Page 40 of Deja Who
TWENTY
Another thing Leah liked about Archer: he never looked at her like he was expecting something. With anyone else, if they said or did something even slightly off, they’d look at her with that expectant “go on, Insight me, tell me why I’m like this” expression. It was, she decided long ago, like people who walked up to doctors in social situations and demanded a (free) diagnosis on the spot.
My arm hurts when I do like this.
So don’t do that.
I’m scared of heights. How come?
Because you live in a penthouse you cannot afford? Go away.
Her rather abrupt thought segue had been brought about by her newest patient, a referral from her colleague.
“I was only clinically dead for three and a half minutes,” Chart #2256 was bitching. “And look! I’m back. Everything’s fine. I’m fine. You’re making way too much fuss here.”
“Five minutes,” she corrected in an even tone. His chart was on the desk, closed. She knew the contents. “I cannot believe you simply went ahead and discounted all my warnings.”
#2256 speared her with a level look. “First off, my past lives are my own business.”
Do not smile. But what a delightful attitude. Do not smile.
“Second,” he continued when she didn’t smile, “what? I’m supposed to believe you were sooo motivated by concern for my well-being? It’s just CYA for you.”
“I was motivated by concern for you.” Or at least concern for her license. No, #2256’s well-being was also a consideration. The man was the poster child for “my way or the highway,” and Leah could not help liking him. “I warned you to leave Insighting to pros.” She had. “I warned you there was an excellent chance of brain damage.” There was. “I warned you that you might die.” He had! For several minutes.
“You said Rain Down has caused a lot of flatlines, which isn’t necessarily the same thing.” #2256 shrugged. “I wanted to see for myself. I’m not comfortable putting all that control in someone else’s hands.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“Yeah, and we’ve been over this. The only reason I even came to your clinic is because I lost another job and my wife drew a line in the sand. It’s not personal, Ms. Nazir. I don’t even trust my own mother.”
“We have that in common.” Reindyne was a hypnotic used exclusively for one purpose: it was often necessary to bring a patient back to revisit past lives. What made it so effective also provided enormous potential for misuse. Without an Insighter and a controlled setting, users could get lost in their past lives.“Nothing like all your past orgasms raining down on you,” a user once pointed out, except all your past disasters did, too, and your past deaths. Every one of them. At once. People could drown in their minds. Peoplehaddrowned.
For herself, Leah could control seeing past lives, but it had taken years of training and practice. When she was little, other lives would just spill over her. Swamp her. Sometimes that meant a three-day migraine; other times it was a seizure. Her mother figure had not been pleased.
“I wanted to see for myself,” #2256 continued, scowling. “Frankly, I wasn’t sure how necessary you were to the process.”
“How about now?” she asked dryly.
His pale blue eyes met her stare straight on. He was a small man, not much over five-three, but had presence and a gaze it was difficult to look away from. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Mmmm.”
Once upon a time, #2256 was an escaped slave named Henry Brown. In 1849, understandably fed up with the institution of slavery, Henry escaped the Virginia plantation where he was considered property and mailed himself to freedom. A fellow slave who was a fair carpenter made a three-by-two-foot wooden crate for the five-foot-eight Henry, who somehow managed to cram his two hundred pounds in it. Two friends took him to the post office, where Henry had himself markedDry Goodsand mailed express. He was in Philadelphia the next day, proving once and for all to the good people at FedEx that there is no excuse for anything not to arrive overnight in the twenty-first century.
Brown later moved to Boston and gave himself the middle name Box. Leah wasn’t sure why. It was unlikely he would haveneeded reminding of the twenty-seven-hour ordeal, some of those hours spent upside down.
“This isn’t the first life where your stubborn nature, coupled with the impulse control of a fifth grader, nearly got you killed.”
“It seems to keep working for me, though,” #2256 said comfortably, and she had to smile.
“I wish more of my patients had your determination.”
#2256 yawned. “That’s a lie.”
“It is. How’s the claustrophobia?”
“The wife and I did it in our closet last week.” At her smirk, his stony features softened. “Granted, it’s a walk-in closet, but still.”
“No, that’s—well. That’s very good progress, actually, uh...” She glanced at the chart. “Henry. Hooray for you.”
He was already on his feet, the follow-up visit merely something to cross off his calendar on his way back to a (somewhat) better life. “Am I the only patient you’ve had who had the same first name in every life?”
“No.”
“Huh.” He seemed disappointed, but shook her hand, shrugged off her de rigueur admonitions to take care of himself and stay away from Rain Down, and walked out. She followed him into the lobby, where to her surprise and delight someone else was waiting with her ten o’clock and ten thirty appointments.
“Hey!” Archer bounded to his feet like a six-foot puppy. “You didn’t get murdered last night! Great!”
“Itisgreat,” she agreed, trying not to giggle at Henry’s startled expression as he passed Archer and left the building. She even let Archer kiss her on the cheek and, later, was glad. It was one of the last nice things to happen for a while.
