Passage (Soul of the Witch Book 1)

by C. Marie Bowen

  Courtney shook her head. “No. There's no one. Certainly no one abusive.”

  “The report says you struggled and fought in the ambulance and the ER before you were fully awake. Anything you tell me will be kept in confidence, but please, allow me to help you.”

  Courtney turned away. She stammered as she searched for the right explanation. “I... experienced something after the car accident... before I woke up in the emergency room. It was so real.” She shook her head and blinked moisture from her eyes.

  “Something that frightened you?” Dr. Chambers flipped back a few pages. “The first responders did perform CPR.” His gaze rose to meet Courtney's. “You may have had an NDE. I'm no expert, but a classic near-death experience is normally associated with pleasant, even peaceful sensations.”

  “It wasn't like that. What I experienced was different. It lasted much longer. I was somewhere and someone else for days. I can't explain how—and it doesn't make sense—but I know it happened.” Her voice trembled and the emotion she struggled to contain broke free.

  “Okay, Miss Veau, it's all right. I'm going to order some medication that will help get you over the emotional hump, so to speak. I’ll also refer you to a doctor who works with patients who have encountered something similar.” Dr. Chambers patted her shoulder, then offered her the wastebasket again.

  Courtney deposited her latest round of tissue casualties. “Thank you.”

  “We'll keep you a few days under observation, but you should be able to go home by the end of the week.” The doctor slid the chart into the door. “Get some rest, Miss Veau.”

  She closed her eyes, lay back and willed her tears to stop. She would never see Merril again, and the stranglehold of grief that knowledge created would not let go. What's more—Merril was not the only loved one ripped from her life. Amy was gone, Nichole's friend and confidant, as well as Jason, Nichole's cousin. Alive yesterday, and yet dead for more than a hundred years.

  The line between then and now blurred. She opened her eyes and saw Rhonda pull a syringe from her IV line.

  “Sweet dreams,” Rhonda whispered in a sing-song voice and cast a cold glance over her shoulder at Courtney as she flipped the light switch off. Courtney could just make out her muttered “Freak” as she left the room.

  Chapter 2

  Courtney Veau

  Three days later, a knock at her door woke Courtney, and she opened her eyes enough to watch an orderly deliver the breakfast tray. Although a warming cover hid the food, she could smell eggs. For the first time since waking in the hospital, she felt hungry, and her stomach growled in anticipation.

  The marker board by the door showed Debra was her nurse today. A dark-skinned young woman in gold scrubs came in, took her vitals, and then updated her chart. Debra was friendly and professional, a clear sign she'd never heard of Russell Veau.

  After she finished breakfast, an admissions clerk entered her room. The middle-aged woman appeared annoyed at the unfinished paperwork. She presented Courtney with several forms attached to a clipboard and indicated which to complete, initial, or sign. Explanations done, she waved toward the door. “I'll wait outside.”

  Courtney could hear her chat with the nurses in the hallway as she completed the forms. She paused when she reached the emergency contact and bounced the pencil eraser off the form a couple of times. Finally, she wrote a name—Greta James.

  Greta had been the trust attorney who administered her parents' estate after their death in the plane crash. Courtney's grandmother, Mary Curtis, had been awarded custody of their four-year-old daughter, and Greta sent them monthly support payments. The young attorney had been an occasional visitor to their home over the years. After Granny passed, Courtney had Greta apply to designate her as an emancipated minor. She hadn't spoken to Greta since the emancipation hearing, but there was no one else.

  Courtney set the clipboard on the bedside tray and relaxed against the pillows, her gaze on the date at the top of the form, April 14. She'd been admitted to the hospital three days ago, but for her, time had become tangled.

  Four days ago she’d been someone else. She remembered nothing of Nichole Harris's life before waking in her body, but the time spent in Nichole’s world haunted Courtney in glorious detail. She could hear the sounds of the ranch; smell the dust in the air and the hay in the barn.

  The first time she set eyes on Merril, a rush of emotion had swelled her heart and overwhelmed her with confusion. She'd awakened with Nichole's feelings but without Nichole's memories, and none of her own.

  Courtney took a sip from her juice. Her emotions were less volatile today, and she wondered if Dr. Chambers continued to prescribe anxiety medication.

  I hope he did.

  She could still feel the jagged edges of her broken heart. She closed her eyes and conjured a vision of Merril as if he were in her room. His green eyes, flecked with gold, would flash with concern to find her in a hospital bed. The thought of his expressive eyes and sideways smile made her stomach flip. A knock at the door jarred her from her daydream, and she opened her eyes to find a tall, thin man standing in the doorway.

  “Courtney Veau?” the man asked, with an easy professional smile. “My name's Dr. Phelps. Dr. Chambers asked me to speak with you. May I come in?”

  Instead of a hospital-white lab coat, he wore a brown corduroy sports jacket with a computer bag slung over one shoulder. Dr. Phelps looked more like a college professor with thinning brown hair and black-framed glasses.

  Courtney hesitated a moment then replied, “Yes, of course.”

  Dr. Phelps tipped his head and entered the room. “Dr. Chambers told me about your condition.” He set his computer bag on the counter then took a seat in the bedside chair. “I understand you required CPR at the accident site. Dr. Chambers suspects you experienced a phenomenon we call NDE or near-death experience, and it continues to upset you. Is this correct?” Dr. Phelps peered at Courtney over the line in his bifocal lenses and waited for her reply.

  “I ... um ...” Courtney paused to gather her thoughts. “It wasn't the phenomenon that upset me.” She shredded a tissue and turned away from his penetrating gaze. “When I woke up and realized where I was—I knew the people I loved were gone. Forever.”

  “Ah, yes, I see, I see.” Dr. Phelps nodded and reset his glasses with his index finger then regarded Courtney. “Miss Veau, your ordeal is not particularly unusual. Many individuals who experience clinical death see loved ones or have visions of light. Most are not upset by it. In fact, most take comfort in these encounters.”

  “Do they ever relive past lives?” She looked up from the bits of tissue in her lap to Dr. Phelps.

  Dr. Phelps blinked in surprise. “Well ... the accounts of this phenomenon are many and varied. Entire books and studies have been written on this subject. Almost certainly, what happened to you would fall into one of the categories recounted by others.”

  “Do they ever become someone else?” Courtney tilted her head and held Dr. Phelps regard with her own.

  Dr. Phelps blinked again. “Since what they encounter is thought to be caused by a hallucinogenic state, the result of oxygen deprivation, they could imagine they are.”

  “Oh, really?” Courtney's eyes narrowed. “So, you're saying I imagined it.”

  “I am not judging your incident by any means. The science behind this phenomenon is still uncertain and based on multiple theories, even though it has been documented for years in every culture of the world. I am simply giving you one possible explanation.”

  She studied the doctor in silence. Although she seethed with anger, his comment provoked an idea. She hadn't been in some distant undocumented past; she could find evidence her experience had been real.

  Dr. Phelps nodded to himself and reached for his computer bag. “Dr. Chambers said you would be released today since your injuries are healing nicely and can be well managed at home.” He opened his laptop and tapped briskly on the keyboard. “I would like to visit with you again
at my office and have you recount your ordeal in more detail. Perhaps we can find a way to understand why this has upset you to such a degree.”

  “I already told you why it upset me,” she replied immediately.

  Dr. Phelps stopped typing and looked again at Courtney. “And why was that?”

  Grief and frustration combined to make her statement sharper than intended. “Because I would rather be back there with him than here with you.”

  Dr. Phelps lowered his chin and observed Courtney over the top of his glasses. “And how would you return to him, Miss Veau?”

  “I'm not a suicide risk if that's what you're implying, doctor.” She clenched her jaw in aggravation.

  Dr. Phelps held her stare for a moment, then turned back to his computer and tapped the keys a few more times. “I can't stay any longer today, but I can see you at ten o'clock tomorrow morning if that is agreeable. The sooner we discuss your experience, the better you will feel.”

  After he left, she played with his business card and read over the appointment time while she considered her research options.

  Debra returned after lunch and confirmed her release, then took her vitals one last time. Moments later, a med-tech came to remove her IV.

  Released from the IV tether, Courtney opened the closet and withdrew the clear tote with her personal items. She emptied the bag on the bed and set her shoes and purse to one side. She dressed while considering where to begin her search. A historical society seemed her best option.

  She had just pulled on her jeans when she realized her shirt was missing. “Well, crap.”

  Debra entered the room with Courtney's discharge paperwork and gave Courtney a curious look. “Is something wrong?”

  “I don't have a shirt.” She sighed in exasperation and rested her hands on her hips.

  “They would have cut it off in the ambulance.” Debra set the paperwork on the counter and studied Courtney. “I have an old scrub top in my locker you could have,” Debra offered with a generous smile. “I don't wear it anymore. Let me get it.”

  The nurse was out the door before Courtney could convey her gratitude and relief.

  I'm alone now.

  That realization hit hard, and she pressed her lips to still their quivering. There was no one she could call for help.

  It's the same as before the accident. I'll just have to make do.

  Courtney pulled her phone from her purse and turned it on. The happy tone assured her she had battery life. She pressed the contact number for her insurance agent while she waited in her bra for Debra to return. The agent transferred her to claims where she received a claim number. Next, she looked up a taxi company on her smartphone and pressed the link to call a cab. Technology made modern life convenient, but she hadn't missed it. Although to be honest, she'd had no memory of technology while she was Nichole ... not until the end.

  Courtney thanked the cab dispatcher and ended the call as Debra returned. She took the shirt from the nurse. “Thank you,” she said and pulled the faded blue top over her head. Courtney listened to Debra read her release instructions while she tied her shoes.

  “Your medication should be ready at the pharmacy you have listed. Follow up with Dr. Phelps as soon as possible.”

  “I have an appointment with him in the morning.” Courtney placed her phone and earrings in her purse and slipped the bag over her shoulder.

  “That's good.” Debra made a note in Courtney's file and then indicated the wheelchair in the doorway. “Let's get you downstairs.”

  * * *

  Courtney paced with her slow limp at the hospital entrance while she waited for the taxi. Once the cab arrived, she directed the driver to take her to a rental car company near the hospital. She gave the rental agent her insurance claim number and chose a compact car from the vehicles on the lot. A quick stop at the pharmacy to get her prescriptions, then Courtney drove the familiar road to her apartment.

  As soon as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, she couldn't help but view the place with new eyes. It was small, but well-appointed with an updated kitchen and bath. Her two-year-old furniture looked showroom new and unused. There were no pictures of friends or family on the wall. She tossed her prescriptions and purse on the kitchen table and walked through the entire apartment, her gaze noticing every detail.

  What a small, safe haven I've created for myself.

  Its emptiness left a dull ache in her heart.

  In her narrow hallway, she stopped her inspection and searched her heart for something positive. She had no family or loved ones, but she did have financial freedom. The trust fund from her parents’ estate initially held a substantial amount and had supported Courtney and her grandmother for fifteen years. What remained in her account would see her through college, with a small sum left over for emergencies. It seemed a paltry thing compared to her empty life.

  Her thoughts turned to her father. Russell Veau had been a gifted spiritualist and medium. He argued against the term psychic. He could not read minds or see into the future. His gift had been the ability to find lost souls and communicate with those who had passed from life. That had been the basis for his television show. He'd also been a philanthropist and worked pro-bono for individuals who needed his help. He'd worked with both state and local agencies to help find missing persons and had often been asked to locate lost or stolen children. The living soul was a beacon to her father. His gift of finding people bordered on magical; however, he was best remembered for his work with the dead.

  Courtney had known very little about her father's philanthropy work while growing up. Granny Curtis never spoke of it. It wasn't until she turned eighteen that his files, along with articles and newspaper clippings, came to her from Greta. There were boxes of records stacked in the back closet. She'd read through it all, speechless at what she learned. The most personal items—her father's journal and genealogy work—she kept in a box in her bedroom closet. She gravitated to it now and eased her stiff body to the floor. Courtney pulled the small box of mementos onto her lap with a disheartened sigh.

  She closed her eyes and fought back the old emotion, the unfairness, and the self-pity. She couldn't miss her parents because she'd never known them, yet their lives and their loss had shaped her own. She shook her head to dispel those thoughts and opened her eyes.

  She raised the lid of the box and shuffled through the photographs. There were some of herself as a baby with her mother, and one of her as a toddler, walking and holding her father's hand. There were several photographs of Granny Curtis and her, but they were not what she searched for, and she set them to the side.

  She glanced at her father's notes. He'd traced their ancestry several generations but could never get further than Alexander and Catherine Veau. She read a postcard her father discovered during his search. Handwritten by Catherine, and addressed to Alexander, in the flowery cursive of the post-Civil War era, the ink was faded and barely legible. Catherine inquired when Alexander planned to return home from his visit to the capital and signed the card, Forever yours, Catherine. Courtney read the card and then set it aside, as well.

  Her hands trembled as she picked up her father's journal. She held the book to her chest and spoke to her father through the tightness in her throat. “Daddy, something has happened. I don't ... I'm not sure what to do.” She swallowed, and she struggled to regain her composure. “I want to ask you what you thought ... what you think I should do?”

  She closed her eyes and collected her thoughts. Her father's journal pressed against her breast, expressing more eloquently within her mind the question she asked of her father.

  What do I do now?

  She lowered the diary and looked at the worn cover, then opened it randomly and read the first line at the top of the page. “...an item of great significance was found inside the old home.”

  She sat in stillness, the book, open on her lap, as her finger tapped a slow beat against the faded ink. Day turned to dusk, and the apartment grew dark
. Her thoughts were far away, reliving her time as Nichole. She remembered the places she went, and finally recalled the route they had taken to the house in Denver. Amy had driven the wagon westward into the city, turning the right at a diagonal thoroughfare and right again at a livery stable. What was the street name? Piper Street? Patch Street? Excitement fluttered in her stomach.

  I’m going to find the house.

  It took more than one try to get to her feet after sitting for so long. Her left leg and side were sore and stiff. She pulled herself onto the bed with her right arm and sat for a moment as a wave of dizziness swept over her. When it passed, she stood with one hand secure against the wall.

  She crept into the kitchen and switched on the overhead light, and then tore open her prescriptions and swallowed one of each with a sip of water. Her backpack was in its usual spot beside the couch. She set it on the counter and slid her laptop from its pocket.

  When the screen came to life, she typed in her password and navigated to her favorite map website. In moments, a satellite view of the Denver area appeared on her screen. She followed the highway west toward the city. Ignoring the northern sweep of I-70, she followed Colfax Avenue straight instead.

  They’d ridden toward the mountains until they reached a diagonal cross street. Zooming into the area on the map, she saw City Park first—then she spotted the diagonal.

  Park Avenue.

  “Holy shit,” she muttered as her finger traced Park Avenue northwest and turned right on Pence Street. If memory served, the house would be two blocks down on the left, but she’d only been there once.

  She clicked the street view icon on the map program and moved the icon house by house down the street until she found it. A chill raced down her spine so sharp it took her breath away. The trees were overgrown and the neighborhood nothing as she remembered, but she was positive. That was her house.

  Courtney Veau had never been to Denver. She and Granny Curtis never traveled outside of Texas, yet she knew the inside of that house. She remembered watching Amy walk to the front door and then stop to look up at the second floor. She knew there were narrow stairs at the back of the house that led from the kitchen to the second floor. It was as if she had been there only yesterday.