Skinny Dipping (12 page)

October
Office of Straight Talk from Beyond, Minneapolis

“Listen, Ester”—Mimi spoke into the headset’s mike—“you oughta buy a Camry through a lease program reseller. That way it’ll still be under warranty and you won’t be paying three thousand just to drive it off the lot.”

“Three thousand dollars?”

Mimi tipped her head, holding a hand over the headset’s mouthpiece as she rifled through the Blue Book car appraisals. “Yeah. That’s what the initial depreciation is. That’s what Einar says.”

“Oh, fer cryin’—” The voice on the other end broke off in a gusty sigh. “I s’pose he’s right. I’d been feeling sorta down, you know, since Einar passed. Thought I’d cheer myself up with a new car. But that’s maybe not such a good idea, I guess.”

“Not a brand-new car,” Mimi agreed, looking at the image on her open laptop on her desk. She’d been checking her e-mail when Ester called in, and the image she’d been looking at was still on the screen.

There wasn’t any text. Just another picture of Bill that Prescott had sent, Bill being the dog she’d dumped on him (and who named a dog “Bill,” anyway?) and whose image Prescott sent her at least once a week. Sometimes three or four. Mimi didn’t mind. She’d actually grown to look forward to the doggy pictorial. Prescott never seemed to expect a reply. There was usually little or no text involved, other than the obligatory, “Bill on the sofa,” “Bill sleeping,” or “Bill eating.” There were many amongst the last two categories.

In this particular picture, Bill was sitting on an expensive-looking low-backed scarlet-colored sofa. He would never be a good-looking dog, but there was something about his attitude as he gazed disinterestedly away from the camera that spoke to Mimi. He’d accepted his change in circumstances without missing a stride, as content on a red sofa as rolling in a pile of fish guts.

Mimi wondered vaguely what Joe felt about the mutt. She’d thought about Joe often since she’d returned to Minneapolis but not with the nostalgic “that was nice” glow she was accustomed to experiencing when reflecting on a romantic interlude.

Instead, she’d wondered what sort of career he had, if he and Prescott had patched things up, what they would have done on a second date (
if
they’d had a first one), if he’d strike her as meticulously handsome in an urban setting as he had at Chez Ducky. In short, she’d wished she’d see him again, and as that was a waste of time, she’d resolved to put him out of her mind. But Joe refused to be put. Much like the digital pictures of Bill, his image popped into her mind unannounced and unexpected and with uncomfortable regularity.

She thought of Joe more often than she was used to thinking of people from the past. Even the recent past. And as he definitely was from the past, she reminded herself, why waste time dwelling on him?

“I appreciate Einar’s concern and all,” Ester was saying, “but it woulda been nice if Einar had been as smart about cars and such when he was alive as he is now that he’s, you know, gone. I don’t understand it.”

“The thing you gotta realize, Ester, is that being dead tends to make you reexamine your priorities,” Mimi said, scrutinizing the century plant perched on the windowsill. It looked unwell. Ridiculous. Nobody could kill a century plant. The guy at Stems and Roses had
sworn
to her that they
thrived
on neglect. “Einar has your best interest at heart.”

She rolled her desk chair toward the window and stuck her finger into the century plant’s pot. It was as dry as a bone. Which was good, right? The damn thing was a cactus, after all.

Below her second-story window, Starbucks had returned its outdoor tables to upright summer position so people could sip their lattes while enjoying the perfect mid-October Indian summer day. In the small park across the street, some college kids were playing ultimate football while an old guy with a fat dog lounged on a bench and watched.

“Yeah,” Ester answered. “I suppose so. Well, you tell Einar I said bye, okay? And make sure you charge me for the full fifteen minutes this time.”

“Will do. On both counts,” Mimi said, stretching for the bottle of Geyser Spring on her desk and emptying it into the century plant’s pot.

“Okay, then. Bye.”

Mimi depressed the
END CALL
button and unplugged her headset. She stood up and stretched to her tiptoes, looking over her cubicle’s well-insulated wall into the neighboring one. Her boss, Oswald Otten, aka Oz the Magnificent, founder and owner of Uff-Dead, lay nearly prone on a reclining desk chair, his feet up on the desk in front of him, a Hermès silk scarf covering his face.

“I am in contact.” The silk over his mouth fluttered. “He is at peace.”

For a moment, Oz listened to whoever was on the other end, then said, “I didn’t say he started out his afterlife peaceful. He had to make amends before reaching his present state.” Another pause. “Oh, yes. Indeed. It was
very
uncomfortable. And he’s very sorry.”

There followed long minutes during which the silk above Oz’s mouth fluttered ever-more rhythmically, until Mimi wondered whether Oz hadn’t fallen asleep. But a few seconds later, his feet swung down off the desk and the scarf slid from his face, revealing a set of neat features just starting to show the effects of gravity.

“I understand,” Oz said. “He does, too. Who wouldn’t be upset? Sure, you call back whenever. He’ll be here. Ah, I mean there.” Oz hung up.

“Not a happy reunion between temporal planes, I gather?” Mimi asked, crossing her arms atop the cubby wall and resting her chin on them. “What are you doing in Brooke’s cubby, anyway? And what’s with the scarf? I thought you didn’t need props to make contact.”

“Responding in the order in which you asked: First, not particularly. Second, Brooke called in sick.” When he wasn’t talking to clients, Oz reverted to the clipped tones of the East Coast CPA he’d once been. “Third, I am not using props. I am shielding my eyes. I have a mother of a headache.” He pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose.

“The dead will do that to you. Or the living.”

A light on Oz’s phone console started blinking. “Damn. Can I transfer this one to you?”

“Sure, but I might lose business for you. Brooke’s clients tended to want more ‘Beyond’ than ‘Straight Talk.’ Lots of tears and ‘I’m sorrys,’ and ‘Does he forgive me?’ Not my thing.”

“I don’t care,” Oz said. “Betty’s not getting here until after lunch. Parent-teacher conferences. It’s just you and me until noon.”

“Okay. Put the call through.”

“It’s all yours.” Oz got out of the chair. With lifts, he stood five foot two inches, the same height as Mimi. He also weighed the same, a fact Mimi loudly refuted. He peered sternly at her. “Don’t call her an ectoplasm stalker like you did that guy last week. I had a bitch of a time refunding his credit card.”

“He was an asshole.”

“I don’t doubt it, but don’t do it again,” he said and left.

Mimi stuck in the ear bud, adjusted the mike on the headset, and punched the lit button. “Hello”—she glanced down at the LCD panel where the caller’s credit card information was listed—“Jessica. This is Miss Em, your friend on Straight Talk from Beyond. Shall we begin?”

“Sure. Let’s hear what she has to say,” came the reply. A young woman, Mimi guessed. Young and angry.

“I’m sensing some sort of conflict between you and one of the departed.” When in doubt, go with the safe bet.

“Wow. I’m impressed,” Jessica replied. “How many people do you think don’t have some sort of ‘conflict’ with one of the ‘departed’? I’m going to go out on a limb here and say none.”

“Hey, Jessica,” Mimi said. “You called me, right?”

“Yeah. We all make mistakes.”

“Perhaps you should call back tomorrow—”

“I can’t. I’m heading for Mexico tomorrow. I deserve a vacation. How come you didn’t know that if you’re a psychic? Huh?”

“I’m not a psychic,” Mimi replied. “I’m a spiritualist. I make no claims about being able to tell you where you left your purse, how your Aunt Ida makes her world-famous brandy balls, or what tonight’s lotto number will be.”

“So, you’re more or less useless except for a little celestial gossip, eh?” Jessica snickered.

Mimi stared disbelievingly at her phone. What the hell? “Look. Here’s the deal. I sense the departed: their emotions, their wishes, their regrets, and, most important, their advice. Hence the name, Straight Talk from Beyond.”

“So, sense away!” Jessica snapped. “I’ll wait.”

Mimi took a deep breath.

“Wow, again,” Jessica said. “Was that the sound of you being possessed by my mother’s spirit?”

“No,” Mimi said. “That was me trying to figure out how to deal with you.”

“I’m still waiting for that straight talk.”

“That was straight talk,” Mimi said. She’d dealt with Jessicas before, people with issues. Most of the time Mimi accommodated them. After all, listening to a rant was as good as a coffee break. But Jessica didn’t sound merely angry. She sounded
bewildered
and angry. Mimi recalled the feeling. For those first few weeks after her dad had failed to show up and retrieve her from Chez Ducky when she was eleven, she’d felt that same throat-constricting anger and panicked bewilderment. Oh, she’d hidden it from the rest of the Olsons, but she’d felt it all right; until she’d finally let it go.

And everything else with it.

No, she mentally shook her head at the insidious notion, just the bad stuff. Just the stuff that could make you miserable.
Like thinking about the baby that didn’t get born?
She took a deep breath. Exactly like thinking about the baby that didn’t get born. Okay. Enough of this crap. She had a client on the phone who needed help.

“Here’s some more advice. Seek counseling, Jessica.”

“What?”

“Seek professional help. Your mother’s spirit isn’t going to tell you anything you don’t already know. You need to get in touch with someone who can help you deal with this.”

“Did my mother tell you to say that?” Jessica’s voice rose. “She did, didn’t she? Will she ever stop trying to tell me what to do? Even dead, she’s nagging me!”

“I’m afraid I’m the—”

Jessica hung up.

Mimi sighed, realizing she’d just as good as signed a contract for a weekly shouting match with Jessica. It happened. Contrary to popular belief, Mimi and her coworkers were not in the least reluctant to advise callers to seek professional help when the situation warranted. Depression, drug use, abusive relationships, alcoholism, talk about suicide, any of these would have Mimi giving out one of the dozen helpline numbers she kept posted on her bulletin board quicker than a rat leaps from a sinking ship.

Sadly, there were a lot of sinking ships out there; people sailing through life without rudders, pitched about by circumstance, their hulls punctured by disappointment. It was not Mimi’s job to plug the holes, but if she could direct them to a likely harbor, all the better.

The private line light on her phone console lit up. It never lit up, unless…She punched the button. “Yah, mon?”

“Do you have to answer the phone in that hideous fake accent?”

Bingo. “Hi, Mom. I was channeling a Jamaican.”

“Hello, Mignonette,” Solange Charbonneau Olson Werner replied. “Are you busy?”

Why did she bother asking? Even if Mimi were to say yes, Solange wouldn’t believe her. To say Solange disliked her career path was a gross understatement. Solange considered working for Straight Talk much akin to working a pyramid scheme. In short, her mother believed Mimi had “wasted her genius” bilking people of their hard-earned dollars.

Mimi had to allow that as a ringing denouncement of another’s life path, that one’s emotional decibels were off the chart and Mimi felt her mother’s disappointment resonating in her very bones. Which is one of the reasons she didn’t spend much time with Solange. Her bones didn’t need the grief.

“Nope. Whaddup?”

“Please stop it. You’re too old to use such affected language. I’m calling to remind you that next month is Tom and my anniversary party.”

“What? Mom, I sent an RSVP with my regrets. Didn’t you get it?”

“I know. I’ve chosen to ignore it. You must come, Mignonette. The only excuse I will accept is surgery. You miss too many of our family events. I insist you attend this one.”

Mimi squirmed. The truth was her mother’s parties were only marginally more interesting than watching paint peel. “I went to Sarah’s graduation.”

“Oh. Well, that makes all the difference.”

Mimi ignored the sarcasm. “Besides, are you sure you want the reminder of an earlier marriage wandering around while you celebrate your anniversary to a Husband Number Two guy? It might make someone uncomfortable.”

Ten years after the debacle of her first marriage, Solange had wed a proper power-brokering baby boomer. In quick order she produced Mary and Sarah, so named to give the world notice that Solange was through with dreamy-eyed nonsense like naming a kid “Mignonette” and that this time she meant business. This time, she meant to produce energetic overachievers. And she did. The baby, Sarah, had entered a doctorate program at twenty and Mary was fast-tracked in an Internet spyware development company. The pair of them had been cute enough as babies, but now that they were charter members of Young Overachievers of America, whenever Mimi spent any extended time in their company she was overcome with an extreme desire to nap.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Solange said.

Solange was right. Tom was categorically uninterested in Solange’s life before it included him. He’d never treated Mimi unkindly or ignored her. Actually, Mimi thought Tom liked her. He just didn’t think of her as his wife’s kid by another man. He seemed to think of her more as just another something Solange had brought with her to the marriage, like her vintage Chanel coat.

“I’ll expect you,” Solange stated, and then, surprisingly, “It will mean a great deal to me, Mignonette.”

A command performance Mimi would have no trouble ignoring, but an emotional appeal from her categorically unemotional mother was interesting. Maybe even troubling. Was something wrong with her?