Deja Who (Insighter #1)(17)
“I believe you, duckling. See you in a few hours.” He dropped a fast kiss to her right cheek and she was so surprised she played statue and watched him hurry out the door and back into the world.
Odd man. A very odd man.
NINE
Her nine o’clock was disgruntled. He had been waiting in the parking lot until the office opened, and Deb, used to dealing with aggrieved clients, let him in. Not for nothing did they have a metal detector at the entrance, as well as security guards, and once he’d been cleared, she called Leah to warn that her 3:00 p.m. was six hours early.
Leah knew from experience that making them wait not only didn’t work, it often backfired. They sat out front and struggled with whatever hidden nastiness Leah had been able to help them unearth. Follow-up care was not yet mandated by law—some compared a post-Insighting session to sub-drop—but patients had to sign waivers indicating their refusal of treatment.
So she knew the best way to handle it was to see Charlie Reynolds at once. He declined beverages and a chair, Leah made sure to keep the desk between them, and he got right to it: “You didn’t help me even a little. You just made everything worse.”
“How is that possible?” she asked mildly, “when I only spent forty minutes with you months ago and you never came back? You can’t even get stitches in forty minutes, and I ought to know. So much paperwork.”
“You were supposed to help me,” he continued doggedly. Reynolds was neatly dressed in a dark gray suit, white dress shirt, black tie, black shoes. He had a fedora and was turning the rim over and over in his hands as he played with it and wouldn’t meet her eyes. She remembered during their session that the few times he could look at her, his gaze almost immediately skittered away.
“You came to me because your nightmares were starting to bleed into your waking hours. Your daydreams quickly became as bad. You feared you would lose your job as a corrections officer.”
“You have to be alert,” he told his hat, “all the time.”
“Yes, I imagine.”
“They have nothing to do but watch and figure out your patterns. Most of them don’t mind hurting you; it’s their version of pay-per-view. Not personal, just entertaining.” He shivered a little. “Not a good time to get lost inside your head.”
There was a long silence and just as Leah decided to break it, he continued. “But after you told me those things—those terrible things—it just got worse. And the pictures in my head—they’re always there now.” He shivered again. She knew it wasn’t the air—the office, with all the windows, no shades, and crap air-conditioning—was usually a brisk seventy-eight degrees in the summer. “Always there.”
“Yes, well, I warned you about that. Your subconscious is forcing you to face what you did in the thirteenth century.”
“That’s not what I wanted!”
“But it’s what you paid for,” she said gently, “and it’s what you got. You expected me to take away your nightmares and I told you that wasn’t how it worked. All I can do is pull away the curtain between your last life and this one. Once you see past it, you can do something about it. Or not, as is your choice. But you’re the one who has to take the next steps.”
“I was sleeping maybe four or five hours a night, and showing up late a couple times a month. Now I’m lucky if I get two hours and I was late five days this week. I figure one way or the other, this time next week I won’t have a job. Might not have anything.”
She nodded. Here was a perfect example of how the laws of the land and HMOs had yet to catch up to the reality of psychological fallout from past lives. Reynolds’s job should have been protected under the Family Medical Leave Act. His past was inflicting psychological damage, he should be able to get penalty-free time off to deal with it. Leah saw it as no different than getting a diagnosis of chronic depression and needing time off to adjust: therapy, meds, related psychological issues.
In a perfect world (or at least a less awful one), yes. As things were now, it wasn’t illegal or discriminatory to fire people when their past lives were bleeding over into their jobs.
“Mr. Reynolds, I am sorry. But I explained all this to you at your session.” He still wouldn’t meet her eyes, so she addressed her comments to his tie. “And I strongly encouraged follow-up. I also sent several letters to your home. We don’t advise dealing with this on your own; it’s too much for most people. The system is in place to help you deal with resurfaced memories—even if it’s not yet in place to allow for job protection.”
“You have to make it stop.”
“You have to make it stop.” Leah couldn’t see his dreams, but she could imagine. Even now, historians weren’t sure how many blond, blue-eyed boys Gilles de Rais tortured, raped, and killed. Conservative estimates put it at sixty; some maintain the number is closer to six hundred. Charlie Reynolds knew, but Leah doubted he was interested in being forthcoming. Even one little boy murdered so horrifically would have been too many and she wasn’t without sympathy for his plight. But compassion warred with irritation. She had explained these things. He said he understood. She had warned him. He said it was fine. When he hadn’t returned for follow-up, she’d left messages that were never returned, sent letters which were returned unopened, finally sent one by registered mail to be sure he was getting them. He was, and chose to do nothing.