Page 51 of Deja Who
Leah took a breath, held it for the count of five, then forced it out through her nose. “What? What was it? Exactly what was it about our meeting the other day that left you any doubt as to my feelings about being in your life at all, never mind going back to Hollywood with you? I will not do this, do you understand? I will never, never do this. Not again, not once, not for an HBO special and not for a toilet paper commercial.”
Archer, leaning against her desk, was trying to give the impression of a man who isn’t hearing every single awful word. If his eyes got any bigger, they would fall right out of his skull and hit the carpet: plop! In her current grim mood, that might make her laugh. Her mother’s legacy was clear: Leah was a terrible person.
“I used to love you, but you managed to stomp that flat by the time I had to take you to court. Now I don’t even like you, do you hear me? I don’t roll my eyes and tell myself that you’ll never change but that it doesn’t matter. I don’t joke about you with my boyfriend—”
“Darling, you don’thaveboyfriends. Which reminds me, the producer is a lovely woman in her thirties who also happens to be gay, so if you could see your way to being extraextrafriendly to her during the meeting and also after the meeting, we could get a head start on—”
“—or my colleagues or the mayor of Boston!” She had to raise her voice to be heard over her machinations. “I never speak of you. Ever. I never panic when Mother’s Day approachesbecause I don’t know what to get you and I never fret about the holidays because I know I won’t have to see you. I never feel any of those things daughters feel about difficult mothers. Absent contempt is the kindest emotion I can summon for you. The very kindest.”
“But—”
“Lose this number, or I will lose this phone. Do not call me again, ever, under any circumstances. If you want to give me a kidney, I don’t want you to call. If you want to apologize for the abortion of my childhood, I don’t want you to call. If you’re bleeding out, I don’t want you to call. Fuck your fashion advice. Fuck your career. Fuck your comeback. Fuck my comeback. Fuck you. Good-bye.”
Leah hung up, waiting to feel devastated and bereft. She supposed she’d burst into undignified tears again, as she had in the driveway. Archer seemed to think so, too; he was already moving to her, his arms out in a pre-hug. He had a “there, there” expression on his face; he was fully ready to kick into Comfort Mode.
She held up her hands like a traffic cop and he stopped. “No, I’m fine.” She managed a smile. “I’m fine.”
“Okay?”
“Yes. Okay. That’s...” She paused and considered. “That’s been stuck in my head for a while. It feels good to get it out.”
“The way you’d feel good after a family therapy session!” he insisted.
“Ah... no. Not at all like that.” Her smile felt a little more real this time. “You charming idiot.”
