“I do know that.” Becca’s forehead was creased with worry, and Jo tried to think of anyone in her own life who would care as much if she were ill. “But you had your blood sugars pretty well under control for so long. Is the insulin not working? What does your doctor say?”
“My doctor says it’s time to try dialysis. My kidneys are simply working too hard these days, and it’s making me feel rotten. But I have my first treatment next week, and that’s going to help my energy considerably.”
“Dialysis.” Becca swallowed visibly. “Are you in kidney failure?”
“No, I’m just kidney-challenged, at this point. We’re adjusting my meds too, so I’ll feel much better soon.”
“Can I take you to your appointment? I can get off work easily. I have a lot of comp time—ˮ
“Becca, the dialysis center is half a mile from my house.” Rachel patted Becca’s fingers again, more firmly. “I promise if I ever need someone to hold my hand at an appointment, you’ll be the first one I call. But I’ll be fine. Now, can we concentrate on you for a moment? You’re looking a little peaked yourself.”
“Eh, I’m not sleeping well.” Becca glanced at Jo. “I was thrown a bit by that trigger the other day.”
“Yes, that sounded very unpleasant.” Rachel studied Becca. “You know I can’t be your therapist now. We’ve been friends for too many years, and you know all my torrid secrets. But it might not be a bad idea for you to meet with someone short-term, just to see you through this hard patch.”
“Rachel, I get by with a little help from my amigas.” Becca slid her hand through Rachel’s arm. “Always have, always will. But thank you. Do you think we should show Jo the house now, before she starts foaming at the mouth?”
Jo hadn’t realized her impatience was so evident, but if foaming at the mouth would get things started, she would foam.
Rachel laughed. “Right this way, Dr. Call.” She turned and walked slowly toward the staircase.
Jo followed them, wanting to see the rest of the house but already itching to be back in the living room. The acoustics there were good, as they often were in older houses. The Spiricom would have excellent reception.
Rachel paused at the foot of the stairs. “Why don’t you two tour the second floor, Becca, and I’ll check on our brownies?”
“That would be fine.” Jo stepped between them and started up the stairs. After a moment, she heard Becca follow her, her footfalls muted on the carpeted tread.
The stairway was narrow and somewhat claustrophobic. The walls held framed photos of Puget Sound, a generic but scenic means of pleasing the eye of prospective renters. The hallway led to four closed doors, and Jo went to the first. It opened to a small bedroom, painted in bright colors and furnished for a child, with a single twin bed and a chest of drawers. “This was your room, Becca?”
There was no answer, and Jo turned to see Becca scowling at the stairs.
“You know why she wouldn’t come up with us, right?” Becca brushed her hand across her eyes. “She’s too weak to climb the stairs. Jesus, Jo. I had no idea.”
Jo shifted uncomfortably. “Dr. Perry isn’t a young woman, Becca. Many older people have a hard time with stairs.”
“She just turned sixty,” Becca snapped. “She and my mother were the same age. She just looks ten years older because she’s sick. Rachel doesn’t have any family now. Who’s been taking care of her?”
“She strikes me as the independent and resourceful sort.” Jo tried to think of something rational but comforting. “Perhaps you’re overestimating how much she needs you.”
“For heaven’s sake, Joanne, everyone needs friends!” Becca sighed and turned to Jo. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bark at you. Come on, I’ll show you these rooms and you can set up your equipment, or whatever. I’d like to get out of here as soon as possible.”
Jo bit her lip. That would pose a problem. Becca hadn’t yet grasped the commitment necessary for this project.
The upstairs rooms struck Jo as generic and unpromising, at least compared to the rich acoustic potential of the lower level. She looked them over swiftly, then followed Becca to the stairs. For once, Becca was moving faster than she was, and a moment later Jo realized why.
“Chocolate,” Becca murmured, trotting down the stairs. The savory aroma was filling the house, and Jo’s mouth watered. Rachel backed her way out of the swinging kitchen door carrying a tin pan.
“In truth, I may not be able to eat these,” Rachel said, “but I can sit with you two and drool while you do.” She set the pan on a small table, straightened stiffly, and frowned at the brownies. “Oops, Rachel’s bad. I’ve forgotten the frosting.”
“No frosting on my brownies. That’s another sin to add to your torrid past.” Becca had regained her good spirits, or at least she was making a convincing show of it. She lifted the pan and headed for the kitchen. “Allow me.”
Rachel straightened, frowning. “Are you sure, Becca?”
“I’m sure I require frosting.” Becca hesitated a bare moment before she swung open the door to the kitchen, the room where her parents died. Then she walked through it.
Jo surveyed the space for the best placement of the Spiricom. She slid her pack off her shoulder and opened it.
“Becca tells me you have a degree in transpersonal psychology, Dr. Call.” Rachel lowered herself in stages into an armchair.
“That’s correct.” Jo freed the Spiricom from its protective foam casing and cradled it in her hands. It was a silver beauty from 1976, one of the first made. She had paid an exorbitant amount of money for it. Its design was rudimentary, given the tonal complexity of later models, but still her favorite. She’d had good luck with it.
“Did your studies include working with people with a history of trauma?”
“Most lives involve trauma, Dr. Perry, just as most death involves loss.” Jo positioned the Spiricom on a side table, switched it on, and adjusted its settings. “But if you’re asking if I have clinical counseling experience, the answer is no. My degree centered on research.”
“Then it’s possible you don’t realize the vulnerability of your current subject.” Rachel spoke politely, but her diction had grown more precise. “I don’t like Becca’s color, Dr. Call. She seems fragile to me. This focus on mysterious ghost messages has called up some very painful memories from her earliest childhood.”
“Yes, Becca has no end of defenders, warning me to handle her gently.” Jo wondered why she was being so peevish. The woman was only expressing concerns she shared herself. “Where is the radio in this room?”
“That’s the only radio I see.” Rachel gestured shortly. “I’m just asking you to proceed with caution. There’s no need to rush Becca through these experiments, or whatever you’re planning here. I’d like to see her have a few days of rest before you—ˮ
“Time might be of the essence, actually.” Jo looked around, not seeing whatever radio Rachel had flapped her hand at. “Becca’s mother may never speak again, or not for another twenty years. But if voices do manifest more than once, it’s likely the messages will be sent in close succession. Oh, my. Seriously?”
She felt a broad smile cross her face. Sitting on an end table was a small radio the size and shape of a tennis ball on steroids. It was one of the globe radios popular with adolescents in the seventies, a bombastic shade of yellow. Terrible frequency range in these models, but surprisingly good amplitude modulation. Jo picked it up.
“I’d appreciate some indication that you’re hearing me.” Rachel was standing by her elbow. “You’re right about Becca having many defenders, and woe betide the scientist who crosses us.” A slight smile took the sting from her words.