Deja Who

  “That must be why all the ladies want me,” he snapped.

  “We know the root cause of your ablutophobia. Some people never find out why they’re afraid.”

  Or they do, and they don’t care. Like you, Leah!

  “That’s enough.”

  “Sorry, Ms. Nazir?”

  “Nothing, just scolding myself.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Hardly ever. Your paralyzing fear of bathing and washing is perfectly understandable.” It certainly was; in 1819, Harry’s stepbrother had drowned him in the upstairs bathtub when he was six. These kids today. And also back then. “But you can overcome it. You can. Look, keep up with the sponge baths in the kitchen, and I want you to get a sitz bath.”

  “Baths don’t work,” he corrected her sharply. “I can barely stand to pee in there, remember? It took us over eight months for you to get me to stop pissing in the kitchen sink. It’s hard enough just to pee in the bathroom, never mind take a—”

  “A sitz bath is small, and you’re only in water up to your hips. It’s what pregnant women use after they have a baby and are too sore for much else. Trust me, you cannot drown in one.” Probably. Not without considerable sustained effort, for certain. “Baby steps, right? Don’t get rid of the kiddie pool; store it in your garage for now and we’ll work back up to that. In the meantime: sitz bath. Pick one up or order it online. Today. I’ll put a note in your chart and your HMO will reimburse. Meanwhile, step up the sponge baths. The hottest part of summer is coming.” Oh, God, it was. If Harry was this ripe now . . . it didn’t bear thinking about.

  “Okay, I’ll try. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Of course. And we’ll have a longer session next week, when you can tell me all about the joys of your sitz bath.”

  “Can’t hardly wait,” he said, and gave her a crooked smile on his way out.

  If nothing else, she thought, giving her patient a wave as he left a trail of stink behind him before opening every window in the room, it’s nice to put my own problems in perspective. I’m due to be hideously murdered in the next several months, but at least I can enjoy many showers between now and then. I don’t smell. I don’t have sex with strangers in ball fields. This doesn’t make me a better person, just a less complicated one.

  Yes, for some reason she was viewing the cup as half-full today, and she even knew why: it had everything to do with the man about to accompany her to the pit of horror she’d grown up in.

  She realized, with equal parts unease and anticipation, that she couldn’t wait.

  TEN

  “I’m really nervous,” Archer confessed as they pulled up to her childhood mansion.

  “Why, do you think she’s unstable?”

  “No! God, no.”

  “Then you’re something of an idiot,” Leah said, softening the observation with a smile. “She’s incredibly unstable. But she would never hurt you.”

  He waved that away, which given that he’d been stabbed (repeatedly) by another family member, struck her as courageous or stupid. Courageously stupid? And he’d passed over the emphasis on you, which she also found interesting. “I’m nervous about the questions. I’ve got so many! What if I forget one? When am I ever going to be back here? God, I thought my family was screwed up.”

  Leah sighed, shut off the engine, got out of the car. Archer had been more than happy to let her drive; he was understandably sore. Fine with her; she loved to drive. There was something about hopping in a car and just going that appealed to her inner chickenshit. She could never summon the courage to pick up and leave her life, but often indulged a rich fantasy world where she did. Taking the long way on virtually every trip factored into that. I am not driving to my terrible mother’s house; this is the beginning of my road trip to Egypt. I will need a new plan by the time I get to Florida. Perhaps I can trade my car for a one-way cruise ship ticket. That is Monday’s problem, today I am going to drive. Drive. Driiiive.

  So when Archer asked her to drive, she’d made sure he was buckled securely in the passenger seat of her gray Ford Fusion (which looked an awful lot like a giant electric shaver, which was an awful lot like why she’d bought it), and taken the scenic route around the lake. But it was a gorgeous day, the kind that lures people to the Midwest: bright blue sky, clouds like marshmallow fluff, the breeze off Superior, the sunshine. Chicago’s slogan should be “See? Winter eventually ends.”

  It was exactly as creepy as she imagined to find herself in the old neighborhood; she had not been home—though her apartment was only a half-hour drive away—since high school. If she’d had her way, she wouldn’t have been home since middle school. For the thousandth time, she cursed the thick judge. If Nazir v. Nazir had not been a clear-cut case for legal emancipation, she could not imagine what was.

  The place looked, from the outside, as it had when she’d last seen it: a gorgeous pile of Prairie-style brick concealing the utter madness within, with all the rich toy trappings out on the broad lawn, which was, of course, a perfect vivid green. Not the back lawn, either; if it cannot be seen from the street, if someone driving by doesn’t crane their neck to take in all the accouterments, it hardly counts: a gazebo, a conspicuous absence of lawn jockeys, and . . .

  A koi pond stuffed with Gosanke and Kohaku. For God’s sake. She hates fish. It could have been her idea of a subtle sly commentary on Hollywood’s bottom-feeders, except it’s neither subtle nor sly, and she has great respect for bottom-feeders.

  Unmoved by the McMansion’s clichéd beauty, she marched up the porch steps and hammered on the glassed-in door with both fists. “I know you’re in there, you horrible thing! I might kill you this time, so let me in!”

  The door opened at once, startling her, and a moment later she knew why she’d gotten such an instant response: her mother hadn’t answered the door.

  “Leah, I’d like the record to show I tried to talk her out of it.” The man, whom she knew was her mother’s age but not holding up nearly as well, blinked nervously at her. His pale blue eyes were unusually large and the glasses made them look watery, as if he was always on the verge of an allergy attack. The few gray-blond wisps of hair he had left seemed so thin and fragile the wind could whisk them away, leaving him bald and blinking. “I truly did.”

  “And when that failed, you . . . hmmm . . . called to warn me?”

  He blinked faster. “Well, your mom’s my client, not you. Not since you fired—”

  “Shut up, Tom.” She brushed past her mother’s agent into the front hall, immediately confronted by the clichéd sweeping dark walnut staircase, oriental rugs, hutches full of china they did not inherit, and looming over the entire room the gigantic Scarlett O’Hara–ish painting of her mother when she was Leah’s age.

  Behind her, Archer was introducing himself to Tom Winn of Winner’s TalentTM (ugh). Leah ignored them and marched into the game room, which was dominated by a piano no one could play, reducing it to nothing more than a dusting headache for the housekeeper.

  Ah, and there she was: Nellie Nazir, former child star, sperm bank shopper, swindler of fortunes, whack job, former smoker. Leah knew her mother would not have dared receive her in the Room O’Crap, stuffed to bursting with old photos of them in their (ugh) heyday, DVDs and downloads of commercials, newspaper articles, magazines . . . Leah needed no reminders of her exploited childhood. Nellie saved that room for people she needed to impress, and Leah had been off that list since her fifth birthday.

  So it was no surprise to see It was posed prettily on the couch opposite the piano no one could play, wearing what Leah called the Birthday Outfit.

  “What’s the occasion?” she asked shortly, eyeing her mother and wondering if maternity was a gene you either had or hadn’t. If you don’t have it, as It clearly does not, is there medication for the syndrome? Besides vodka? Perhaps an operation would be required. Like an a
ppendectomy, only in reverse.

  “My darling daughter is home! The prodigal hon!”

  She might mean Hun. As in Attila. “You’ve gone too far this time.” She considered her mother’s past transgressions. “Again. You’ve gone too far this time again.”

  “Wow, Leah, you can really get lost in—whoa.” Archer skidded to a halt, taking in her mother’s mufti: the long pink satin flowing robe trimmed in pink feathers at the cuffs and neck and hem. The pale skin, masses of rich reddish brown hair, expertly made-up eyes sporting enough eyeliner to choke a bear (but somehow It made it work), the long movie vixen red nails and matching lipstick. “You weren’t wearing that when you hired me. That’s—um—a different look for you.”

  “Please.” Leah crossed her arms over her chest and considered indulging the urge to stick her tongue out at her mother. “She wore it to every one of my birthday parties.”

  “Mr. Drake, I underestimated you.” Her mother flowed to her feet and, trailing feathers, crossed the room to kiss a startled Archer on the corner of the mouth. “I wanted you to watch over my baby so I could figure out the best time to approach her with my wonderful new idea, and you brought her home to me.”

  “I brought him,” she got out through gritted teeth. It would be a miracle if she didn’t crack a molar. “No more spying, Nellie, and no more wonderful new ideas. You know goddamned well I will never work with you again.”

  “For me,” It corrected sweetly. “Work for me. Again.”

  “What’s that weird noise?” Archer asked, trying to look everywhere at once.

  “My darling girl has the most atrocious habit of grinding her teeth when she’s indulging in one of her tantrums. A dreadful noise.” It shook her head and looked mournful, her face momentarily hidden by rich brown curls. “The money I spent on orthos.”

  “The money I spent!” Leah took a breath and tried to force calm. “As I was saying. No more spying. You aren’t just wasting your time—not to mention my time—but also your money. Oh, excuse me: my money.”

  “Now, Leah.” It had the gall to sound reproachful. “We settled that years ago.”

  Settled = seducing the judge who could have emancipated Leah and given her control of her money/life/career/happiness/health insurance.

  Leah controlled an urge to pluck her mother like a large pink chicken. “Listen carefully. I will not embark on a comeback with It. I will do nothing to breathe life into the chamber of horrors It calls a career. It should shrivel up and die and give her spot in the universe to someone else.”

  “I dislike when you refer to me in the third person, darling.”

  “That’s the part of all that you don’t like?” Archer asked. Tom, she noticed, had fled. This, too, was the pattern of her childhood. At best, Tom enabled her mother. At worst . . . it didn’t bear thinking about.

  “She gave herself the nickname,” Leah explained. “It goes back to her tiresome rant about—”

  “I’m a commodity, we’re a commodity!” Oh, God. Leah buried her face in her hands as Rant #3 commenced. “Hollywood doesn’t see men or women, they see products. It always has. And the only way to fight it—”

  Is not to fight it.

  “—is to get on board. So we’re Its to them; not people, not names, fine. Exploit that! Just like in that Wild West movie.”

  “Uh . . .” Archer shot her a look. He seemed to be in the grip of horrified fascination. And her mother’s lipstick was on the corner of his mouth. Leah stepped to him and scrubbed it away with her sleeve, perhaps

  “Ow!”

  harder than necessary.

  “She means Silence of the Lambs.” Oh how I wish that Archer had killed me.

  “But that’s horror, or a thriller—not a Western.”

  “You know, Wild Bill,” It interrupted, excited. “The bad guy.”

  “The bad guy was Buffalo Bill, you silly twat,” Leah corrected. “Remember? ‘It puts the lotion in the basket or It gets the hose again’?”

  “That’s why you refer to yourself as—that’s a little weird.”

  “We know,” mother and daughter replied in dulcet unison, then glared at each other.

  “Because . . . um . . . it’s kind of silly. And maybe even immature.”

  “That’s what she’s like,” Leah said, irritably gesturing at her mother.

  “I meant you.”

  Leah thought about it. It was wonderful to be in a room with Archer and her mother and have his attention on her and hers on him and It—Nellie—was where she belonged: out of the conversation. “Well, ‘Mom’ is inappropriate because there’s not a drop of maternity anywhere there. And ‘Nellie’ is just silly.”

  “But ‘It’ is a shining beacon of good sense and subtle humor?”

  “Point,” Leah admitted.

  “It makes an impression.” Nellie bulled her way back into the conversation by reciting her favorite catechism after “it’s worth it to be famous.”

  “Okay, this explains all the strange pics of you and Leah in all those costumes. Why didn’t you tell me you were a child star?”

  “Because I’ve been too busy repressing my entire childhood.” She jerked a thumb at him. “Pay attention, Nellie. Archer is off the payroll. And the next time you put a dog on my back trail, they’ll find pieces of your wardrobe all over the North Side.”

  Nellie shrugged. “Fine. I could use some new—”

  “All of it. The costumes, the gowns you wore to the Oscars, anything that ever touched your skin during your so-called career, not to mention mine: shredded. If your clothing was people, family members would not be able to identify them, you understand? Closed casket, you understand?”

  “No!”

  “Ah, good, It’s catching on.” Wow, that was going to be a tough one to break. “Nellie Nazir is catching on.”

  “At least hear the pitch,” her mother coaxed, spreading her arms wide like a preacher about to give a blessing. The effect, with the robe and feathers, made it look like she had big pink wings: a sentient flamingo obsessed with its comeback. “It’s a hot new series about a mother and daughter who are both prostitutes.”

  Leah turned on her heel.

  “They’ll get into all sorts of wacky situations together.”

  Leah walked faster.

  “It’s like a buddy movie, with whores. Think of all the sidesplitting situations the mother-daughter hooker team could get into. Hilarity will ensue! I promise you! It will!”

  “Yes,” she replied, “but not for the reason you think. Good-bye, Nellie. We won’t meet again.”

  Nellie rolled her beautiful brown eyes, naturally luminous and always emphasized with lots of blue and purple shadow and liner. “Even you can’t hold a grudge that long. Or are you still determined to be murdered?”

  Leah bit her tongue, hard. Some things should never be said, because they could never be unsaid. It was a near thing. Her mother had always been ashamed of her daughter’s a) plain looks, b) Insighter ability, and c) indifference to the Oscar race. At age four, Leah had explained to her babysitter that he was afraid of dogs and water because in the last four hundred years he’d died of rabies half a dozen times and ended his life foaming, shrieking, and thirsty. “Just leave strange dogs alone, how many times do you have to get chomped before you internalize that?” the exasperated kindergartener had asked the astonished teenager. And Nellie had been less than pleased: “A near-genius IQ and this is what you use it for? Stop that and help me figure out how to seduce the new VP at MGM!”

  Nellie considered her daughter’s Insight to be at best embarrassing and at worst something Leah did on purpose for attention. Neither were acceptable. And thus, she had no interest in Leah’s predictions of her own murder.

  “Being murdered,” she managed as the room doubled, then

  don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t
cry don’t cry DON’T YOU DARE CRY

  “—will come as a great relief.”

  She walked out of her house—not a home, it was never a home—determined never to return.

  ELEVEN

  Archer, who had felt out of his depth the moment the weird little crying (or did he have allergies?) guy answered the door, was slow to follow. Shock had held him in place for those few seconds.

  Now he could see it; now he knew why he had the nagging feeling he’d seen Leah somewhere. Somewhere? Everywhere: when she was little she had hawked everything from diapers to Dentyne, juice to jeans, back-to-school to prom fashions, and everything in between. The Girl Next Door, if the girl next door could take one look at you and tell you all the mistakes you made in the fifteenth century.

  Her mother had done plenty of TV work, too, but never made it out of the B-list section of Entertainment Weekly . . . which still rankled, clearly. Add that to the average American’s five-minute attention span for all things TV, it was no wonder he hadn’t recognized Nellie—or Leah—during his last visit.

  Being in a room with Leah and her mother was unreal, to put it mildly. Her mother’s beauty, her affectations (pink satin robe with feathers? really?), exaggerated mid-Atlantic accent, and utter impatience with anything not related to her career comeback, up against Leah’s determination and fury.

  It wasn’t a contest, and a good thing, because Leah would have won handily. Nellie was pale through conscious affectation and the avoidance of suntan booths; Leah was pale with anger. Her dark eyes were played up and made beautiful with makeup; Leah’s were beautiful because of the jaded grumpy soul lurking behind them. Nellie was a marble statue; Leah was the real thing. And speaking of the real thing . . .

  “Weird to meet you,” he told Nellie, and raced out of the room after her daughter. He found her leaning against her electric shaver car, her forehead pillowed on her arms, crying.

  Whoa.

  The woman who coolly stabbed him (twice) three days ago was weeping in the driveway. Archer almost fell down.