“How do you know you can raise dead things?” she asked.
I explained the cemetery, then the dog. Jade showed a lot of sympathy for the dog. Just thinking about him was bringing his “emotions” like a flood to me.
“Where is he now?”
“I don't know for sure but the impressions...”
She cut me off. “Impressions?” Jade asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah, if I think about him, he's like, there with me.” I tried to clarify.
“Like when I touch people...” she mused.
“I don't know if it's like what you have, but all I know is that I thought he needed to live, then he did.” It was hard to make somebody understand when they couldn't do it, “...and afterward I could sense his emotions.”
Do dogs really feel? Well yeah. Frogs do, I shuddered, remembering pre-Biology.
“So, what do you know about people?” I asked.
“Ah-uh, you're not getting off that fast!” She laughed. “No off-topic, tell me about Sunday.”
“Well... Jonesy thought we needed to teach Carson and Brett a lesson.”
Jade's brow furrowed into two, neat lines, kinda like a number eleven.
I rushed forward, “He thought it may divert them enough during the Aptitude Tests that they wouldn't be paying attention to me or think to let a teacher in on what I can really do.”
Jade's face knitted together in concentration, her head tilting. Finally, she said, “I think it will work for that but later, they're going to retaliate.”
Huh, I knew what that meant: they're gonna open a can of whoop-ass all over you.
“I guess that's a chance we'll have to take.”
Jade rolled her eyes.
“Boys,” she said.
As if that explained all reason in the world.
“Listen, you remember what I told you about the cemetery?” I threw out a little impatiently.
She nodded.
“Well, they won't respect me until I dominate them. They're just that type. You see that, don't ya?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Brett lives by me. He has always been,” she looked up, “difficult.”
I looked at her dumbfounded. She couldn't be sympathetic to that loser?
She whispered, “His dad's worse than mine.” She looked away and I didn't really know what to say.
The silence rolled out and I let it. Guys are good at that. Girls, and Jonesy, who was sometimes classified as something entirely new... a sub-species maybe, seem to want to fill silences with talking. Guys didn't feel that obligation.
“When we were little and met at the bus stop, his dad would sometimes meet him in the afternoon and right there, in front of all the kids, he'd be shit-faced drunk. Of course, he'd wait until the driver pulled away before he started hitting on Brett.” She looked down, her hands tightly clenched together, twisting, “... then he would drag him off to the car. The next day at the bus stop Brett would be all beat up.”
Jade looked up, standing tears shimmering, her eyes very wide so they wouldn't fall. “He had it worse than me. At least dad didn't yell and beat me in front of people.”
I gulped, hell, this was horrible. And she thought that was better?
My life, even with the stupid AFTD was better than a lot of people. I didn't want to feel bad for Brett. He was such a raging dickhead. But, I could see the why of his behavior. Carson was still a mystery though, he had everything going for him. It came down to choice. And Jade had a similar background to Brett and she wasn't acting like a jerk.
Jade seemed to understand my thought process and answered almost as if I had spoken out loud (duh... empath), “His mom is the same and never did anything to stop it. At least my mom is dead. I just had the one parent. When things became really bad,” she shuddered, “I would escape to Andrea's.”
“Okay, so you like, feel sorry for Brett?” I was trying to put what she said into a box, for later reflection.
“Kinda. I hate that he's mean to me. But, at the bus stop, the other kids didn't know what to do to help him. His dad was über-scary and their families were normal,” she smiled and corrected herself, “more normal.” She went on, “I knew what it felt like, how embarrassing it was to have a parent that out-of-control, the feeling of slippage. Like you're hangin' on to the edge of the cliff and some maniac has a hold of the rope and you have to hang on and hope they don't let go.” A defeated little sigh escaped her before she continued, “I just wanted him to know that I was hangin' on to his rope too. That the maniac wasn't the only one that had a hold of it. So, we were friends. Then, for some reason, last year when we started going here,” she gestured back in the direction of Kent Middle School behind us, “he started acting like he didn't know me.” She shrugged. “I just sorta gave up. He and Carson became friends and that was the end of that.”
Interesting.
We sat for a moment, chewing on what she had told me.
“I want you to come on Sunday,” I said.
“I don't know, what if Carson and Brett get really mad and something bad happens? I don't like Brett getting it. It feels wrong. If it backfires, they'll be more determined to make sure the right adults find out what you can do.”
“Speaking of that, tell me how you knew?”
She was wringing her hands a little then I covered one with my own.
“Just now, when you touched me I just got a really strong... impression,” she paused struggling for clarity, “of concern and... love.” She looked quickly to see if I was offended by the “L” word. I couldn't say I loved her yet but I cared. Maybe there wasn't as much of a difference between the two?
“Anyone can guesstimate, but I know. People can't lie to me. I know who likes me and who doesn't. And that's not so great, believe me. But what can I do? It is what it is,” she said.
I felt the same way about what I did, it is what it is.
“That doesn't explain how you know that I'm AFTD.”
“Well, each person has a 'flavor,' like ice cream,” she perked up at the analogy, “... so there are paranormal flavors and I started to recognize the differences. Sometimes before they even know what they're going to have. Mostly, I just try to not touch anyone, I really don't want to know.”
“Who else is AFTD?” I was stunned, I thought I was the only one, I don't know why, it could happen to anyone.
“That girl in PE.”
Well that cleared it right up, thanks.
“Tiffany Weller.” Jade's voice modulation rose, indicating, do you know her?
I thought about the name and then the face came to me. Kinda plain girl, could be an enraged cow.
I nodded.
She went on, “About a month ago, she was sitting outside the school, crying. I don't know her. Anyway, I asked her what was wrong and she pointed to a dead bird just a few feet away.”
I knew what she'd say next.
“She's got snot and tears leaking all over her face and she says something, but I can't hear because she's talking so soft. So I lean in real close and she says, 'it whispers,'. 'What whispers?' I asked her.
“ 'Death,' she said, 'death whispers'.''
“It was so fundamentally creepy that I sorta backed away real quick, but I lost my footing and my palm touched her back.” Jade looked far away then.
I didn't push her for more.
The sun was starting to get low in the sky, a hot crimson ball on fire, balanced between the sky and the horizon. Seconds ticked by.
“I felt it all then. There was this echo,” she paused here, “I could feel Tiffany's feelings of sadness and loss, but I could also feel, real faintly, the bird's images too.” She shuddered then stared at me. “You're the same Caleb. But, it is so much more... you're so much more.” She kept looking at me, frightened and finished, “... it's like static noise, there are so many voices.”
The orb began to drown in the horizon, painting the sky blood red. The wash of color expanded like arms of light, reaching out for an embrace. I l
ooked down at Jade and understood that she was horrified by what she could feel was going on with me, with everyone. It was always something I had to keep the iron fist of control over. Otherwise, it was simple misery.
The dead spoke, they spoke to me all the time.
CHAPTER 11
Mom pounced on me the minute I walked through the door. I hucked my backpack on the chair and she gave me the mom-glare. I sighed, trudging back out to the foyer and hung it up on a slick brass hook. Coming back in the house I followed my nose right into the kitchen, my stomach giving an appreciative rumble.
Mom spoke the dreaded sentence, “You have to eat supper first.”
That sentence never failed to put me in a crappy mood. Mom had to know that I could probably eat the whole wonderful loaf of banana bread and still eat. I glanced over to the cook top where the last of the chicken was frying up. Three pieces of her chicken, plus mashed potatoes and I'd still have room for a dessert. I scanned the kitchen counter hopefully but knew that banana bread meant no dessert tonight.
Mom had been looking at me in a most critical way for the last minute.
“What?” I said.
“Your eyeballs are taller.”
This was a long standing comment. In our house, with me being the shortest guy in the history of the world, Mom liked to notice me growing by saying my eyeballs were “taller” than whatever random day she had noticed before. Whatever, I decided to play along. After all, I was riding the happy wave of having been in the Presence of Jade.
“Huh.”
“Yes, let's go measure you.”
“Mom, don't you have some potatoes to mash or something?”
She gave me another death glare. The third one meant business so I stalked over to the bathroom door. There, on the casing that surrounded the door, were a lot of horizontal pencil marks cataloging my growth. A very small amount of growth.
I stood ramrod straight, kinda like I did in the locker room when we were all in there together, eesh... never pick up the soap. I put my heels against the molding, holding my shoulders up straight and back. Mom put a ruler on my head and made the new mark. A low whistle escaped her mouth and I turned around, the ruler lashing my cheek.
There, unbelievably, was a whole bunch more space since the last mark only three months ago. I hadn't noticed at all. Mom was measuring the distance with a tape measure.
“Two inches, Caleb. I knew it.” Mom pumped her fist, which seemed eerily like Jonesy.
I looked at her like the screwball she was.
“So, how tall does that make me?” I leaned in to see the micro-writing; five-six now? Yeah, five-six.
Wow, five-six.
I turned my head, facing Mom. She looked down at me, but Not. By. Much. We grinned at each other until our faces hurt.
Dad walked in and Mom went back to the frying pan, turning the chicken. I knew the routine, it'd be in the oven in about five minutes.
“What's going on here?” Dad asked, looking at the two of us.
“Oh nothing much,” Mom flung over her shoulder, then continued slyly, ”but Caleb is two inches taller.”
“Really?” Dad drawled. “Now you remember that statistically...”
I gave Dad the hand, “Okay, but you understand it's just a matter of time before you're all grown up.” he said for the millionth time.
We smiled at each other as he put down his pulse-top carrier. It was super-slim, held all the biggies, his pulse, and that was a multi-pulse, which included his planner and all the scientific data he needed for his job. Dad extracted a small, deep orange bottle with a name label on it.
The cerebral inhibitor.
Dad gave the bottle a little shake, its cargo rattling. Mom slid the glass pan of chicken into the oven. I sat down at the kitchen table, its surface sunset-colored, from the setting sun.
Dad loosened his tie and silently passed the bottle to me. Which read, in part: Take one tablet in the morning after food, take with one full glass of water, take as prescribed.
I turned it over to the side which had all that scary crap that can happen after you take it. It said: may cause disorientation. I glanced at Dad and lifted an eyebrow, he looked steadily back at me with his chin in his hand. I read on: slurred speech, listless responsiveness and possible dizziness.
“Dad, I won't be able to do well on the AP tests. I'm gonna be a moron.”
Mom gave me the glare, again. She hated the use of “bigotry” names. She thinks the retards (I self-corrected), differently-abled, need to not be identified in a negative way. Overweight people and anyone that were looked down on all fell under Mom's treat equally category.
Which meant everyone in the world.
Dad took a quick, peripheral glance at Mom and rushed on while she grunted her annoyance in the background.
“No, I can give you a half dose, Caleb.”
Dad opened his fingers, flexing them back and forth to indicate he wanted it back. I passed the bottle back, its shadow a dark blot over the fading orange light of the table.
Dad studied it as mom sat down on her throne.
Mom was never one to let silences drag on. “Kyle, you're sure that this stuff won't,” she paused for a second, “permanently harm him?”
Dad rolled his eyes and Mom scowled.
“No. Even buying us some time to figure this thing out would not be sufficient reason for taking chances with Caleb.”
Mom seemed to decide something. “Good.”
“So, let's talk about the dog.” I said into the sudden quiet.
Mom and Dad looked at each other significantly.
Mom began, “We've thought about it and decided that after this whole mess is over,” her smile said the mess wasn't my fault, “we will try to transition the dog into our family.”
A large breath of air escaped that I hadn't realized I was holding.
Dad watched my obvious relief.
“Your mom has taken the time to call Sergeant Garcia and find out where the dog is being held and gone to see him.”
Wow, I was really surprised by this. There had always been a no pets rule in the house. I looked at Mom and she smiled; she was a little smug about it all.
“Mom, you didn't tell me.”
“I know, but there's been a lot going on, with Jade, Carson, Brett and now the testing. It just seemed you didn't need another thing to worry about. And your unusual,” she looked up for a moment, thinking about the word, “connection, with the dog seemed a touchstone of comfort for you.”
Dad was nodding at her phrasing, they'd discussed it.
“Where is he?” I sat up straighter, my butt bones kinda squawking.
“He's at the King County Animal Sanctuary,” she said.
I slumped in my seat. Good. They had a non-euthanize policy. I allowed just the smallest amount of the iron-fist-of-control to loosen and a wash of confused emotions filtered through.
Wow. The dog's emotions/impressions were all over the place. Thirst (I thought that was odd), and above all, he knew on some level, I was in his head and that gave him a sense of peace. He also had some memory of another Boy, but it was faded, like a shirt washed many times. I closed up the small link that had allowed the brief connection. I felt fatigued. I didn't know if I was tired from the effort of not releasing all that pressing, eager energy that was always there, or if just allowing a small amount had taken more control than I had.
My parents were both leaning in with identical expressions of concern on their faces.
I smiled, releasing a big breath. “I'm okay.”
They both leaned back in their respective seats.
Dad asked, “What was that?”
“What?”
“That whole... fugue,” Dad said.
“Oh, is that what it seemed like?”
“Yes, you didn't respond when I snapped my fingers right in front of your face,” Mom said.
Well, that was weird. I had been aware of my parents, but then I thought about it, really thought
about it and although I had been aware of their presence, I had been utterly engaged with the dog.
“I can feel the dog if I,” and like earlier with Jade I hated trying to explain psychic stuff to someone that wasn't, “let some of it go, just a little.”
“And Caleb, that's it, that is exactly what I wish to explore,” Dad said.
I thought he'd say something like that.
“I know you guys want to know how I do it. But there is really no way to explain it. I mean, the first few times it was a complete accident. It just happened. Now, I'm trying to control it, at least all the whispering and voices.” Another speech for me, it was trend.
“Did you read anything about the Parker kid? Did he have these same manifestations?”
“Same,” I repeated.
Dad rubbed his chin.
Mom said, “I want to peruse those papers that John brought over so we're on the same page, no pun intended,” she laughed. “Your father has already done some independent research, uncovering some possibilities. But people are so unpredictably unique that there's always new abilities with each individual. We're wondering what will be in store for you.”
“Well, Dad and I have discussed the possibilities.” Dad and I exchanged a look.
Mom's eyebrows shot up. “So what's the consensus fellas?”
“We think, from the Parker kid's testimonial, that Caleb may be able to control hauntings as his skill set becomes more advanced.”
“Hauntings?” Mom asked, rhetorically.
“Yeah, Mom, ya know... ghosts.”
She gave me a look like, duh.
The timer beeped and Mom stood up to retrieve the chicken from the oven. She began dumping cream onto the potatoes along with a generous half cube of butter, rounding out a murderously cholesterol rich meal. She set the corn in the microwave where it spun in a lazy circle, steaming it to perfection. The minutes ticked by and Dad and I discussed Jade while Mom beat the taters into submission until they were smooth, white mountain peaks.
I told Dad Jade felt uncomfortable with them knowing her family situation.
“She is a separate person and will be treated as such. No one chooses who they are born to.”
The Death Series, Books 1-3 Page 9
