for Rascal the Raccoon since the first time he'd turned up at my house, skinny and not much more than a baby.
Once that little chore was done, I took a quick shower and dressed but the nausea never returned. In fact, I felt great an hour later when I left the house to go to clean Mrs. Phelps' little home. It would only take me a couple of hours and I would make sure to keep my distance from her if she was there.
Sometimes she would hang around, chatting, while I cleaned, and others she would be out with her book club or on a walk with her little Yorkie puppy named Punky.
Mrs. Phelps was in her eighties and I swore her social life was more interesting than mine.
As luck would have it, Mrs. Phelps was there that morning when I pulled up in front of her house. Since I didn't know if she would need to leave before I finished, I parked at the curb and walked across the paving stones to the front porch. I could hear Punky barking inside and smiled a little to myself.
I gave the door a cursory knock, more to let her know I was there than to get her to open the door, and used the key she'd given me.
I stuck my head inside, keeping the door shut close enough to keep Punky from running out into the yard. I was feeling better, but I didn't think I would be spry enough to catch him if he got away from me.
"Mrs. Phelps, it's Lee!"
"I've told you to use the key and come on in every week, young lady. Why do you insist on knocking and announcing yourself like that?"
I stepped into the house and shut the front door behind me. Her voice had come from the kitchen so that's where I headed first.
When I came around the corner, I found her leaning against the little island in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand. She wore loose exercise pants and a light t-shirt. Her face glowed pink from both exertion and sweat. She must have just come back from her morning walk.
"Well, Mrs. Phelps, I know you've got a boyfriend and I don't want to accidentally walk in on something I shouldn't be seeing," I answered, batting my eyelashes at her.
She scoffed and shook her head at me. "Stop blinking your eyes like some brainless twit. You know darn well I don't have a boyfriend."
"Maybe not today but there's always a chance it'll be different next week."
She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her coffee. Her face was lined and her hair was a soft, snowy white, but her