The Counseling (12 page)

I was thinking the same thing,
Patrick says.

Of course you were.

I finish my breakfast in six bites and manage to gag down the bitter coffee. How people drink this stuff all day long, I'll never understand. I don't care if it's got some fancy made-up Italian name like venti grande mucho macho latte-a-chino macchiatto or whatever, it's still nassssstay. But it's waking me up, and that's what matters.

Oliver claps his hands excitedly as we all enter the conference room and settle into seats around him. "Good morning, everyone! Hope you're all ready for a wonderful day."

I take the chair to the right of Jess, much to the chagrin of Micah. He sits on her left instead. Man, talk about something going on! And she dares to question me? G'friend's going to hear it when we get back to the cabin tonight. Ha!

Coming from the room next door, Heidi, Mary, Peggy, and Wisdom Walker file in. Sometimes I wonder if Oliver keeps them locked in there; we never see them hanging out around the inn much. They're very serious about their positions as counselors here at Rose Briar.

Once we're all settled, Oliver begins. "I know you've had personal sessions with the counselors for the past couple of days, discussing the challenges you're facing as enlightened youth. Today, I wanted to bring us all together as a group to really discuss what each of you are experiencing and see how we can work as a cohesive unit to try and help each other through whatever roadblocks are in your way." He turns to his left, where Evan Christian is sitting and scribbling in a small notebook. "Evan Christian, let's start with you, buddy."

"Why me?" the boy asks.

Oliver claps him on the back. "Because you're the closest to me."

Evan Christian laughs softly. "I've told Peggy and Mary everything. I don't want everyone here to think I'm a freak"

"We won't think that," Maddie speaks up. "That's why we're all here."

Licking his lips for confidence, Evan Christian begins. "I don't suppose I possess anything incredible. It's not like I'm a superhero or anything." He proceeds to share with the group what he told me our first day here. He knows things he shouldn't. His parents are wigged out about it. Medication seems to be the answer.

Ricky interrupts. "Why is it that adults want to push the pills at us? My family doctor wanted to give me Demerol. That's some potent stuff."

Peggy says supportively, "Tell the group what you've experienced, Richard."

I listen as Ricky details a story about seeing spirits in his room at night. His doors and windows rattle and things fall off shelves at inopportune times. "My parents think I've got something superbad wrong with me. My mom even thought it was because I listened to grunge. That's not it at all. I listen to loud music to block out the voices in my head. Every time a spirit is present, I get this horrible back pain, like nails being driven into me. Seriously, dude, that's not right."

Without turning my head, I slide my eyes over to where Patrick sits restlessly tugging at the inside tag of his right glove. Many times, the music he's listening to in the headphones is cranked so loud, you can hear the bass beat. I suppose he thinks the tunes confuse the spirits, or at least provide him with a natural mute button.

"Peggy, you can address this, if you'd like." Oliver leans back in his chair and crosses his hands behind his head.

"It's a knee-jerk reaction in our society—in most cultures, for that matter—for someone to deem you as crazy if you hear voices in your head. It doesn't stop it from happening, though. Most professionals equate hearing voices with schizophrenia, insanity, or an injury in which there is swelling on the brain that causes images and sounds in our minds. Also, those who possess extreme talents of some sort—highly creative folks—seem to have these experiences more. These voices are vessels of their own creativity," Peggy explains. She walks around the room, motioning with her hands as she speaks. "Do you have highly creative tendencies, Richard?"

"I paint," he says. "Lots. I dream about painting, and all these abstract images come to me in my sleep. So you're saying it could all be part of the same thing?"

"Very possibly," Peggy says, which makes sense. Doesn't explain me, though. I was a whiz with a box of Crayolas when I was younger, but I can't draw, paint, or sketch my way out of a paper bag. I sing with the CD player, but no church choir would ever feature me on Easter Sunday. I guess that rules out the theory for me.

Me too,
Patrick sends to me.

What exactly
are
you experiencing, Patrick?

It's not my turn.

Stubborn ass.

I may possibly be the first girl ever to flirt telepathically. Celia will never believe this.

Peggy continues with her counseling. "It's actually more 'normal' to consider that the voices you are hearing
are
those of ghosts or spirits, possibly a deceased family member or friend who feels they have something pertinent to offer you, advice to help you through a particular situation. Was there an event that prompted these voices, Richard?"

Ricky hangs his head. "Yeah. My grandpa got killed in a drunk-driving accident. He wasn't, like, drunk. The buzzed guy hit him and lived through it."

"Most drunk drivers do survive," Oliver notes.

"This could be your grandpa's way of sending spirit guides to you, to give you guidance in life. It's what we call a paranormal event, and you'll notice that more and more people are coming forward with experiences like this."

"As evidenced by our appearance here at this table,"Willow says.

"Exactly, Willowmeana," Peggy says. "Another possible theory is you've been blessed with a spirit guide—not some random spirit, but one who is attached to you for a special reason."

"Who's Emily?" Oliver asks. He twists at his 'stache and he seems to be receiving information. "I'm getting an Emily. Someone's mother. She's been with you your whole life, only you just recently became aware of her."

I know Patrick's next thought before he sends it.
Don't you think you need to fess up, Kendall?

Slowly, I raise my hand. "Emily was my birth mother."

"Damn, he's good," Jessica hisses.

"Tell us about her, Kendall."

I place my hands on top of the conference table and shrug. "I don't have much to go on. I moved from a very large, loud city to the middle of nowhere. In the silence of my room, a woman appeared to me, talked to me, and made me aware that I could know things psychically. Later, through a vision, I found out she'd been in a car accident and was taken to the hospital; she died shortly after giving birth to me. My mother was her nurse, and she adopted me." This isn't a new story to me, of course, but the people in the room seem rapt. Even Patrick.

That had to be hard for you, Kendall.

No shit, Sherlock.

He and I both snicker at the same time, a shared intimate moment.

Oliver may have picked up on Patrick's and my connection, but he's too busy with the energies swirling around him to say anything. Heidi interjects, "Emily's not with you anymore?"

"No, ma'am," I say. "She passed into the light after I found out the truth. Which totally makes no sense to me! She left me just when I needed her most in my life."

Oliver's head falls back and he twitches in his chair. "She's with me. At least, residual energy from her is. Emily ... young ... beautiful. Long, flowing hair." His eyes remain closed; he continues to jerk around. Celia told me he does this a lot on his television show when he's connecting with a spirit. Thank God I don't do that. I'd look ridonkulous. "She wants me to tell you something, Kendall."

"Ohhh-kay." I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Tears will surely be threatening soon. There are so many things I never got to ask Emily. Who's my father? What about my grandparents? Where was she going when she got in that wreck?

"The answers you seek have nothing to do with Emily," Oliver says, eyes moving underneath his lids like he's in REM sleep. "She says that you 'must find them.'"

"Who? Her parents? My father?"

Oliver vehemently objects with a strident shake of his head. "No, Kendall. It's not about her. It's not about you. It's about
them.
She says you must find them. That's what your ability is for."

Frustration boils in my chest like a case of pneumonia. My thoughts and breath collide in a highway of aggravation and confusion. Who is
them?
Why is everything a puzzle, riddle, or word problem to dissect and solve? It's hard enough being a teenager without this additional crap being thrown at me. My head aches, and nausea begins its trek up from my stomach to my throat. I want to lie down. And just ... be.

Heidi picks up on my irritation and spreads her hands to send me Reiki energy. I appreciate it, but it's totally not going to work. Not right now.

Are you okay?
Patrick implores, sending a surge of energy toward me.

I can't be here right now.

And with that, I push my chair back, stand, and exit the conference room.

I
N MY ROOM,
I pace around trying to decipher the message from beyond. This is more complicated than
The Da Vinci Code.
Where's Robert Langdon when
I
need him?

I power up my laptop and wait as it scans the inn's network looking for an open WiFi hot spot. Before my computer is finished with its boot, the familiar ring of my Skype account sounds. For a fleeting moment, I think it might be Jason reaching out from Alaska, but I know better than that. He's moved on. And apparently I have as well.

I'm right; it's not him. But it's someone I need to talk to. The video call indicator pops up, and Celia's avatar shows on the screen—it's a picture of her in that butt-ugly ghost-hunting vest of hers filled with all her equipment.

"Yo, yo, yo, K-dog! What up?" the voice calls out when I press Answer. Slowly, the fuzzy video picture comes into view, and I see a familiar dark-haired person smiling into the camera sporting a brand-new Chicago Cubs baseball cap.

"Celia! You've gone to the dark side," I say with a laugh as my own video box pops up in the lower left-hand corner. "You know I'm a White Sox fan. What's with the treachery?"

She lifts her hand to the blue cap and tips the bill at me. "They were two for one on clearance. Dad's got the White Sox one. What? I'm stylin' in it."

"Whatev," I say with a laugh. It's good to ground myself in the reality of home, even though Celia's not in Radisson. But Chicago's home too. Always will be. I'll forever identify myself with the Windy City. "How's the vacay going?"

Celia's eyes widen. "Oh my God, Kendall. This place is freaktastic! I totally want to move here."

"Don't even think of leaving me before commencement ceremonies are over."

"I have never eaten so much food in my entire life. This is the best beef in the world." The computer screen goes all scrambly and wobbly. "Check out this view," she says. The built-in camera on her laptop is clearly pressed against the glass of her room at the Fairmont. In the distance, I see the sun shining brightly over Lake Michigan with a hint of Navy Pier off to the left. I wish I could sniff the smell of the water.

"I told you it was awesome there."

Celia flops back in front of the computer and peers into the monitor. "I have sooooo much to tell you, but first things first. Are you getting enlightened? What's going on? Is Oliver Bates as cool in person as he seems on television?"

"Whoa there, Nichols. One question at a time." I laugh with my friend and adjust myself on my bed with the laptop in front of me. "Yes, there's enlightenment out the ass here. We're up to our ears in enlightenment. Lots of sessions with the counselors and the group and learning that I'm not the only screwed-up kid in America. It seems it's running rampant these days"

"How so?"

"Oliver said that since Nine/Eleven, this sort of veil has been lifted around mankind. That people are more open to ... possibilities and explanations from the other side. There are a lot of questions and not a lot of answers. People want to know where they go—after, you know? So, a psychic kid or one who talks to spirits isn't as freaky-weird as it was when our parents were growing up and stuff"

Nodding, Celia says, "I can buy that. Death isn't merely a physical or religious matter. It's quite scientific, in fact. In science there is one basic, and that's that matter cannot be destroyed. It simply changes its form. So, when we die, the body might be destroyed by bacteria and other microorganisms that are in the soil that feed on the dead. They use some of the bacteria on themselves and others go into the ground to fertilize. The plants then feed on the soil, the animals feed on the plants, the animals are eaten by other animals or man, so we're really all just part of earth's recycling and—"

"Jesus in the garden, Celia! Don't get all biological on my ass. I'll never eat a steak again if you do that"

She laughs heartily. "I'm just saying, Kendall. There are a lot of possibilities."

"That's what we've been talking about."

She squirms around, causing her video feed to break up and sputter. Something's up with her, I can tell.

"What is it you have to tell me?"

"No, no ... first your camp experience," she insists.

"Celia. It's me. I'm psychic. I know you have something so big that you're about to pee your pants to tell me."

"Actually," she says, "I do have to go to the bathroom. BRB."

I shake my head at no one as the video moves to show the bedspread and a picture hanging above her bed of a sailboat on a lake. Why do hotels have the stupidest, most nonsensical artwork? I guess it's 'cause they get it for cheap.

I hear the toilet flush, the water run, and Celia pound back into the room. The screen bounces as she returns to the bed and adjusts the camera to give me a view up her nostrils.

"That's attractive ... not!"

"Wait, I've got to—"

"Celia Nichols, if you don't tell me what you're bursting to tell me this instant, I'm going to go insane. And believe me, I'm not far from that mountain cliff."