Deja Who (Insighter #1)(39)

TWENTY-FIVE


“You have no. Good. Stories.” Archer was practically fetal on the couch. “I think I have to get up and go kill myself now.”

Why do I keep telling him these things? To test him? To test herself? To show him the things she sees and knows, an Insighter reaching for the life-blind? She didn’t know. But she leaned forward and smoothed his hair away from his face. “It’s not so bad.”

“It’s your life, Leah. And it’s very bad. They’re all very very very very very very very very—”

“Archer.”

“—very very very very very very very—”

“For God’s sake.”

“—very very very bad.”

“But it isn’t.” When he blinked up at her she elaborated. “Yes, those things happened, but it’s like watching a movie. I can tell you what Fred Barker’s favorite color was but not how he felt when he bit into a slice of watermelon. I don’t feel him. Them. I just know things about them.”

“And at least one of them was screwed over by her mother. Your mother, I mean.” Anger, now, but not heated. She could almost feel the chill coming off him.

“It’s her nature,” she said softly. “Nothing to be done about it.”

“Oh, bullshit.” Abruptly he sat up and wriggled his shoulders in what she assumed was an attempt to physically shake off the anger. “This is my big problem with the whole Insight industry.”

This should be interesting. She raised her eyebrows, wordlessly encouraging him to continue.

“It’s like when someone finds out the reason they’re a raging bitch in this life is because they were a raging bitch in the last one, and suddenly that’s it. Case closed. ‘Nothing to be done about it.’ Nobody tries to improve. Nobody asks themselves why they feel compelled to be a jackass. It’s more about embracing your old inner bitch. You know what would be even better? Family therapy.”

“Sorry, what?” There was never a need for such a thing. Insighters covered . . . well . . . everything. They were available for children, adults, and the elderly. They worked in hospitals and schools, and were everywhere in the legal system: they advised lawyers, they were in the courtroom when clients got sentenced, in the prisons where clients paid their debt. They were in schools and nursing homes and, sometimes, funeral homes. (Although by then, it was often too late for the Insighter to do much besides, “Yes, well, he died. Again, I mean.”)

“You know, a setup where the whole family could go talk to somebody, a professional, not about their past life garbage but where and why they’re making wrong turns in this life. They could, mmmm, talk about their feelings and how they felt when they did whatever it is that’s wrecking their life and how they plan to not keep doing it. They can make their own lives better.”

She tried to swallow the laugh, but it escaped anyway. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she gasped, “it just sounds absurd. Sitting around talking without going back at all. Or, rather, talking but only going back to your life at that time. It would never work. Frankly, only someone who . . . uh . . .” Too late, she realized the rest of the sentence: “was life-blind could come up with such a spectacularly ignorant idea.” “. . . uh . . .”

“And,” he sighed, sounding equal parts annoyed and enthralled, “you also look gorgeous when you blush as you’ve just realized you’re sounding like an entitled jerk who is quick to dismiss any therapy outside of her own profession.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Sorry to laugh and sorry to immediately discount your idea. I just don’t see the need for that service when people like me are here.”

“That,” he said, quirking an eyebrow at her, “might be part of the problem.”

“Maybe family therapy would be a good idea for the life-blind, though.” Now that she was giving it some thought, it seemed almost . . . logical? There were next to no resources for the life-blind; if they had a problem, there wasn’t much set up in the system to help them. And if they were true rasa, the theory went that they didn’t need anything in the system to help them. But the therapy thing sounded interesting. “Although now that I think about it . . .” Then she heard it, and forgot everything.

“Oh my God, is that your ringtone?”

She had frozen at the sound. Her phone, across the room on top of her desk, was shrieking in Faye Dunaway’s voice, “I told you! No wire hangers, ever!”

“Is that Mommie Dearest?”

“Big fan of cult camp classics, hmm?”

“Not me. My dad. Interesting choice for your ringtone.”

Leah shrugged, uncomfortable but unable to squash the small smile, then crossed the room to pick up her phone. “I know, it’s childish and petty.”

“Yeah, well, so’s your mom. Why would she call you? Is that a thing?” Archer’s eyes went wide as he considered the possibilities. “Does she call you? Especially after you’ve sworn you’re done with her forever? She blows off your murder and you march out and then a day later she calls and doesn’t apologize?”

“No.” Leah stared down at her phone, which was still trembling and shrilling, “No wire hangers, ever!” “That is not a thing. She does not do that.”