At the end of the song, he lets his fingers dangle from the strings for a few moments. His thoughts are hidden from me; however, it seems like he's happy right now. I know I'm feeling at peace for the first time in a couple of days.
I so much want to know everything about this boy. What makes him tick? Why is he here? How can I help him? How can we help each other? How can we help Hailey?
Bravely, I ask, "Can I read you, Patrick?"
"I don't know," he says with a sexy little smirk. "Can you?"
I cross my eyes and stick out my tongue. "Thank you, Mom. May I read you?"
"I'd rather you not"
I lift up and lean on the end of the chaise, close to Patrick. I gather the intestinal fortitude to say what needs to be said. "We have this ... mental tie, Patrick. You can't deny it."
"I don't," he says and then strums out a random chord. "Nor can I explain it."
"Then why can't I read you?"
He lets out a sigh and sets the guitar down to his right. His long, lean fingers slide into his thick hair, moving the strands back momentarily. I notice a few more grays at the temple, underneath the other hair. They shine in the firelight.
I toss my hands in the air. "Look, I won't beg for your story. You've heard mine. You've heard pretty much everyone else's here, yet you're shut tighter than a clam."
I have my reasons.
"I'm sure you do," I say, acknowledging what he sent to me telepathically. "I'm here to listen." Without thinking, I reach out and place my hand on the sleeve of his shirt. He doesn't flinch or move away. Instead, he adjusts back into his chair and stares into the flames. I do the same, wondering if some ethereal message will be spelled out by the conflagration and sparks.
After a few minutes, I break the silence. "We shared a moment this afternoon with the whole Hailey incident. She's reached out to both of us. How do you explain that?"
He shakes his head, tossing his hair. "I can't explain shit these days."
"That's why you're here."
Patrick snaps around to face me. "I'm here because my dad thinks I'm a freak. He called an old friend and got me into this ... this seminar because he can't do anything for me."
"You're not a freak!" Because if you are or anyone else here is, then I am too.
You're not a freak, Kendall.
Neither are you, Patrick.
His eyes lock on mine and I sense that I won't be able to take a breath when I make the attempt. I'm paralyzed by the emotions surrounding him: fear, doubt, loneliness, confusion. I recognize them because they've been with me since I woke up in the hospital following my Sherry Biddison spill. But helping Hailey is going to get me over that hurdle. Maybe it'll cure Patrick too.
Can it? Can anything?
I want to take his hand and connect with him. I need to feel the heat of our fingers together. To solidify this union we've got going.
His beautiful brown eyes—unshielded by sunglasses finally—shift over my face, studying my nose, my eyelashes, my lips. I watch as his own lips move to form words. "I wish I could take your hand, Kendall." He turns away. "I can't, though."
I clear my throat to dislodge the emotional lump stuck right in my windpipe. "I want to know what happened, Patrick"
He shudders; no other response.
"I want to know," I reiterate forcefully and then add in my mind, I promise not to judge or think badly of you, no matter what.
With that, he spins back around. "That's just it, Kendall. I don't know what happened. I was me one moment and then the next ... I wasn't."
I cross my legs underneath me and get comfortable. "All right. Start at the top."
Chapter Fifteen
PATRICK LETS OUT A PENT-UP BREATH and then begins his tale.
"Dad and I like to travel. He's outdoorsy and we always camp and hike and swim and stuff," he starts out. "When I was fifteen, I got my open-water SCUBA certification. It was awesome because Dad went with me on my checkout dives. We've been avid divers together for the last two years."
"That's awesome that you have something in common like that." I can't imagine being that close to either of my parents. I wonder if Emily and I would have had a special bond if she'd lived to raise me.
Patrick picks up on my lamenting about what would never happen. I urge him on with a nod.
"So, the first of the year, Dad got this deal on a trip to Barbados, so we went. It was amazing there. We did so much together."
"How fun! I bet it's gorgeous there."
"It is. The water color ... well, I've never seen anything like it. We did the zip lines through the tree canopies of this sunken cave, and we went on a Segway tour on the northern part of the island overlooking the Atlantic."
"My best friend, Celia, has a Segway. Those things are the coolest," I say, wanting to connect with him even more.
"Right," he says with a smile. He really should do that more often since it makes these tiny little crinkles around his eyes that just light up my heart. "We were having a time, let me tell you. We didn't get to dive every day like we wanted to, but we had some righteous ones."
The thought of breathing underwater fascinates and frightens me at the same time. "What all did you see?"
His eyes shift into the memory. "Sea turtles, puffer fish, chum, sergeant majors; it was ... wow."
"I bet."
A darkness overtakes his eyes. "On the third dive, I was feeling all cocky. It was a wreck dive. Nothing too complicated. It was this ship called the Pamir that had been deliberately sunk to make a coral reef. The sea life there was frickin' unreal"
"That would totally creep me out," I say. "Swimming around a sunken ship? Yuck!"
"It's no big deal," he assures me. "It's not like anyone died on it. They clean it up, take all the oils and toxins out of it, and it provides a home and food for the fish, coral, and plants."
I scrunch up my nose. "I suppose. So, go ahead."
"Yeah, well ... it was a penetration dive, but I'm not certified for that."
I shift in my seat. "I don't know what that means."
Patrick licks his lips. "I'm only certified for open-water dives, which means I'm not supposed to be going in caves or ships or places like that without further training."
"Okay, that makes sense."
"It would have if I'd obeyed the rules." He scratches his head. "Like I said, I got cocky. So, when the rest of the group swam off to this small submarine that's sunk nearby, I scooted back to penetrate the wreck. It looked like a really easy one and I wanted to see what it was like."
I scowl at him. "Aren't you, like, supposed to always stay with your dive buddy? I remember seeing some program on the Travel Channel about that. Didn't your dad notice you were gone?"
Patrick hangs his head. "Yeah. It was a dick move. I thought I could penetrate and be back in a flash without anyone noticing I was gone." A long pause follows, and I know this is the part in the story where something goes wrong. "I was stupid. I went into the wreck, swam around—no big deal, right? Only problem was, my octopus regulator—the extra breathing hose you have in case your buddy or someone else runs out of air—got snagged in the lead rope that led back to the buoy on the surface. I sort of panicked and started taking in a lot of air. Then I pulled my dive knife from my ankle and tried to cut myself loose."
My hands move up to cover my mouth. I'm seeing everything that Patrick was going through; he's sending me images while he shares his story. I see him in his short wetsuit, his hair flowing above him in the water. His eyes are wide and panic has overtaken him.
"I must have been stuck like that a good six minutes. I totally forgot everything I'd learned in the classroom, in the textbook, and in the pool. It was the survival instinct, you know? I didn't give a damn about the bends or following my small air bubbles to the surface, I just wanted out."
"What happened?" I ask from behind my hands.
"I slashed at the lead rope to get loose, but I sliced my air hose instead."
"Oh, shit! But y
ou had that octagon backup thingy, right?"
He chuckles. "The octopus regulator. It was stuck and I couldn't get to it. I was SOL."
"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.
Chapter Sixteen
THURSDAY 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."
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