The Counseling

by Marley Gibson

  A couple of the guys let out grunts and I just sigh.

  Chris smiles wide. "Oh, you Easties will adjust. And the mountain air will be amazing for you. Really clears your head"

  For now, I'll settle for feeding my stomach.

  We all sit at the long table and pass around Chris's culinary creation of sausage-egg-and-cheese bread pudding. It's soft and creamy and exactly what I need to get the day going. Maddie, Erin, and Harper are deep in a discussion about some girl at their high school who e-mailed them about some drama that's going on ... I can't keep up. Evan Christian and Carl are talking about who believes in the Loch Ness monster and/or Bigfoot. Are they serious? Ricky and Greg both seem half asleep, and Micah and Jess are discussing what's on each other's iPods. I shovel in the egg-and-sausage mixture and reach for seconds, wondering where Patrick is this morning.

  No, no ... don't think about him.

  Willowmeana and Talking Feathers, as reserved as both of them are, have their heads bent together and are chatting quietly. Everyone is already beginning to pair off, even before we've had our first meeting with the counselors. Is this why we came here? To hook up?

  Of course, that leads me back to thoughts of Patrick. And memories of my dream.

  That kiss felt so real.

  Then again, he's real.

  I need to get him out of my head. I need to get my head in the game. Focus on why I'm here and what I'm doing.

  "So who's rooming with the dude in the sunglasses?" Erin asks.

  None of the guys respond.

  "He's odd man out," Greg says. "Must be sleepin' on the porch."

  Chris moves around the table to refill coffee and orange juice. "Now, now, be nice," she says. "His name is Patrick Lynn and the boy has had a traumatic experience and has to have his own room. Oliver usually only takes twelve kids, but he made an exception for him. He's here for help just like all of you, so have some sympathy."

  Greg grimaces as he moves the remainder of his breakfast around. "Sorry. Didn't mean no harm."

  Chris pats him on the head and then refills his juice glass.

  Innnnnnnteresting...

  A traumatic experience? Wonder what that's all about.

  You don't need to know, Kendall.

  Whoa. Hold the fort. Who just...

  Emily?

  No response.

  Is Emily back? It has to be her. Or is it one of the spirits I've felt around this place, spinning and motioning to get my attention? Now they've resorted to bothering me in my head? I do my best to concentrate and block out this invader.

  I don't want to deal with any spirits right now, I say inside my head.

  Who said I'm a spirit?

  My mouth falls open, and I glance about the room. Everyone's either chatting or eating, but that doesn't mean they can't be playing—literal—mind games with me.

  Please leave me alone.

  Then you do the same for me.

  I will, but who is this?

  Silence.

  Good. Maybe whoever it is is leaving me alone now.

  I gather my dishes and take them over to the sink, where Chris thanks me. Others do the same and then we all file downstairs into the massive finished-basement conference room. Wall-to-wall carpet covers the floor, and a humongous, businesslike mahogany table stands in the middle of the room. Gold-trimmed, kingly high-backed chairs covered in red leather circle the table, like we're knights in King Arthur's court. From the looks of this place, good old Oliver must make a pretty penny doing Ethereal Evidence.

  Now Oliver himself steps into the room wearing designer jeans and a crisp blue button-down shirt. "Why doesn't everyone take a seat and we'll get started?"

  The Pucketts take the left side of the table, so Jess and I follow them. Willow tosses a sidelong glance at Josiah "Talking Feathers" and then moves to sit next to him on the other side. When everyone is in place, the seat next to me is available.

  Of course, Patrick Lynn saunters in at just that moment and takes the empty chair. I try not to check him out, but it's hard since he's so ... close. He smells like fresh Dial soap and a spicy deodorant. I really shouldn't be cataloging his smells. Not appropriate. Instead, I watch him in my peripheral vision. A black knit cap adorns his head, but his thick hair shows underneath. He's wearing a T-shirt that reads Got Ghosts?, and it's tucked into a pair of black jeans. The same gloves and sunglasses are in place. Honestly, who does he think he is? Some Hollywood star trying not to be recognized?

  "Exactly," he says in a whisper.

  I smack him hard on the arm. "Quit doing that."

  Jess catches this play and eyeballs me. I roll mine back at her and brush off the interaction.

  "So, too good to eat breakfast with the rest of us?" I tease.

  Patrick fiddles with the strap on his left glove. "I ate in my room."

  "Wow, must be nice. A cabin to yourself and room service."

  His face turns to me. "How did you know I had my own room?"

  "Deductive reasoning and the other guys being paired up. Chris told us they usually only accept twelve kids at a time, but you're an exception. Here I thought I was the exception because I signed up so late, but it looks like you're the special one here. Why is that, Patrick?" I cock my head to the side in a bit of a challenge.

  Patrick presses his lips together. "If you must know, Oliver and my dad went to the Air Force Academy together, so he let me come this week, okay?"

  Perplexed, I say, "Oliver Bates went to the Air Force Academy?"

  "Yeah," Jess chimes in. "He was a mechanical engineer for the first part of his career. Then he was working on an airplane engine and got hit in the head with one of those mini crane things, and he's been psychic ever since. Don't you watch his show?"

  "Ummm, not really," I mumble.

  "It's on his website too. He's really amazing," Maddie adds.

  A few months ago, I didn't know about anything paranormal or abnormal. I knew nothing about TV ghost-hunting shows; I'd never seen programs about psychic kids, college students who fight demons, or people who solve crimes with ethereal evidence. Now, I'm immersed in all of it. Up to my yin yang. And Patrick Lynn is going to make this week a living hell for me with his 'tude.

  There must be peace. I offer him my hand. "Can we call a truce?"

  His head tilts down to examine my hand, but he doesn't take it.

  "What? Are you afraid of girl cooties?" I ask, unable to stop my giggles.

  "No," he says tersely. "I just don't ... touch. Okay?"

  Incredulously, I ask, "You don't what?"

  "We've got a truce, Kendall. I just can't touch you ... or anyone, for that matter."

  Questions cascade in my mind like falling dominoes, but there's no time to ask any of them. Oliver Bates calls us to order. I swallow the queries down like a lump of oatmeal. Patrick doesn't move, doesn't flinch, doesn't do anything. He just sits there messing with the strap of his glove.

  Is that what he's here for? To get help with his ... lack of touch? Can Bates's counselors help him? Hell, can they help any of us? And where exactly are these people?

  No sooner do I ask the question in my head than an adjoining door opens and in walk four adults.

  Chapter Eight

  I THINK MY HEAD is going to explode from all the information coming at me.

  My hand scribbles notes as quickly as the counselors talk to us this Monday morning. Each counselor has a specialty and will be working with us to sharpen whatever abilities we want to develop.

  "The point of being enlightened," Oliver states, "is to open yourself to all possibilities before you. Be open-minded about the things the universe is sending your way. Accept the gifts you've been given by your Creator. Use them to help others and to do good, not to manipulate or make money or exploit people."

  "Like his TV show doesn't exploit people?" I hear Greg mutter.

  Maddie speaks up. "His show helps close cold-case homicides and missing-persons crimes. The families are totally in on it. He
doesn't exploit."

  "Well, excuuuuuse me," Greg says.

  "Shhhhh," Erin spits, like we're back in fifth grade or something.

  Oliver pays us no mind and continues. "I'd like to introduce the wonderful souls who are here to help you with your enlightenment this week. I couldn't ask for a better staff to assist you. First off, this is Heidi Harman."

  He points to a tee-tiny woman with white blond hair. Big blue eyes sparkle from her round face, and a vibrant smile shines from one corner of her mouth to the other. She's dressed in a white tracksuit and has a lovely stone amulet around her neck.

  "Hi, everyone. I'm thrilled that you're here and I can't wait to work with you. My specialty is energy healing and I use many tools to harness the earth's energies to rid people of ailments. I'm going to teach you the meanings of the earth's stones, as well as how to use Reiki and certain breathing techniques. For those of you who want to focus more on attunement, we have sounding forks that I can show you how to use. Mostly," she continues, "I'm here for you in whatever capacity you need me."

  Harper raises her hand. "Are you psychic?"

  Heidi thinks for a moment. "I believe we're all psychic in a way; it's a matter of whether or not we choose to use or recognize it. My abilities are more toward healing in whatever form or fashion. I'm feeling connections with several of you at this moment."

  The petite woman's energy is definitely reaching out to me, and I feel safe, secure, and comfortable in her presence. I look forward to talking to her about the attunement-healing practice I've been doing at Loreen's shop and whether or not it's what I should be concentrating on.

  "Thank you, Heidi," Oliver says. "Next, let me introduce you to Peggy Armer."

  An older woman with a shining smile steps to the front. She is wearing a zip-up hoodie with a skull and crossbones on the front of it. Her jeans are bell-bottoms, and work boots cover her feet. She looks as if she could go ghost hunting with Celia, Becca, Taylor, and me at any moment. Her long brown hair is straight and parted in the middle, framing her oval face.

  "Hello, children," Peggy says. "It's a pleasure to be here with you. I sense so many wonderful thoughts in this room." She glances about and connects with Harper in particular. "Like you, dear, I'm empathic. For those of you who don't know what that means, I can sense and feel what others are feeling. I take on their pain as my own. I also work a lot with remote viewing, automatic writing, and using a dowsing pendulum. There are several of you here that I will become very close with."

  Willowmeana asks, "Can you explain what remote viewing and automatic writing are?"

  "Certainly, dear," Peggy says. "Remote viewing is a means by which a sensitive—like many of you—may telepathically view a location from a distance. You may not know it, but the U.S. government used remote viewers during the Cold War to see what the Soviets were up to."

  "That's crazy!" Willowmeana says.

  "Is that something that interests you?"

  Nodding, Willowmeana explains. "Once my mother lost her car keys and I concentrated real hard and was able to see where she'd left them at the grocery store. I drew her a map of where I saw them, and sure enough, they were exactly where I said."

  Peggy grins. "That's just what I'm talking about. I'd be happy to work with you—or anyone else—on it."

  "So what's automatic writing?" Micah asks.

  "Automatic writing is a process by which an individual places a pen or pencil to paper and then, without concentrating on what he or she is writing, allows subconscious thoughts to flow through and guide the pen. This is one of the most basic forms of channeling."

  "I've done that," Evan Christian says.

  "I'll work with you too, dear."

  Oliver steps up. "Thank you, Peggy. She's really got some amazing things to share with you folks this week. Now, let me introduce a very special lady: Mary McCay. She was there to guide me when I had my transformation and became a medium. Mary?"

  A short, pleasant-looking mom type joins Oliver. "Thank you, Ollie. I won't take too much time right now, but I will be working with you all on telekinetics, psychokinesis, breathing, yoga, centering yourself, seeking the higher self, and generally mother-henning you, because that's what I do best." With that she pretends she's going to pinch Oliver's cheek, but she stops herself.

  "And finally," Oliver says, "let me introduce to you a very special man. A holy man. This is Eddie 'Wisdom Walker' Nelson." A heavyset, older Native American man eases forward, wrapped in what appears to be some sort of animal skin. His long black hair is plaited in two braids. He is the real deal. "Wisdom Walker is going to show you how to find your totem animal and spirit guides to help you move onward in developing your abilities."

  Eddie "Wisdom Walker" Nelson speaks not a word; rather, he raises his hand over us and waves it around.

  "He's blessing us," Willowmeana explains.

  And then he leaves the room, as quietly as he entered.

  I glance around at my fellow "enlightened" ones, thinking of the gifts that each of us possess. At least the ones I know of. There are some that even my psychic senses aren't able to pick up. Particularly, the talent that one Patrick Lynn has. Without turning my head, I know that he's just sitting there behind his sunglasses taking it all in, not flinching, fidgeting, or showing any emotion.

  I know there's more to him than this bitter façade he's got going. Because I've dreamed of him—three separate occasions now—there's got to be a reason we're both here at the same time. There must be an explanation for why I got in at the last minute to the camp of the guy his father has connections to. Loreen tells me constantly that everything happens for a reason and I'm wondering what in the world brought Patrick Lynn and me together.

  My heart races at the thought of some sort of cosmic force directing us to the same spot and time on earth. Tingly sensations zap up and down my hand at the memory of his brief touch last night. A zigzag of emotions scatter through me, ranging from the intrigue of meeting a stranger to the excitement and exhilaration of what's to come. Sure, Jason and I are officially broken up, but I have no idea—as psychic as I am—where Patrick Lynn fits in my life. If he fits in my life. It really could all just be a coincidence.

  There are no coincidences...

  Okay. Who just said that?

  And who's this Jason? If you're broken up, quit thinking of him.

  I grind my teeth, seething at this invasion of my privacy. Who is doing this? I can't tell if the voice is male or female. Is it one of my chicas here messing with me? Or is it one of the guys trying to hit on me in some New Age way? It couldn't be Oliver or a counselor, could it? Maybe it's one of the spirits here at the inn. In any case, it's not funny and I don't appreciate it.

  Whoever you are ... piss off. There. That should do it.

  Such language from such a pretty girl. Tsk-tsk...

  "Stop it!" I shout, covering my ears at the same time like that might actually help.

  Almost immediately, every eye in the room—even Patrick Lynn's behind his aviators—is turned to me. Some stare at me in dismay, others in shock, but most are chuckling at my outburst.

  "Sorry, Oliver," I say meekly. "Just, umm, arguing with the, er ... voices in my head"

  Everyone laughs, even me.

  Oliver walks over and puts his hands on my shoulders. "Don't worry, Kendall. Only in a roomful of other enlightened ones does that statement make sense. No one here is going to throw a straitjacket on you and lock you up."

  I slump in my chair in relief. "That's good to know."

  "One other thing," Oliver says. "The drivers and sedans here at Rose Briar are available for you whenever you want. This is your vacation. Your conference. Yes, there's an itinerary and plenty to do and work on with the counselors. However, I'm not holding you prisoner here. If you want to get out in the area and play, be my guest. All you have to do is sign out a sedan and make sure you don't go anywhere alone. That's my only rule. We're two hours from the ocean and an hour from Yosemite. The wo
rld is yours to explore, if that's what you wish."

  Jess balls up her fist, extending her pinkie and thumb in opposite directions. "Hang ten, beeyotches! Let's hit the waves!"

  That's right ... California, baby! I smack my hand to the table and turn to Patrick, quite naturally. "I've never been to the Pacific Ocean! We should all go swimming. How awesome will that be?"

  Patrick pulls back in his seat, almost cringing at my words.

  What did I say? How can this be the guy I've been fantasizing about? He doesn't even like me.

  Feeling huffy, I say, "I'm sorry if the thought of hanging out at the beach with me—with us—disgusts you."

  "It's not you, Kendall. Trust me," Patrick says in a shaky voice.

  "Whatever." I hate using that word, but it so fits right here. Fine. Stay bundled up in your leather and knit while the rest of us enjoy California Dreamin'.

  "This retreat is all about you. You get out of it what you put in," Oliver says. "Got it?"

  "Got it," several people say in unison, including me.

  I notice that Patrick is silent as a church mouse. He tugs off his sunglasses and presses his thumbs against his eyes, rubbing hard. Dude's gonna go blind pressing like that. Or maybe he's trying to erase a vision or memory. His face is so intense, like he's attempting to solve the world's most elaborate logarithm. God knows that would make me go goofy in six different languages.

  He takes his hands down and stares right at me with those eyes of his that seem to cut right through me. I'm expecting some sort of retort to my previous "Whatever," but all he does is ogle, unblinking. The gaze is so forceful that I can't pull away from it. I dare not blink for fear of losing this crackling union.

  In my mind's eye, I see Patrick and me ... together ... walking ... one minute we're in a heated discussion, the next a heated embrace.

  I jump back, reeling from the hallucination. That's what it's got to be. Me going stark raving bonkers. Sweat dots my forehead and my upper lip. Now I blink like there's no tomorrow. Did Patrick see that delusion too?

  As precipitously as the image appeared, it vanishes. But the tension hangs in the air, like drying laundry.