Page 2 of Deja Who
ONE
Clinic notes:Alice Delaney, Chart #6116
Date:9/17/2017
INS:Leah Nazir, ID# 29682
Cc:Dr. Riario, CF; Maura Hickman INS ID# 30199
Patient is a well-nourished Caucasian female who presents with anxiety, loss of appetite, fatigue, and night terrors.
“When are we going to figure out what’s wrong? This is our fifth session,” #6116 complained.
“It will be fine,” Leah assured her. Like Liz Lemon, if she rolled her eyes many more times, she risked her optic nerves cramping. “We’re getting close. We’re not filling a cavity; it’s not a one-trip fix. Now take a long deep breath.”
“Okay, but I don’t—”
“Less talking. More breathing.” She kept a smile on her face, which wasn’t easy.
Symptoms began thirteen days ago.
Yes indeed, because putting up with unpleasantness for even two weeks is asking too much. Ugh.
Referred by her GP Gary Riario. DOB 8/1/1993.
Gary, Gary. Not a fan of Insighters, unless he needed to refer. Then he was all Insighters, all the time.What secrets from sticky past lives are you hiding, Gary?“Feeling all right? Nod, don’t speak.”
Chart #6116 nodded, eyes closed.
“Meds bothering you?” The hypnotic analgesic, applied five minutes before the session began, sometimes triggered nausea. And catastrophic brain injury. But that almost never happened with the new protocols in place. Acceptable risk.
Chart #6116 shook her head. Oh, well. There was always the chance she might throw up later. Dare to dream!
I used to be nice. Didn’t I?It was hard to remember. Once upon a time, she liked her patients. Tried to like them, at least.
She bent forward so she was almost looming over #6116 and adjusted the IV. Chart #6116 was lying snugly on the green padded couch, so plush a patient didn’t sink into it but was swallowed by the greedy sofa. A necessary evil, as the couch had built-in sensors that continually monitored blood pressure, heart rate, temperature. It was always good to have advance notice if a patient was about to stroke out. Being devoured by a couch did not go over well with her claustrophobes; she kept a cot for them, and monitored their vitals the old-fashioned way.
The diplomas and certificates on the wall behind her trumpeted her expertise via large font and dark dramatic lettering:
anesthesiology(The American Board of Anesthesiology hereby certifies that Leah Nazir, a licensed graduate of etc., etc.),library science(By virtue of the authority vested the trustees have conferred upon Leah Nazir etc., etc.),competitive reading(Leah Nazir earned this award for participation and completion of the fifth-grade reading club),and Insighting(Leah Nazir: Certified Insider, ID #29682).
The last one, she knew, either impressed or horrified people. The first one just impressed them. They were indifferent about her library science and fifth-grade reading awards. Maybe it was time to go back to school, get a doctorate in... God, anything that sounded like it could be good for a few laughs. Criminal psych. Cannabis cultivation. Fermentation sciences. Auctioneering. Gunsmithing?
“Who are you?”
“My name is Alice Delaney.”
“Why?”
“Why? It’s... it’s my name. Is why.” Chart #6116’s expression =pay attention, dumbass.
Chart #6116 was not yet down deep enough. She could only see herself, which was a large part of her problem. Problems.
Who are you to talk, sunshine? You see yourself and all your past mistakes and has it made you happy or well-adjusted or pleasant to be around?
Ah... no.
Leah double-checked the feed and hummed. She did this more or less unconsciously; she scarcely heard it anymore, though colleagues occasionally teased her about it. It had a tendency to soothe her patients. And herself, of course. If she didn’t hum, she might stab.
