The Gifting

by Katie Ganshert

  Instead, I let out a long breath and close his door. The heavy feeling sticks with me as I brush my teeth and pull my hair into a ponytail and throw a hooded sweatshirt over my tank top and make my way down the stairs, where Mom and Dad chat in the kitchen while coffee percolates and eggs fry in a pan on the stovetop.

  Mom sees me in the doorway first. “Good morning, sweetie.”

  I rub my eyes. “Hey Mom.”

  Dad offers me a smile and flips a page of the newspaper. I do not want to hear him read it out loud. I don’t want to know about whatever bad things are happening out in the world. Not when enough bad things are happening inside my own head. “I’m going into work later today,” he says. “Want to tag along?”

  “Maybe.”

  Mom lifts the pan off the stove top. “How about some eggs?”

  “Um, no thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “Maybe later. I think I’ll go take a walk on the beach.” As much as I don’t look it, I love the outdoors and I really need to get out of the house. Away from their watchful, worried eyes. I walk to the cupboard and remove my favorite coffee mug—an extra big one with a bright red reindeer painted on the side. I fill it halfway with coffee and halfway with pumpkin spice creamer, slip on a pair of unlaced running shoes, and slide open the door leading out to our deck.

  “Looks like rain,” Mom says. “I wouldn’t wander too far.”

  “I won’t.” I pull up my hood and step out into the foggy morning. The sun has already risen, painting the sky a whitish yellow, but the actual source of the light is lost somewhere in the fog. The heaviness that draped over my shoulders like a thick cloak falls away. I feel light, free, thankful for the ocean waves crashing against rock. I take a long sip of hot coffee and walk down the stairs to the earth. Seagulls squawk and the wind carries the distant sound of laughter from the shore as I make my way through a craggy path toward the beach. A boy in a wet suit looks out at the white-capped waves, a surfboard tucked beneath his arm. Something about his messy dark hair and the broadness of his shoulders makes me stop and duck behind a rock.

  Luka Williams is standing in what might as well be my backyard.

  I remember what Leela said yesterday, about Luka living in Forest Grove. I glance around at the other houses, wondering which one is his when a woman’s voice calls over the waves. “Pancakes are ready, Luka!”

  She stands on the deck to the left of my house—slender and tall with dark hair billowing about her shoulders. She waves at Luka, who tucks his board under his arm and jogs toward her.

  I duck further behind the rock, my heart pounding erratically, because holy cow, Luka is my next door neighbor. Crouching low, I watch him make his way off the beach, into his back yard, until my hot coffee turns cold and my legs grow stiff from squatting. He stands on the deck with his mother, obviously in no hurry to get to the pancakes inside. Not wanting to be caught spying, I slink around my house, dump the coffee in the dying lilies growing up from the mulch, then slip inside the front door to the sound of my parents’ hushed voices in the kitchen.

  No sound or movement can be heard upstairs. Pete must still be sleeping, which is odd. He’s usually an early riser. Back in Jude, he and Dad always went on Saturday morning jogs while Mom and I went to the local dojo for martial arts. It’s something we’ve done together since the summer I turned ten. Dad insisted upon it. Apparently, it’s important that we learn how to defend ourselves in such a violent world. I objected at first, thinking I would hate it. Thinking I’d be awful. To my surprise, I ended up being such a natural that our first sensei nicknamed me Tiny Ninja. I hope we’ll continue our training here in Thornsdale. I could use the release.

  Mom’s voice rises, then quickly quiets.

  Curiosity pulls me closer. I tiptoe to the kitchen door and press my back against the living room wall, feeling guilty. I should not eavesdrop on my parents.

  “I think I should go wake him up,” Mom says.

  “Let him sleep, Miranda. He’s a growing boy.”

  “It’s not like Pete, sleeping in this late.”

  The paper crinkles. Dad has turned a page. “If the government doesn’t put its foot down, these fetal modification protests are going to get out of control.”

  “I’m worried about him, James.”

  “He’s a fifteen-year-old who had to leave his first girlfriend. He’ll bounce back.”

  “You really think that’s all this is? Puppy love?”

  The phrase prickles. It always has. Not because I’ve ever been in love or because I think Pete was, but because every time I hear it, it sounds so condescending. As if young people aren’t capable of the real thing.

  “Of course. What else would it be?”

  Mom doesn’t answer.

  Silverware and plates clink and clatter. The faucet runs.

  “Pete’s a solid kid. We just have to give him space.” The newspaper crinkles again. “I’m not worried about him.”

  The water stops. I can almost see Mom turning around, placing her hands on the edge of the counter, tapping her fingernails against the marble top. “Are you sure we can’t get a hold of your mother’s file? You don’t think her psychiatrist would give you a copy?”

  I blink several times, startled by the sharp turn in the conversation. Her psychiatrist? My grandmother had a psychiatrist?

  “I already told you, Miranda, that’s impossible. And unnecessary.”

  “You just admitted to being worried.”

  “Of course I’m worried. Did you see our daughter this morning? Seventeen-year-olds should not have circles that dark beneath their eyes.” He flips another page of the paper. “But that doesn’t mean I think she’s like my mother.”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I see … similarities.”

  “Miranda.” The name comes out like a warning.

  “Would it really hurt to make a phone call?”

  “And draw unneeded attention to our daughter?”

  My body takes on a mind of its own. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I step out from my hiding place and gape at my parents. “What are you guys talking about?”

  Their faces pale.

  My mind races, spinning with confusion. “Grandma died of a heart attack. As far as I know, heart problems don’t require psychiatrists.”

  Mom takes a step toward me. “Tess … sweetheart.”

  But I shake my head and look at Dad. “Why did she need counseling?”

  He sets the newspaper on the table next to his egg-smeared plate.

  I attempt to reign in my helter-skelter thoughts. If Grandma had mental problems, how could they keep that from me—especially after what happened at the séance? “She didn’t die of a heart attack, did she?”

  Mom wrings a towel in front of her. “Honey, it’s complicated.”

  “I’m smart enough to keep up.”

  Dad sighs, as if resigned, and ignores Mom’s desperate head shaking. “She died in a mental rehabilitation center.”

  “She was crazy?” The question escapes on a whisper. I blink rapidly, looking from Mom to Dad as if they are strangers. “How could you keep that from me?”

  Dad runs his palm down his face and stares past the sliding glass door, past the beach and the ocean beyond. “We kept it from everyone, Tess. Not just you. We didn’t want that stigma hanging over your heads. Mental illness is frowned upon. You know that.”

  Yes, I do. Because I take Current Events. Crazy people are a burden to society. And we live in a time where burdens are not tolerated. Burdens make a nation weak. So they are removed, taken away. For everybody’s own good. I’ve never thought to question the logic of it before, but suddenly I’m terrified. What if I become a burden?

  Mom relinquishes the twisted towel and wraps her arm around my shoulder. I shrug her away, keeping my attention on Dad. “What was wrong with her?”

  “She had frequent episodes of psychosis.”

  “Psychosis?”

  “She saw things nob
ody else saw.”

  “Things?”

  “She called them demons. Spirits.” Dad laughs a humorless laugh and shakes his head, as if trying to rattle away the unpleasant memories. I can only imagine what he thought about his mother’s claims. “When the illness reached its peak, she swore she could fight them.”

  Cold fear sinks like an anchor into the pit of my stomach. Mom tries to wrap her arm around me again, but I step away, a single thought echoing in my mind. One I cannot voice. One I can’t even whisper. But inside, it shouts and rattles the walls of my soul. If souls exist.

  Is psychosis hereditary?

  Chapter Eight

  Paranoia

  After absorbing the bomb my parents dropped in our kitchen on Saturday morning, I spend an hour in my room Googling psychosis. What I find disturbs me.

  According to one site, psychosis is a loss of contact with reality that usually includes: false beliefs about what is taking place or who one is, which are referred to as delusions; seeing or hearing things that aren’t there, which are referred to as hallucinations.

  It’s the second one that gets me more than the first—seeing or hearing things that aren’t there. I spend the rest of the weekend processing, curled up in an Adirondack chair on our back deck, inhaling the briny sea air, reading Wuthering Heights, pausing occasionally to alternately recall or push away the things I have seen and heard over the past several weeks that nobody else can see or hear.

  Mom and Dad give me my space. Pete holes up in his room. And I find that as long as I stay outside, the heaviness is not so oppressive. I tell myself that my grandmother’s insanity means nothing, changes nothing. I start to look forward to Monday, when I will see my new friend and the mysterious boy next door. I sleep relatively better on Saturday and Sunday. I experience no headaches or weird visions.

  By the time Monday rolls around, I feel almost normal. The urge I have to ask more questions, to get more answers, ebbs with the tide. I don’t need to know these things. Some people say knowledge is power, but in this case, I’m pretty sure knowledge is paranoia. And let’s say for a minute that I am crazy. Paranoia will not help. So I stay far away from Google and I don’t ask my parents anymore questions and I end up with a big lump of disappointment in my gut when Luka doesn’t show up for Current Events on Monday morning. My hope dwindles even more when he is absent from Ceramics and disappears altogether when I catch sight of his empty seat during lunch.

  Leela and the rest of the student body, however, are alight with the exciting afterglow of victory. None of them can stop talking about their unexpected win on Friday night. “I really wish you could have gone,” Leela says, cracking open her Coke. “Matt threw this insane hail Mary at the end. When Marshall jumped up and caught the ball in the end zone, we were all going ballistic.”

  This is the third time I have heard the story, so I listen with half my heart, trying to think of a way to turn the conversation toward Luka without being obvious about my burgeoning infatuation. Thankfully, Leela makes it easy.

  “And we all thought only Luka could make a pass like that.”

  I set my apple on my tray and clear my throat. “Was he at the game?”

  “I stood by him in line at the concession stand at halftime. He remembered that my oldest brother got into a car accident last year and asked how he was doing, which is pretty amazing. Nobody else has asked. Anyway, he asked about you.”

  I cough. “He did?”

  She nods emphatically. “He wondered where you were.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That you weren’t feeling well.” Leela’s cheeks glow. “First he stares at you at the pep rally. Then he asks about you at the football game. Do you know how many girls would love to be in your position right now?”

  Yeah. My position. Crazy girl going to the Edward Brooks Facility. Somehow, I doubt that. I look over at his empty seat, as if Leela’s bit of news will conjure him into the moment. Why would Luka ask about me? “I found out he’s my next door neighbor.”

  Her eyes go wide as she stuffs a bite of her sandwich into her mouth, gives it a couple good chews, and swallows it down. “Are you serious?”

  “I saw him surfing on Saturday.”

  Leela shakes her head, like she can’t believe my luck. I can think of nothing natural to say that might continue the conversation, so it peters out. I chew my apple, searching for a logical explanation for Luka’s interest. After all, I am my father’s daughter. If he asked about me at the football game, it was probably leftover curiosity over the mini freak-out he witnessed at the pep rally. I’m sure he noticed it. Why else was he staring at me afterward? I take another bite of my apple. It’s crunchy and sweet, but I don’t enjoy it. I’m eating because I’m supposed to, not because I have any real appetite.

  “So what’s this thing you have after school?”

  “Oh …” I think fast, grappling for a believable lie. “I, um … I take piano lessons.”

  Leela perks. “Really?”

  I nod, hoping Leela is not a big piano person. I hope she doesn’t ask if we can get together and pound out some music. Because the best I can do is “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and even that’s a bit choppy.

  She looks across the cafeteria, toward Pete. “Does your brother play too?”

  “No. Just me.”

  She opens a bag of chips. I eat the last of my apple. I can tell we both want to ask more questions, but neither of us do.

  *

  The Edward Brooks Facility is right outside my neighborhood. The tall, looming building sits on an actual cliff, a picture straight out of an Alfred Hitchcock film. Mom, who is a major history buff, explains how it used to be an orphanage. A long, long time ago when our country still had them.

  Now it’s a privately-owned treatment center for people like me. As I unbuckle my seat belt, Mom gives me a cheery smile and tells me everything will be okay. She reminds me that I can be honest with Dr. Roth. That it’s safe. Then she squeezes my hand and I get out of the car and walk up the cement stairs, waiting for the thunder to crack and the lightning to strike and Frankenstein’s doctor to yell, “It’s alive!”

  I struggle with the heavy front door and sign my name on a sheet of paper at the front desk and read Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier (I finished Wuthering Heights on Monday) until a lady with yellow teeth calls my name and leads me down a long corridor into Dr. Roth’s office. She doesn’t say goodbye or smile. She just walks away and leaves me standing inside the room, staring at a man who sits in a cushy red chair. He wears a stiff-looking white shirt, a navy blue tie, and bifocals that slide down his bulbous nose. He smiles at me, scratching his mousy brown goatee. “Teresa Ekhart, I presume?”

  “Tess.” His office has no windows, but is somehow drafty, and smells like an overpowering mixture of oranges and ammonia.

  “Tess,” he concedes, motioning to an equally-red, cushy chair beside him.

  “I thought shrinks had couches.”

  He chuckles.

  I sit and fold my hands in my lap, taking deep, steady breaths. I don’t have to say anything. I don’t have to do anything. He will ask questions and I can answer as vaguely as possible and maybe soon, my parents will stop making me come to this place that belongs on a Hollywood horror set.

  Dr. Roth reads from a manila file, pushes up his glasses, and looks at me like one might examine an extremely interesting specimen beneath a microscope. I wipe my palms against my knees and scratch my earlobe. “Aren’t we supposed to talk?”

  “What would you like to talk about?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. You’re the doctor. I’m the patient.”

  “I prefer client.”

  “Why?”

  “Less of a stigma.” He pulls at the whiskers of his goatee. “Don’t you think?”

  I nod at the file resting on his knee. Hasn’t he heard of a thing called technology? “Your filing system seems a little outdated.”

  “Pen and paper doesn’t crash. I
t’s not nearly as accessible, either.”

  I eye the folder with a healthy dose of skepticism. “What does that say about me?”

  “That you had a bit of a breakdown in Jude and the ambulance was called.”

  And I have hallucinations, but no need to admit to that. “Did you get that information from the hospital in Florida?”

  Dr. Roth holds up the file. “This is all from your parents.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about the séance?”

  His question takes me back to the hospital, only instead of Dr. Roth, I am talking to a short-legged man in a white coat who doesn’t smile, my parents’ warning all too fresh in my mind. Don’t tell him anything, Tess. I shift in the chair. “I have an overactive imagination.”

  Dr. Roth quirks one of his eyebrows.

  “And I think I fell asleep.”

  His other eyebrow joins the first one. “Fell asleep?”

  “The more I think about it, the more I’m sure that what I … saw … was a nightmare.”

  “Do you have very many nightmares?”

  I plead the fifth.

  “I’d like to know more about them—these nightmares.”

  I scratch my kneecap. I can’t decide if I like Dr. Roth. He’s warmer than the white-coated doctor in Jude, but there’s a fascination in his eye that makes me uncomfortable. It’s almost as though I’m a test subject instead of his patient, or client, or whatever he wants to call me. “They’re just your standard nightmares.”

  “And that’s what you think happened the night you were hospitalized? You think you had a nightmare?”

  No. “Yes.”

  “Do you mind sharing with me exactly what you saw?”

  I close my eyes, as if doing so might shut the images away, but they are seared into my memory—the dead bodies in ditches, the people in straitjackets. I give an involuntary shudder. “I saw a lot of death.”