"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."
"Keep your shorts on," she says with a laugh. Then her face grows sober as her eyebrows knit together. "Okay. This is, like, serious. I've been doing a lot of research here while the parentals have been off at this retailer thing. Can you believe they actually hired a limo to drive me around the city and stuff so I'll be safe?"
I press my lips together and fail to mention the limo that brought me from Fresno to the inn. "So—what have you found?"
"You know how you had that vision of a Wisconsin license plate? Well, my cousin Paul, the agent with the Georgia division of the FBI, got the address that the plate was registered to in St. Germain, Wisconsin"
"This is old news, Celia."
"Just wait. Remember the names you had in a vision? John Thomas and Anna Wynn Faulkner? Turns out, that was their address, like, twelve years ago!"
My hand flies to my mouth and I nearly gag on the intake of breath. "Emily's parents?" My grandparents?
"Maybe so. They filed a missing-persons report for Emily, so it could very well be the same family, provided that your vision was accurate"
"Oh my gosh, Celia, what if—"
"There's more!" I hear her shuffling through some papers. "They left St. Germain, but there was a connection here in Chicago, which could explain why Emily was here the night she had you and died."
A twinge of sadness shudders through my system as I think about how poor Emily—poor Mom—suffered in the horrible car crash that rainy night. At least they got her to the hospital in time for me to be born. I swallow the chunk of emotions stuck at the back of my throat. "What's the connection?" I manage to get out.
"Stay with me, K," Celia instructs. She knows me so well. "It seems that in addition to the lake house in St. Germain, Wisconsin, John Thomas and Anna Wynn Faulkner had a home in"—she glances down at her notes—"Naperville, Illinois. A suburb of the city."
"Sure. A girl at the coffeehouse where I used to work lived there."
Celia glares at the computer screen like she's going to come through and smack me. "Who cares about some chick who makes java? Listen to me. I got the address in Naperville."
The inflammation in my throat returns. Not sure if it's anticipation or trepidation. "And?"
"Dude, this house. You should see it. It was massive."
I lean into the computer. "You went there?"
"Umm, duh. Charlie the limo driver took me there and waited while I talked to the owners."
"Were they ... Emily's parents?"
Celia drops her head and all I can see is the Chicago Cubs logo on her hat. Her voice is a little muffled as she reads off her notes. "No, they sold the house two years ago to the Yardley family. They told the Yardleys that they were selling everything, taking out some of John Thomas's savings, and going to see the country in an RV. Of course, that was two years ago, K."
My hands quake at the thought of being so close to my grandparents. They're out there somewhere ... traveling down the same highway I took to this inn, possibly. I sharpen my psychic eye and look deeply into myself, using everything inside me to determine where these people might be. I see an older man with a mop of white hair, a hearing aid in his left ear, and silver wire glasses. The woman with him is petite, and stylish with her short salt-and-pepper hair. Her smile is bright, and her lipstick is perfect; she sips sparkling water through a straw. Where are they? Where? I grunt slightly, as if I'm forcing the information to just pop up like a Wikipedia page and tell me the answers to all of my questions.
The only thing I pick up, though, is a pair of blue booklets. Blue booklets? Gold lettering. Something small that fits in a pants pocket or a handbag.
"Kendall, you're wigging me out," Celia calls through the computer.
Snapping back, I say, "I was just trying to reach out to their energies. They have to be older now. Older than my parents and yours. Like gray-hair-they've-stopped-dyeing older."
"Are they still alive?" she asks pragmatically. "Sorry, but it's a legit question."
I know it is, so I close my eyes and send my energies out again. Yes. They're very much alive. John Thomas had a bout with prostate cancer last year, and Anna Wynn still sneaks a cigarette on the side every now and then, but they are most definitely alive and ... somewhere.
"I think I see them, Cel. Do you know what a blue book with gold writing could be?"
Celia crooks her mouth. "You mean like a passport?"
"I don't know. I've never had a passport," I shoot back.
She rummages through her backpack and tugs out a tattered blue booklet with the seal of the United States of America in the middle and the word PASSPORT in large, gold block letters. "Like this?"
"That's it! They had passports in my vision."
"A short trip or expatriates?"
"I don't have the answer."
"Some psychic you are," she jokes.
I try to laugh with her, but my psychic headache begins to ping away at my temples, making me wish I'd packed the big bottle of Motrin for my trip. I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain, trying to will away the pounding. Too much to take in all at once, more than likely.
"I suppose so," she says. "That's asking a lot, considering how tight Homeland Security is on their info these days. Let me get Paul on it."
I breathe out in increments until my lungs feel empty. "Please do that. I need to make sure we're on the right path."
"You got it!" Then Celia adds, "Oh, one more thing. I'm checking on that other name you envisioned. Andy Caminiti?"
"Right."
"Paul's doing a search on him, missing persons, disappearances, arrest records, all of it. I'll let you know what I find out."
Celia's beaming face conveys that she's not doing this only because she's my friend but because she genuinely wants to help and enjoys the investigative nature of this mystery. It's not just any mystery, though. It's my life.
"Thanks for everything, Cel. I don't know what I'd do without you."
She gives me a toothy grin. "You'll never have to worry about that. I'm not going anywhere." There's a sudden silence between us, and I know we're both thinking about the Tillsons. Knowing what she's going to say before the words leave her mouth isn't always fun.
"Have you, like, heard from Jason?" she asks tentatively.
"Not a word." Now's not the time to tell her about Patrick Lynn. She'd just have Paul do some sort of background check on him and his family to see what his story is. I'd rather Patrick tell me when he's ready since I can't read a thing about him. Oh, sure, I can hear his thoughts and he can hear mine, but I don't have the first clue about what other abilities he possesses or how he got them. In due time, he'll tell me. Of that I'm positive.
"I got a text from Taylor," Celia reports. "She's been working on her photography and really building up her portfolio. Her dad took her up to his park on the teeny-tiny seaplane and she said she saw polar bears, bald eagles, a blue whale, a humpback one, a pack of orcas, gray wolves, grizzly bears, a lynx, and three moose."
"Damn. I can't exactly see our little Tay-Tay getting all back to nature, but more power to her."
"She also said Jason's learning to fly. Can you imagine that?"
An image of Jason somewhere in the future, in uniform, flying a large aircraft, crosses my vision. "I can totally believe it."
Celia tugs off her hat and fluffs her messy hair with her hand. "Mom and Dad'll be back soon. Gotta hop in the shower and get ready to go out. I'll keep you posted, K. Just have a good time there and don't worry about a thing."
Easier said than done. "Have you just met me, Cel?"
"Sort of," she says with a laugh. "TTYL!"
"Love ya; mean it," I say, and then click off the window.
I sit in stunned silence for a moment as I let the convo with my best friend sink in. Could Celia have actually found my grandparents' last two addresses? Where are they now? Where did they go? They couldn't have just vanished off the face of the earth. Centering my thoughts, I repeat their names over and over in my head.
John Thomas Faulkner
Anna Wynn Faulkner
John Thomas Faulkner
Anna Wynn Faulkner
Talk to me...
Soon, an image of a man and woman surrounded by a dry ice–like substance swirls in my cerebral hemisphere. I breathe in. I breathe out. Concentrating hard to read the details of what I see in my mind's eye. Like static in the air during a lightning storm, a touch of melancholy and sadness surrounds them. A negative attitude about something taken from them. Well, durr ... that's probably Emily. I only wish I could look at a map and automatically know where they are now. Why isn't that a feature of Google Earth? It doesn't work like that, though. Being psychic doesn't mean I'm omniscient, no matter how hard I deliberate. I squint my closed eyes, like that's going to do any good. I seek out any detail I can relay to Celia, much like I did with the Wisconsin license plate that set us on this journey to begin with.
No matter how hard I strain to see around the two people, it's utterly blocked to me. It's like I need an extra booster rocket to get through the hazy barrier. I blow out my frustration and open my eyes. It's clearly not up to me to solve this mystery. If it were, the answers would come to me more simply. Right? I can just hear Loreen telling me that everything happens for a reason and I can't question God's will. Well, yeah, I'm sorry, but I sort of can on this matter.
A rumble overhead that sounds like the makings of a thunderstorm gets me to sit up and take notice. "Sorry," I yell up to the ceiling, then bite my bottom lip.
Okay, who am I to fight the Almighty? I'll let Celia continue her information quest. She's doing a great job so far and I know she's got my best interests at heart.
Now that I'm over my little freak-out/slight temper tantrum from before, I guess I should return to the conference room and see what's going on. Mom and Dad paid good money for me to be here at this retreat. Moreover, I still want to find out what everyone else's "problem" is, so to speak. Knowing my luck, I missed Patrick's soulful confession of what powers he possesses and how he got them. Particularly, how he's able to invade my thoughts. I'm sure it's a story for the books.
As my mind swirls in a hundred gazillion directions, I make my way out of the cabin and onto the path. I pause for a moment and then walk over to the bench where Patrick and I sat last night. Where we ... bonded. (Is that what us kids are calling it these days?) Where our connection was more ... it was psychic, it was physical, yet not. Was it cosmic or kismet?
I lower my weight onto the slats of the weathered wood, almost experiencing every thunderclap, rain shower, and snowstorm that ever touched this lumber. The scent of pine trees is heavy in the air as the cones are in full bloom for the spring season. I smother a sneeze tickling the roof of my mouth and concentrate on the forest ahead of me and on the remarkable mountain range stretching out over the horizon.
Suddenly, it's like an intuition is tapping me on the shoulder, and I sense that I'm not alone. I hope in vain that it's Patrick coming out to sit with me again, but before I turn to face my companion, I know from the chill in the March air that the person present is not of the living.
Bravely, I find my voice. "Wh-what are you doing here, Hailey?"
Chapter Thirteen
THE YOUNG WOMAN lifts her eyes to my face. "I'm waiting to be found."
"What does that mean?"
"Please help me," she begs.
I shove my hands into my hair and rub at my scalp. "Help you what? Stop talking to me in riddles! If you want help, then talk to me."
She stares at me with her wide, sad eyes. I have to remember that spirits are delicate souls somewhere on a transitional plane. And they were people too, after all. I need to be more sensitive. I gather my thoughts, take a deep breath, and ask, "Where are you? Did you die here at the inn? Is that why you're here?"
She seems perplexed. "I'm here because of you. You're supposed to find me. They said you would"
I am? Is this the "they" that Oliver relayed to me? The "find them" that Emily was referring to? Is this some sort of calling that Emily is directing me to through this retreat? My heart is heavy with love and loss and loyalty to the woman who gave me life while losing her own.
"Did someone named Emily say I'd assist you?"
"I don't know their names," Hailey explains. "There were a bunch of them and they said you were the one. Are you or not?"
Gulp. I suppose I am.
For the sake of Emily, a woman missing forever to her family and to the baby she'd never had a real relationship with, I rotate to survey Hailey. Her eyes are even sadder than before, and somehow, it's up to me to fix all that ails her.
I don't know if I can.
I don't know if I want to.
I don't know if I'm capable anymore.
My eyes flutter shut; I'm trying to block Hailey from my mind. Her face still appears on the insides of my lids, though. Loreen's voice is strong in my head, telling me God has given me the skill to reach the deceased because they need my help.
Emily told Oliver Bates that there's more for me to do, but part of me wants Mom's boss to prescribe me a big old colorful pill with lots of milligrams that erases this "talent" from my mental hard drive.
Suddenly, Celia's in my thoughts, particularly something she wrote on one of my get-well cards when I was in the hospital. Of course it was encouraging, and from the pen of the Bard himself. In Richard III, the king calls out, "O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!"
Slamming my fists to the bench, I swallow down the heartburn-y taste of apprehension. Kendall Moorehead may be a lot of things, but she's not a chicken, faint heart, fraidy cat, jellyfish, lily liver, malingerer, quitter, scaredy-cat, or yellow-bellied anything. Geesh, there I go, speaking of myself in the third person again. D'oh!
Hailey is not here to injure me in any way. She honestly needs my aid, and I will give it to her. I scan her thoughts and I'm assured that she doesn't mean to harm me, like Sherry Biddison did. Not all spirits are like Sherry Biddison. There is no hatred in Hailey's heart. Nor does she want to push me down the side of this mountain or anything. I have to have faith. In my God. In my abilities. In Hailey's outreach to me.
It has to be this way.
"Find me, please," she says in a ghost of a whisper.
I'm ready to intercede on Hailey's behalf any way I can. This is my calling. It's what my mother wants me to do. I reach out to Hailey and say, "Tell me everything you know."
I've seen reruns of the old, old Star Trek episodes where that pointy-eared Spock guy mind-melds with people so he can read their thoughts and memories. He'd place his fingers strategically on the person's forehead and sinuses, and all of a sudden, Spock would, like, have the privilege of total knowledge. It looks so frickin' easy on television—then again, it's television. This is real life and I'm doing my best to connect on some sort of telepathic level with Hailey. She sits patiently next to me because she knows now that I will do everything I can to facilitate people finding her.
The Counseling Page 10
