“But again, that happens to a lot of people.”
“Here’s what doesn’t: You’re starting to get pictures in your head, but they’re not your pictures. They’re not your thoughts. They’re about people you don’t know . . . Except you can’t shake the feeling that you do know them. You were gray as a ghost when you and Paul were done wrestling for who had to paint the deck.”
“Only because he forgot to put on deodorant.”
“Or because you realized he was born in 1934 and his name used to be Yuri Gagarin, the first person in space. And the shortest person in space,” she added under her breath, and managed to lock back a snicker.
Leah waited while Jack looked away and fiddled with his shoelaces. Then: “Yeah, exactly. That’s exactly right and I shouldn’t know that so why do I know that? I don’t want to know that.”
“No, I imagine you don’t.”
“So why?” His voice cracked on “why” and he flushed red.
“Oh, Jack. You know why.”
“I don’t want to know that Mitchell starved to death in a potato famine or that Angela has a history of getting innocent people killed or that Mom ends up alone in every single life,” he cried. “When I was little—”
“When you were little,” Leah said quietly, “they chalked it up to a vivid imagination. If you talked about it at all. In this house, it’s easy to get lost. If someone said ‘Insighter,’ they were talking about Angela. Right? So you didn’t say anything to disabuse them. And that worked for a long time.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“But puberty often kick-starts the ability, or gives it a sizeable boost—you can blame that on the pituitary gland. The same thing directing your body to grow several inches got your Insighting going, too. Because ordinary puberty isn’t horrifying enough.”
It fell flat; he wasn’t in a joking mood. “I don’t want a biology lesson and I don’t want other people’s lives in my head! I’ve got enough trouble juggling my own. Did you know I drowned in molasses in 1919?* I mean, what the fuck?”
“If it makes you feel better, my mom killed me in several past lives.”
His eyes almost literally bulged. “Why? Leah? Why would that make me feel better?”
That brought her up short. “Well. When you put it like that, I have to admit, that was a dim move on my part.”
“I don’t want to be an Insighter,” he said, lips trembling. His gray green eyes filled and she knew he would be embarrassed and angry if even one tear fell. “No offense.”
“I’m not offended. I wasn’t happy about it, either. And my mother . . . my mother was horrified.”
“Well, yeah.” Jack sniffed and raked his forearm across his face, dashing away tears. “Because she wanted an easier life for you.”
“You’re adorable,” she said dryly. “Because she didn’t want anything that might take the spotlight off her. She insisted it was just my overactive imagination. She spent years denying it.”
“That’s when you tried to get emancipated?” When she raised her eyebrows, he added guiltily, “I Googled you.”
“Oh. No, I tried to get emancipated because she was making me work—shows, movie cameos, endorsements, all of which I hated—and keeping all my money.”
“But your mom banged the judge so you were stuck.”
“Uh, yes.” I should probably look myself up online.
“But then you got famous. Famous-er. You were always in the news, but not because of TV anymore. Archer was super excited when he got to meet you, he told us all about it.”
Got to meet me. Well, that was one way to put it. “Was hired to stalk me” would have been a tad more accurate.
History. Focus. “Yes, I was famous. On quite my own merits.” Leah smiled, but it wasn’t a happy one. “The unforgivable sin in Nellie Nazir’s eyes is that I wasn’t even on TV anymore and I was still more famous than her. Her only focus from the time I was seventeen until I—until last year—was luring me back to revive her career with ‘our comeback.’” Leah still couldn’t say “our comeback” without a shudder.
“So you left to get out of the spotlight, but took a job that put you right back in it, and kept you in it.”
She shrugged. “There wasn’t a conscious plan, that’s just how it worked out. And urgh!” She stretched and rubbed the small of her back with both hands. “Come on. Unlike you I’m a pregnant crone and this floor is hard.”
“You’re not a crone and you’re not even showing.”
“Irrelevant! Help me up and we’ll sit at the turtle table and you can ask me anything you want while I drink juice and don’t stir mustard into it.”
“Anything? Really?” Then: “‘Mustard’?”
“Less asking, more pulling.”
When they were at the table and Leah was sipping her mustard-free juice: “Yes. Anything. But I warn you, any sex-related questions will be awkward and we’ll probably have to avoid eye contact for a few days.”
“Just . . . gross. No.” He leaned forward. “Did you ever like it?”
I’m going to assume he’s talking about Insighting. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “I’ve been able to help a lot of clients.” She thought of Chart #6291, formerly Clara Barton, currently chief of neurosurgery at Massachusetts General. And Chart #5272, formerly Ludwig van Beethoven, currently the author of Musical Anhedonia Hath No Charms (“How can I be him? I hate classical music. And concerts. And my hearing’s fine.”). The actions and consequences from their past lives bled into their present ones, paralyzing them. Leah had helped with that.
It wasn’t always about making a mark, she’d explained to a construction worker who used to be Albert Einstein—the month before she met Archer. “You don’t have to live up to your last life. You love being an electrician. That’s great. Do you know how many people I meet who hate their jobs? Do you know how many people anyone meets who hate their jobs? To be honest, I’m a little envious. You make good money, you and your husband are raising a beautiful family, you love your life, what’s the problem?”
“Well, after my folks had me tested . . .”
“Can I tell you something? Pretexting often brings more problems than it solves. It’s like an IQ test: It narrows everyone’s expectations. ‘You have a genius IQ so you’d better invent something wonderful. Or cure something terrible. Make your mark or you’ve wasted your life. No pressure.’ Expecting children to live up to that is begging for trouble.
“Pretexting does the same thing: ‘You used to be Alexander Graham Bell, so we’re already talking to MIT since you’ll have an incredible life and become world famous by your thirtieth birthday.’ It’s crap. It’s a straitjacket.”
Other patients had the reverse problem, and she had helped them understand they didn’t have to live down their past lives, either. “So you were a necrophiliac who targeted landladies until you were hanged in 1928?* You’re not compelled to kill, you don’t have to write letters of condolence to the victims’ great-great-grandchildren. And if you’re that worried your past will bleed into your present, buy. Don’t rent.”
Well, that one was perhaps oversimplified. But never mind. The bottom line is . . .
“Sometimes the work is beyond rewarding. Since most people only ever hear me complaining, it’s only fair to mention that there are many days when I like what I do. It goes beyond helping people in their day-to-day lives. I’ve been able to work with the police and attorneys to put away some utter degenerates. There’s satisfaction in that.”
Jack was nodding. “Okay. Sure.”
“It’s a little like being a world-famous baker who doesn’t like cake. Possessing the skill doesn’t mean you love it. People demanding your cake doesn’t mean you actually like baking.” Not my best metaphor. Well, it is past midnight.
“But you’re different from me. Just like Angela’s different from me. What works for you might not help me.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”