Deja Who (Insighter #1)(42)

TWENTY-SEVEN


She was watching Archer staggering away from her car and realized she was panting, just a little, when her phone twitched again in her pocket, bleating, “No wire hangers, ever!” The noise was muffled due to placement, but no less unpleasant. Her lust instantly damped down and disappeared, ice water tossed on flames.

She fished the phone out and glared at it. Even Nellie couldn’t be this dense. Not after the Fuck You medley phone chat. Something wrong? Trouble at the old mill? Something she needed Leah, and just Leah, to handle? Was it possible? Did she have the nerve?

But I need you to pick me up at the clinic after the procedure. And while you’re there . . . I don’t mean to be insensitive, darling, but neither of us is getting younger. Now don’t worry, I already talked to Dr. Weinman and he’ll be happy to discuss a few simple procedures with you. He’s got your complete medical history and everything, so don’t eat anything the night before you pick me up . . . of course you don’t have to have anything done but if you come to your senses, you’ll be all set. Okay? Darling?

and

But the reporter won’t talk to me unless you’re there; People magazine is doing a “Where Are They Now” feature about celebrity moms. You can take the SATs next year . . . yes, it’s wonderful that most fifteen-year-olds don’t get invited to take it but that proves my point . . . there’s always next year, and also the year after.

and

But they loved you, they just loved you, and all you’ll need to do is diet down enough so you can play a young girl dying of anorexia and, yes, I know the part calls for a twelve-year-old and you’re fourteen, but once you skip enough meals you can pull it off. And darling, really, the dieting alone will bring us—you—more opportunities to work.

Did she have the nerve? Why was Leah even asking herself such an obvious question? Of course It had the nerve! It was made up of fifty percent ambition and fifty percent nerve (and zero percent maternal instinct.) A month ago she never would have asked herself the question. Gah, interaction with Archer was making her soft.

Even as she was wondering why she was doing such a thing, Leah held the phone to her ear. “What.” She held her breath, waiting for that lovely shimmering voice, the sound of pain.

And . . . nothing. Nellie was either marshaling new arguments

It’s not that I don’t love you, darling, it’s that you’re not especially lovable.

or had misdialed

Sorry, darling, thought you were the colonic clinic. But while I’ve got you, when was the last time you had a good cleansing? From the look of your complexion, I would guess it has been a while.

or was sucking in breath for a patented scolding. Most popular: You Don’t Know What I’ve Sacrificed for You. Runner-up: I Can’t Believe You Would Deny Your Own Mother Although People Often Mistake Us for Sisters.

Nothing on the other end but careful, slow breathing. Was she nervous? Working up the nerve to ask for something else Leah could never give her? What could be worse than Mother Daughter Fuck Fest? So many, many things. The thought was staggering.

“No,” Leah said firmly. “Whatever it is, no.”

She shut off her phone for the night, which is why the police couldn’t immediately reach her with the news.





TWENTY-EIGHT


Morning, and for the first time in a long time, Leah could not wait to start the day. Positive note number one: she hadn’t been stabbed to death. Positive note number two: it was Saturday, no clients. Positive note number three: Archer had proposed various silly, romantic interludes, all under the guise of researching her eventual murderer. She doubted their ability to get much work done while playing miniature golf

(I’ve driven past that place a hundred times and always thought it was a silly activity. But apparently the old saying is, one hundred and first time is the charm. And if you can get your ball to go into the whale’s blow hole, you win a free game. Which I may actually play, as long as it’s with Archer.)

or having a picnic at Cat’s park

(that “pond” is nothing more than a glorified mud puddle riddled with duck feces and yet I’m intrigued at the thought of eating near it)

although she did not doubt that it would be fun—or at least interesting—to try.

Whatever they did, she had promised to call him around lunchtime with a plan. And she had promised under duress, since she would have said almost anything

(“I’m not sure I—”

“Oh please please please please please please please please please please please please please please call me or I’ll diiiiiiiie! I’ll just flop over and DIE.” Then, in his normal baritone, “What? Too needy?”)

to get him to stop making that horrible noise.

She was in the shower, cursing and trying to get shampoo out of her eye, when she remembered her phone was off. She almost never did that; Insighters got the occasional frantic call in the middle of the night, so she hurried through the rest of her shower, blotted herself dry, then retrieved her phone and turned it back on. While waiting for the thing to burp out various tones alerting her to voicemails and e-mails, she got dressed.

For the first time (in a long time) she dressed for someone else as opposed to clinic wear, or her court suit. Administration preferred Insighters in professional attire—suit jackets, skirts or trousers, like that—while acknowledging that their job was messy, both literally and figuratively. Sometimes clients did not respond well to news that they used to be Mary Mallon, aka Typhoid Mary. Sometimes that meant going home to wash vomit out of her jacket. Many of her colleagues wore a lab coat over their clothing; Leah just tried to stick to wash-and-wear fabrics and a high-quality laundry soap. Insighters weren’t doctors, and while many of her colleagues encouraged their clients’ dependence, Leah wanted no part of such things, and eschewed lab coats. And also touching.