Free The PMS Outlaws: An Elizabeth MacPherson Novel by Sharyn McCrumb

lest she be mistaken for an Asperger’s patient herself. She had already concluded that rudeness was a hallmark of the condition.
    Rose nodded. “You’re here for depression. Emma told us. It wouldn’t occur to her that you might not want people to know. That’s Lisa Lynn beside you. She’s a little hyper today, so if you talk to her, don’t expect to get a word in edgewise.”
    Lisa Lynn was a thin, mousy-looking young woman. “Hello,” she said, accompanying her smile with a tentative wave. “Pardon my fidgets. We’re adjusting my medication,” she said. “Which is good because with the old one I was getting these side effects that—”
    “Hold that thought,” said Rose, drowning her out. “Beside her is old Mrs. Nicholson, who may or may not know we’re here. Anyhow, she doesn’t care. Just watch your dessert if you ever sit next to her. And last but far from least is Sarah Findlay, the shining light pretending to eat at the end of the table. Somebody in here nicknamed her Seraphin, and it stuck.”
    Emma O. looked up. “Seraphim is the plural form of the word, of course, but it’s such an apt play on words that everybody uses it. I expect you can see why.”
    Elizabeth looked at the frail beauty and nodded. “Angelic. Yes. She looks like a movie star.”
    “Which is very unfortunate in terms of role models, don’t you find?” said Rose softly. “Be beautiful if it kills you.”
    “It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Elizabeth agreed.
    “Crazy?” Scenting a debate in the offing, Emma O. set down a fork full of mashed potatoes. “Seraphin is the sanestwoman in here. The one most in sync with the world, anyhow, which is what reality is: consensus. If you want to see someone out of touch with reality, look at Warburton over there, carrying her tray to the drink table. It’s a wonder she can lift it. Now there’s crazy on the hoof.”
    Elizabeth saw a heavyset woman in a white uniform carrying a lunch tray laden with plates, little bowls of vegetables, and desserts. “Are you referring to that staff member?” she asked.
    “Right. Warburton. Look at her. How old would you say she is, just offhand. Top of your head guess.”
    “Well, she’s a bit far away,” said Elizabeth. She studied the waddling woman. “I don’t know. I’m too far away to see her hands. Hair color tells you nothing these days. Fifty?”
    “My point exactly,” said Emma O., grinning wickedly. “Warburton is thirty-seven. Just. Birthday last month. Looks sixty, poor beast. Never going to get promoted—it’d be too cruel to tell her why, though. And you know what else? She’s only four years older than Seraphin.”
    Elizabeth turned to stare at the beautiful doll-like girl at the far end of the table. Apparently oblivious to the conversation of her table partners, she was breaking her bread into tiny pieces, and placing them carefully at intervals on the plate. Sarah Findlay looked like a delicate child. You had the urge to protect her, to fuss over her. Elizabeth was willing to believe that the girl was in her early twenties, but … thirty-three? She shook her head. Warburton and the anorectic girl could have passed for grandmother and granddaughter, so vast was the difference between them.
    “That’s right,” said Emma O., who seemed to be particularly gifted at reading facial expressions. “Chronological age bedamned: Warburton is old and Seraphin is young—John Keats got it wrong, you see.”
    “Keats? The poet?”
    “S’right. ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn.’ Ever read it? Well, in it, he said, ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty.’ But beauty isn’t truth. It’s
youth
. Beauty is youth, youth beauty. And it’s worth starving for if you want everybody to love you. Greatest power there is.”
    “But … if you starve yourself—… doesn’t that mean that you don’t love yourself?”
    “Doesn’t matter. You can never love yourself enough to make up for the indifference of others. Look at poor Warburton