"Wooohooo, Kendall!" Maddie Puckett shouts from behind me. "Go for it, girlfriend!"
I pull away from Patrick as far as I can. He withdraws as well, and returns to playing his guitar.
My eyebrows drop and I spin to glare at Maddie. She knows immediately that she shouldn't have been all cheeky like that. A mouthed sorry is followed by a wave as she trots down the path to her cabin.
A frustrated sigh escapes me. "That was embarrassing."
"Not really," Patrick says. "Nothing happened."
"Yeah, but it was going to," I say defensively.
He plays a blues lick up and down the guitar in a funky manner and then laughs.
He's incorrigible. Most teenage boys are.
I cross my arms over my chest and huff. Why on earth did I dream about this guy? I wonder with such fierceness that the words echo around in my brain.
Why did I dream of you too?
I snap to attention. "What did you just say?"
Without looking at me, he responds, "I didn't say anything."
"Yes, you did!"
Not out loud...
My hand flies to my open mouth. Oh my God! You can hear my thoughts!
And you can hear mine.
"You're the one who's been messing with me the past couple of days! Encroaching in my personal space, invading my thoughts."
He stops strumming. "It's not like I want to. Shit happens."
"Apparently so. Can you hear everyone else?"
"Nope." Patrick shakes his head. "Just you."
"Love-ly." Not. First I had Emily in my head for months and now I've got some guy who can hear all of my thoughts?
I can only hear you when you're close.
"Stop that! Seriously."
Patrick chuckles low in his throat. He's totally enjoying this.
Then he lurches forward. "I'm not enjoying this. Any of this," he says as he spreads his hands wide. "This is a living hell, let me tell you. It's like having a twenty-four/seven reality show that won't shut up!"
Somewhat ashamed of my actions—Patrick's obviously suffering through some sort of awakening and he's not dealing with it well—I say, "I'm sorry."
He shoves his hands back into his gloves and then stands, gripping the neck of the guitar. "Yeah, well, believe me, I'm sorry too."
Erin, Jessica, and Harper choose that moment to run by wrapped in their towels, dripping hot-tub water behind them. "Kendall, we're making s'mores in our room. Come on!" Jess calls.
"Sure thing," I answer. "I'll be right there."
I have no idea what to say to Patrick. One moment we're this close, and now I want to seriously go put that aluminum foil hat on. Instead of saying something inappropriate, I ease off the bench and slowly turn to walk away. But not before Patrick tries to get the last word.
We'll pick this up later.
His words ricochet in my head and I have no choice but to think, I guess so.
Chapter Eleven
"YOU LOOK LIKE CRAP," Jess says to me as we walk up the path to the dining room the next morning.
"Thanks, so do you," I retort. She doesn't really. "Geesh, make a girl feel special, will you?"
Jess wraps her arm around me. "I'm sorry, Kendall. You've, like, got these dark circles under your eyes and you talked in your sleep all night."
"About what?"
"Not really sure what, but who..."
I quirk my mouth to the side, waiting.
Jess shades her eyes from the sun. "Something going on with you and Patrick?"
"No!" I say way too quickly.
"Yeah. Right."
I stop in my tracks at the bottom of the staircase. "Ugh! Is it that obvious?"
Her smile is wide and totally cheesy. "I read auras, honey. Told you. You are Pinky McPinkerton any time he's around. Go for it! He's a total babe!"
"Yeah, I know. But he's got problems."
She rolls her eyes and attacks the steps. "Honey, we all do. That's why we're here."
She's got a point.
"One day at a time, Jess. It's Wednesday. This retreat will be over before we know it."
"So?"
"So, I don't need ... complications."
Jess tsk-tsks. "Life is complicated."
"Ours more than others," I shoot back. "I only mean that in four days, we'll all be hopping back on seven-twenty-sevens and flying our separate ways."
"Not me. I was driven up."
Now I roll my eyes at her. "I just got out of a relationship. I'm not looking for a rebound."
"Mmm," she says with a cat's purr in her voice. "Those are the best."
Erin calls out, "Hey, y'all, wait for us!"
She and Harper jog to catch up and we all walk into the dining room in silence. I know Jess has more to say on the Patrick topic, but for now, the call of Chris's breakfast wafting toward me is what's driving everything. However, I nearly fall over when I see Patrick sitting at the end of the long table, sipping a cup of coffee. A stack of buttermilk pancakes is in front of him, slathered in butter and dripping with maple syrup. His hands are covered in leather and his hair is hidden under the knit hat, but his eyes are free of his usual shades. His brown orbs connect with my hazel ones, and there's a slight smile as he raises the cup to his lips.
Okay. Fine. Whatever.
Boldly, I plop down right next to him. Jess takes the seat across from me and nods her approval.
"Here you go, girls," Chris says as she places a steaming hot plate of pancakes in front of Jess and then me. I reach for the carafe and pour the pungent black coffee into a mug then follow it with a long stream of cream.
Jess lifts up the sugar shell that holds packets of sweetener. "Want some Sweet'n Low? It's pink, you know." She winks.
I squint my eyes at her, ignore the pink-new-relationship aura reference, and snatch four sugars. "No, thanks. I like the real thing."
"I hear that."
"God, the bacon smells a-frickin'-mazing," Maddie sings out, ever the morning person. Her sister Harper passes her the platter with the breakfast meats on it and she loads pork onto her plate. "So, what's on the agenda today?"
Chris places a fresh carton of orange juice on the table and straightens. She wipes her hands on her apron and says, "Oliver and the counselors are expecting you in the conference room for morning sessions as soon as you finish eating."
I nab some bacon myself and luxuriate in the crispiness and saltiness of it. Mom always microwaves our bacon—which is just fine—but I can tell that Chris cooked this in the oven until it was just perfect.
I like my bacon this way too, he says in my head.
A long sigh, followed by my fork knocking against my plate draws everyone's attention to me. "Sorry. Butterfingers."
Smoooooooth, Kendall.
Trying to keep it subtle, I narrow my eyes in Patrick's direction and laser my thoughts at him. Stop doing that. It's creepy enough that you can hear my thoughts. Do you have to do it in front of everyone?
Didn't sleep much, huh?
Thanks to you, no. Not much at all.
Sorry about that.
I snap my head up and look straight at him. Usually his remarks to me are snarky and somewhat defensive. Not now, though. He seems to sincerely feel bad that my slumber suffered because of him. Maybe Oliver can help us sort this out and tell us why this is happening.
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 Mica
h. 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 y
ou 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.
Chapter Twelve
IN 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.
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