The Counseling (16 page)

"Another diving term?"

"No, Kendall, it means 'shit outta luck.'" At least he can laugh about it now. The empath in me is on the verge of tears. Even though he's sitting here with me, I'm almost afraid to hear the end of this.

"So there I am at sixty feet below with no air, no buddy, and I've got to make an emergency ascent, ASAP. In SCUBA, you're not supposed to come out of the water too fast or else you'll get the bends. I figured either I get bent or I get dead, so I kicked as hard as I could, trying to follow the lead rope back up. I grasped it so hard that I got the crap stung out of me by the sea anemone living on it."

My arm stings and itches at the same time, experiencing what he did at that moment.

"I made it to the surface and tried to inflate my buoyancy compensator—that's the jacket you wear that's attached to the tank and you can add air to it to help you float—but I'd done one heck of a job with the knife underwater, cutting not only my regulator hose but the one from the tank to the BC."

"So?"

"So, I'm at the surface where a storm had come up while we were under and I'm getting battered by the waves. I'm taking water into me in huge-ass gulps. Every time I try to get a breath, I get smacked again by a wave. I'm kicking and paddling and trying to stay on the surface. I'm looking ahead at the boat and trying to swim to it. The captain's, like, on the back under the awning to keep the rain off him and he's not paying attention to people coming out of the water. I swim so hard and ... that's when it happens."

"What, Patrick?"

"I got tossed hard into the side of the boat and I bashed my head. Totally blacked out right there. The next thing I remember was waking up inside a hyperbaric chamber with an oxygen mask on and a massive bandage on my head."

"Holy crap! Who got you out of the water?" I ask with a bit of manicness in my voice.

"Dad and the dive master, Edwin." He closes his eyes at the retelling. "They'd been looking for me underwater and Dad was only seconds away from me when my full panic set in and I hightailed it to the surface." Patrick pounds his fists onto his knees. "It was so stupid of me to do that. I'm a trained diver. I've got like eighteen dives under my belt. I don't know what I was thinking."

I see it clearly now. Edwin, the dive master, and Patrick's dad found him on the surface and he wasn't breathing. With the help of the boat captain, they got him up the ladder and out of his tank and jacket. Edwin performed CPR on Patrick while his father prayed over his body.

Patrick's eyes focus hard into the fire. "They tell me I was clinically dead for four and a half minutes."

I can certainly identify with that.

"I spent two days in the chamber and another three in the hospital. Ever since I woke up, I've had visions that are so painful I have to block them out. I hear voices. Not just people around me, but everyone and everything, everywhere. It's like listening to hundreds of not-quite-tuned-in radio stations. Constant chatter that pounds at my head like a woodpecker. And the worst, Kendall," he says, and then he stops for a moment.

I urge him on with a nod of my head.

"Everything I touch ... I know everything about it. Like this bench," he says. "I can tell you the name of every person who ever sat here and where they're from and what they had for dinner that night. I know what forest the wood came from and who made it into something you can sit on. It's maddening. I can't control it and it's ruining my life."

Swallowing, I say, "That's why you wear the hat, glasses, and gloves? To block things out?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "The headphones help too. If I'm listening to music, I can pretty much keep everything else out. It's the only time I ever really have any ... peace."

Then it all clicks. "That's why you won't get into the hot tub. Have you been back in the water since then?"

"Not really. I mean, I'm not gross. I take showers," he says with a snicker. "I can't be immersed, though. Too much rushes back. My own cowboy behavior. The betrayal to my dad and dive buddy. The damage I did to my body, that I'm now ... cursed with seeing, hearing, and feeling every frickin' thing in the universe. I don't think I'll ever go back in the water again."

The sadness in his tone breaks my heart. I so much want to hug him right now, but I know touch is the last thing he needs.

And I thought my awakening was hard.

They're all hard. And the ones who are chosen to go through this are picked for a reason; we just have to figure out what that reason is.

"Oliver can help you."

"I know," he whispers.

"Let him."

"I'm trying."

"Let me."

He snorts. "You have your own hurdles, Kendall."

"As do you, Patrick."

I sense that he needs to be alone now, so I rise up, brush at nothing on my jeans, and stand next to him. It took a lot for him to tell me this. I'm going to say a prayer for him tonight. For all of us, in fact. Even for that poor wampus-cat person. We could all use the good mojo. I send a thought to him that he swiftly picks up.

Thanks for sharing with me. Your secret's safe with me.

I trust you, Kendall. We're alike.

Yeah, we are.

Before I can overanalyze this or stop myself, I brush my hand delicately through the top of his hair, careful not to make too much contact. A quake runs through him and zaps me as well.

I like that,
I admit.

I like you,
he responds.
And
that
scares the hell out of me too.

I take to the path and don't look back. Because if I do, I'll share too many of my thoughts and feelings with him. The ones I've tamped down as far as I can so he can't read them.

Boy, am I in trouble.

T
HURSDAY MORNING,
I sit by myself in the dining area scarfing down a plate of Belgian waffles with whipped cream and fresh strawberries. I'm alone because I slept late. Jess tried to wake me up, but I slept through her pleas, as well as my BlackBerry alarm. There was not much snoozing last night; there was a lot of tossing and turning thanks to a traffic jam of spirits circling the room and my mind. Coffee just ain't gonna do it today. I totally should take a handful of B12 or something for energy as my ass is dragging.

Chris clears the dishes and tells me that Oliver is waiting for everyone outside. I wipe my mouth and shuffle through the inn to join the others gathered in the front. As we were instructed to do last night, we're all dressed in loose T-shirts and shorts. Mary specifically told us not to wear jewelry or watches, so I removed my diamond studs from my ears. I haven't taken them out in a couple of years, so it's, like, totally weird to be this ... stripped. Erin Puckett is circling one wrist with the other hand and I know she's worrying about the charm bracelet she always wears. Willow's nose ring is gone, and Jess is no longer sporting her dolphin anklet. I guess we're ready.

"Any clue what's going on?" I ask my fellow retreaters.

"Not a single one," Micah says.

The crunch of tires on gravel grabs our attention. Jessica points and lets out a whoop. "Check out that suh-weet ride!"

Rolling to a stop is a spit-shined and waxed black luxury limo van.

A
swoooooosh
of the door and Oliver Bates steps out with his sunglasses in place. "Good morning, group! If everyone would please grab a towel from the rack here and come aboard, we have a small field trip that will take most of the day."

Hmm ... we weren't told to wear bathing suits, so this obviously isn't a beach excursion.

Jess and Maddie share a shrug with Erin, Harper, Willow, and me, but we obediently snap up an emerald green RBI monogrammed towel and load into the waiting ride, fanning out in a random pattern on the plush seats. The boys aren't far behind and don't seem as intrigued with our luxurious transportation as we girls are. Greg's munching on an apple that he obviously grabbed on the way out the door. Evan Christian is playing on his DSi, which is beeping away as he taps the screen. Ricky, Micah, and Carl tromp in and spread out, like boys do. Talking Feathers steps in and sits in the open seat in front of me. Finally, the elusive Patrick climbs aboard with his music blasting, and he heads straight to the back. Without saying a word or making eye contact with anyone, he lies down on the bench seat and places his forearm over his eyes. Hmm ... he must have had a bad night too.

Glenn hands a couple of coolers to Oliver, who puts them on the front seats. "There's cold fried chicken, potato salad, fruit, granola bars, and plenty of drinks for you all," Glenn says.

Oliver nods his thanks. Then he peers down at the driver and says, "Let's get going."

It's wicked quiet as we drive through twisty-turny mountain roads. I don't know if everyone else is as tired as me or if they're merely trying to figure out what's going on. The only sound is the hum of the tires on the road and the
zug-zug-zug
of the substantial air conditioner.

"Hey, Oliver," Maddie calls, breaking the silence. "Where are we going?"

Without turning, he says, "You're psychic. Can't you figure it out?" When a devilish smirk spreads across his face, he adds, "You'll see in a little bit."

"Secretive much?" she says to her sisters.

Josiah/Talking Feathers releases a moan from deep within. I reach over the seat and put my hand on his shoulder, sensing his downright unease. It's radiating off him in waves. "You okay?"

He jumps a bit at my touch. "I'm fine. I've had a lot of spirits talking to me this morning. It seems like there's a neon sign over my cabin pointing to my abilities."

"I know the feeling," I say. I rest my chin on the seat in front of me and wonder if he's had any contact with Hailey. "My mind was like an amusement park last night. So much Tilt-a-Whirling and swirling around, only nothing specific."

"Same here," he says. "Visions. Words. Names. Eyes. Noses. Hands. None of them add up to one person, though ... that I know of."

Too bad Celia's not here with me. She could sketch the personages we're all seeing. I take a moment and then ask, "Do you mind if I ask about details? You know, to, like, compare notes."

Josiah cricks his neck to the left and then to the right, easing tension I can sense has built up in his muscles. "You're having spiritual visitations as well?"

"I am. One, in particular."

He stammers over his words a bit. "Look, I'm still n-new at this, so I'm not exactly sure who I'm getting. Like I said, faces and voices are jumbled together. It's like when I take my contact lenses out and everything's a blur in front of me. I can see the outlines of people and the colors they're wearing, but I can't distinguish any details or anything beyond the fog and distortion. Oliver and Heidi are working to help me focus my energies and identify who is reaching out to me."

"They're the ones who can lend a hand," I reassure him.

"I don't guess you have that problem, do you?" he asks with a near smile. One of the first I've seen from him.

"Not really. I see them, hear them, feel them, and have been severely injured because of them."

Josiah's dark eyes turn to me. "That sucks, Kendall. I heard your story the other day about the near-death experience. That would have scared me shitless. It's brave of you to keep at this."

Brave
isn't exactly the adjective I'd use to describe me these days. "It's not like I have much of a choice. Just have to keep understanding this whole awakening and the best way to handle it," I say.

"Is there actually a
best
way?" he asks. "We were all chosen for a reason, I suppose."

"Yep" is all I can say and then I pat his hand.

In a gesture of friendship, Josiah turns his palm up and curls his fingers around mine for a reassuring squeeze. Two seconds later, we let go and I lean back into my seat. I feel a set of eyes on me and rotate around until I catch Patrick staring at me over the top of his sunglasses.

Is it your goal to flirt with every guy at this retreat?

Give me a break,
I snap.
Besides, I don't flirt with you. You stalk me in my head.

Whatever you say. You and Smack Talk seemed very cozy.

Jealous much?

Hardly.

And his name is Talking Feathers. Don't be a jerk!

He waits a minute. Then he says,
You know where Oliver's taking us?

No. Do you?

Patrick pushes his sunglasses back into place and adjusts in the seat, bending one knee up and resting his hand on top of it. He peers out the window, and then I hear him in my head:

We're going to sweat.

A few miles of rough terrain and the van stops. We're parked on a dirt road that dead-ends between some low-lying picturesque mountain ranges. The lush green of the sloping trees and swaying grass is dramatic against the aquamarine sky. The brilliant sun shimmers on the rippling surface of a good-size stream running nearby. A small, domed tentlike hut sits in the middle of the open field. It appears to be about twelve feet by twelve feet with straw covering the rounded—is that what they call thatched?—roof and a woolen blanket hanging in the cut-out opening.

"Gather around, please," Oliver instructs us once we're all off the van. "Today we have an incredible spiritual and personal ceremony for you to partake in. This is, without a doubt, my favorite activity of the whole week, and I hope you enjoy it as well. Wisdom Walker, would you?"

From around the other side of our transportation, Wisdom Walker appears in his traditional Native American garb and this gorgeous flowing headdress with feathers and beads that cascade to his waist. He could be straight off the DVD cover of
Dances with Wolves.
My breath catches in my throat as I take him in, from his moccasined feet to the thick, black braid on either side of his head.

"Oh my God," Willowmeana says, sounding almost ecstatic. "We're doing a sweat."

"All right!" Talking Feathers echoes her tone.

The rest of us just look around and then back and forth at one another in curiosity. Patrick shows no emotions, although I sense a tremor running through him.