I stare at him in shock. It’s the first time I really look at him since waking. Puffy, red-rimmed eyes, bags under his eyes, exhaustion pouring off him, unearned guilt tearing him apart. Numb with realization, I reach out with my uninjured arm and he rushes into my embrace. The jostling of my left arm kills, but I bite the inside of my cheek and hug him for all I’m worth.
“You saved my life,” I whisper against his neck—where my face is currently smashed up against him. I’ve had plenty of close calls in the past, but this one sends a shock clean through me. I almost died, and Kyran had to watch it happen.
His body convulses once as he fights to hold back a sob. “I was almost too late, Echo. I should have—”
“You did everything you could.” I can barely get the words out past the fear and guilt tightening my throat. Tears fill my eyes, and I don’t bother trying to hold them back. “You saved me. You saved my life. I’m so sorry you had to do that.” I try to squeeze him tighter, pull him closer, but I’m pinned awkwardly against the bed and my one arm is far from full strength.
Kyran makes up the difference and cradles me like I’m a second skin. “I was so scared you wouldn’t wake up. They said you lost a lot of blood, too much.”
A shiver runs through me at the thought of what I put him through. It makes Kyran press a kiss to my forehead and hold me even tighter. “I’m okay,” I whisper to the both of us. “I’m okay. We’re both okay…because you were there.”
“I’m terrified of not being there,” he whispers.
I can’t catch my breath suddenly. The implied fact that there will be a next time isn’t what has stolen away my ability to breathe. It’s that I’m afraid of the same thing. I’m about to tell him that when the door to my room bursts open and my parents comes barreling in. A nurse chases after them.
“Only two people, please!” she exclaims. “One of you needs to wait until Kyran leaves!”
“We’re her parents!” my dad bellows. The anger in his voice startles me, but not enough so that I don’t grab at Kyran’s hand when he pulls back.
“I’ll step out,” he says quietly.
“No,” I plead. I don’t want to have to face both my parents at once. I need a buffer, a shield.
Kyran squeezes my hand and whispers, “I’ll be right outside,” before pulling his hand from mine. He nods to my dad on his way out and I’m shocked at the glare he receives in return. Kyran saved my life and my dad is acting as though he hates his guts!
As soon as the door closes on Kyran, my dad rounds on the nurse. “There, are you happy now? There are only two of us. Can we speak with our daughter in private, finally?”
The poor woman is clearly insulted, but it’s almost definitely not the first time she’s had to deal with antagonistic family members. “You have thirty minutes,” she snaps.
“Kyran and Special Agent Morton have been in here with her almost constantly for two days!” my mom says in exasperation.
Two days? I’m shocked to realize I was out that long and suddenly miss having Kyran’s arms around me, as well as Morton’s stalwart, calm presence.
The nurse pins my mother with a glare that says she’s done taking their shit from here on out. “I do not tell the FBI what they can and cannot do, ma’am. And as the young man saved your daughter’s life, you might be a bit more grateful to him and stop complaining about the amount of time he spends watchin’ over her.”
She spins away from them and stomps over to me. With terse, yet gentle movements she settles my blankets around me and points to a red button on the rail. “If you need any assistance or no longer care to have visitors, push this button and I’ll be right back in.” She waits for me to nod in acknowledgment before stepping back. Before she turns, I hear her mutter under her breath, “No wonder you moved clear across the country from them.”
The room is dead silent until the nurse makes it through the door and it swishes closed behind her. Then both my parents explode with a million questions.
“What the hell happened?”
“Why is that agent here telling us what to do?”
“How did this even happen?”
“Why on earth wouldn’t you let them tell us anything?”
“We’re your parents!”
“What form did you sign?”
“When did you sign it?”
“What else has happened that we don’t know about?”
And on and on and on.
I wait until they wear themselves out. Shaky after losing so much blood and likely receiving a few transfusions, being yelled at certainly isn’t helping. I guess I’m glad they came out here when they found out I’d been hurt. It’s more than they did when Malachi told them I was remembering what happened to Archer, despite knowing it would likely cause some kind of mental or emotional collapse. Part of me wonders, though, if the main reason they came was to do damage control. That’s probably not fair, because my parents do love me. They don’t believe me, though, or trust me. They think moving out here was a mistake, despite the fact that I’ve been doing better here than I ever did at home. Minus almost being accidentally killed by a terrified six-year-old in need of help.
When they finally run out of steam and realize I can’t even attempt to answer a single question while they’re hurling twelve more at me, I start talking. “First of all, I’m eighteen. My medical records are my own. I don’t need or want your interference.”
“You almost died!” my dad shouts. “This is different! They said there was a form you signed forbidding them to tell us anything.”
While I certainly hadn’t anticipated that coming into play in a near-death situation, I take accountability for my choice. “I signed several forms when I got hired to work at Agent Morton’s office that determined who had responsibility for making decisions for me in case of an emergency. I didn’t intend for it to keep you from knowing anything about what happened in this instance, but since I wasn’t really available to ask in the moment, they followed my wishes.”
“But why?” my mom asks. “Why would you want to block us from knowing what’s happening in an emergency? You named Morton as your power of attorney instead of us? How could you do that?”
Anger burns under the surface and I can’t hold it back. “Why would I not want you and Dad making decisions for me when it comes to my health?” A sharp, harsh laugh bursts out of me. “Aside from the fact that he’s here and you’re not, I don’t trust you to make decisions for me. I let you guys make the call and I’m afraid I’ll wake up in a psych ward!”
“That’s not fair,” my mom says with watery eyes. “We’ve always tried to help you, Echo!”
“Subdue me,” I correct. “Helping me would have required listening to me. You don’t. He does.”
My dad steps forward, having reached his limit apparently. “Enough,” he snaps. “This little experiment is over! As soon as they release you, you are coming home. I’ll not have you dying out here because you’re too stubborn to admit you need our help!”
“For God’s sake, Dad! I fainted and cut my arm on the glass I dropped! That could have happened just as easily in California,” I snap. “Unless your plan is to lock me in a bubble for the rest of my life, good luck keeping me from ever having an accident again!”
It’s not the full truth, and my dad looks as though he suspects exactly that as he stalks right up to the bed and glares down at me. Before he gets a chance to ask anything, the door swings back open and the nurse is leveling an accusing finger at him.
“I specifically said that you were not to upset her! She has been through enough without having people scream at her. You need to leave before I call security!”
My mom’s eyes widen in fear, but my dad’s narrow in fury.
As much as I want her to throw them out right now, I look at my dad and say, “Ask.” He wants a fight, he can have one. I’m done playing their games. I have my own to play right now.
“Why did you faint?” he demands.
&nbs
p; The one thing I guess I do owe my parents’ never believing me for is that it taught me how to lie really well. “I got dehydrated at the gym.”
“What gym?”
I want to roll my eyes but hold back, barely. “The FBI gym.”
“What were you doing there?”
Instead of telling him I was learning the skills I’ll need to someday get through training at Quantico, I say, “Women’s self-defense class. They like even their lowliest, hired-out-of-pity employees to be able to protect themselves.”
The standoff holds for almost a full minute before my dad’s shoulders sort of relax. What else can he really say? It’s not like he can complain about me trying to protect myself, although I’m sure if he tries hard enough he’ll come up with something. He’s still wound as tight as an eight-day clock—a phrase I learned from Malachi and which I’m sure he’d be proud to hear I managed to use appropriately—but he doesn’t seem to have any more attacks for the time being. This fight is far from over. I’ll take a temporary hold if I can get it, though.
“Did you bring the twins?” I ask my mom.
She nods, glances over at the still-angry nurse, then timidly steps closer to me. She stays there until I reach my hand toward her and she launches herself at me. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she sobs. “We were so scared not knowing what was happening!”
Sighing, I fight back frustration and allow myself to hug her back. Tears burn even behind my closed eyes. “I’m sorry I scared you guys. I really am, but I’m okay.” She sobs even harder and I find myself softening to her fears and pain.
When she finally pulls back, she wipes her eyes and says, “The twins are dying to see you. Is it okay if I bring them in?” She glances over at my dad, and he doesn’t look pleased when he realizes that means he’ll have to leave the room, but he doesn’t argue with her. The look on his face says maybe he has a few more fights to start out in the halls anyway.
“Yeah,” I tell her, “I want to see them.”
They both leave the room and I fall back against the bed completely exhausted. My dad slips from my mind as Timothy comes back to the forefront. I still have no idea what happened in there with him. If I’ve been unconscious for two days, what did he face last night? Was Malachi with him? Did he find a way to stay awake or out of the Field of Reeds? Those questions mix with ones about how we got out, who did it, and what that means.
My blurry thoughts scatter when the twins run in and clobber me. They begin a steady procession of visitors, though the nurse, Emma, gives none of them more than ten minutes. Malachi reassures me that Timothy pulled him into the Field of Reeds with him while I was out. Griffin feels awful for not having gone with me to Kyran’s. Zara cracks jokes, though I can see through her bravado enough to know I scared her pretty good. Holden and Cerise come in together and Holden is beside himself as he does his best to confirm the doctors haven’t missed something and I won’t keel over dead the second he leaves the room. My parents don’t make a reappearance, but when Morton returns he lets me know they plan to stay a few days and are at a nearby hotel.
I have mixed feelings about that.
“Did Kyran go home?” I ask before he can quiz me about the fight I had with my parents. No doubt he heard every word from the hall.
“I tried to make him,” Morton says, “but he’s still in the hall.”
“Why didn’t he come in?” I ask.
Morton hesitates. “There’s one other person who wants to see you.”
I can’t think of who, so I keep quiet when he returns to the door and opens it. A blur of screen printed pajamas bolts into the room and Morton barely catches up with it before Timothy smacks into the bed. Tears are already pouring down the little guy’s face. When Morton lifts him up to the bed, he throws himself on top of me, though Morton keeps him from landing on my arm.
“I’m…so…sorry!” Timothy wails. He’s inconsolable and the front of my gown is soaked with tears and snot in about ten seconds flat. Some of those tears might have been mine.
“Shh, shh,” I whisper. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. It was just an accident.”
He continues to sob for a good ten minutes, apologizing over and over again any time he can catch his breath enough to form words. When he finally calms enough to drag himself up to sitting, his face is bright red and he’s seconds away from bursting into tears again.
“When I was a few years younger than you,” I tell him, “I didn’t really understand yet that my ghost friends were very different from me. I thought it was a neat trick that they could stand in the road and the cars would just drive through them. So, I snuck out the front door one day when my mom left the screen door unlocked so she could bring in groceries from the car, and tried to play the ghosts’ game.”
Timothy scrubs at his puffy eyes, wide despite being swollen. “What happened?”
“My mom heard the screen door close and ran out after me. Grabbed me right before I stepped off the sidewalk and in front of a car.”
Guilt flashes through me. It’s a familiar feeling, one I’ve experienced dozens—if not hundreds—of times since. After hugging me so hard I couldn’t breathe, my mom yelled at me as she dragged me back into the house. Another often repeated scene. I’ve carried all those moments with me for nearly nineteen years. They’ve eaten away at me and produced so much self-doubt and self-loathing, there are days I can think of little else.
Timothy deserves better.
“When you’re learning something new, all by yourself,” I tell him, “you make a lot of mistakes. Little ones like telling the kids at school about Osiris. Big ones like stepping out in front of a car. Big or little, it’s not your fault.”
“But,” Timothy pleads, “I almost killed you!”
“No you didn’t,” I say sternly. “I told you that you could pull me in whenever you needed to. I didn’t consider that you might fall asleep in the middle of the day and something like that could happen. Now we know. We learn from our mistakes, then let them go, and move on.”
“But…”
Shaking my head, I say, “No buts. It’s over and done with. I don’t want to hear even one more apology, okay? We just need to come up with a good plan to keep both of us safe. Can you help me with that?”
Timothy still seems unsure, but nods slowly.
We spend only ten minutes discussing how Timothy will be leaving the hospital in the morning to go back home with his mom and that she will text Morton, Malachi, and I every time Timothy begins to fall asleep in order to warn us. There’s more to talk about, lots more, but he’s yawning by that point and I figure whatever he might actually be able to explain about how we got out of the Field of Reeds last time can wait until morning.
When Morton steps out to take Timothy back up to his room, I’m not surprised when Griffin and Kyran slip back into my room and settle in on either side of my bed. Neither one says much, but I feel the pain, stress, and anger of the last hour slowly melt away as Kyran squeezes my hand and Griffin ruffles my hair with a smirk.
“Did Holden give you any crap about having to cancel the Ghost Host show?” he asks.
I laugh dryly. “No, but Zara did. First time we’ve ever cancelled due to illness.”
Kyran shivers, but takes my hand and leans back in his chair. He’s out cold a few minutes later, before Griffin says, “Whatever you told Timothy, same’s true for you, got it?” He closes his eyes and gets comfortable in his chair, shutting down any argument I might try to make. He doesn’t realize arguing would be pointless. Timothy is young enough that he can overcome a single accident like this. I’m well past that point.
19: Powerless
(Griffin)
Timothy is doing amazingly well, considering everything he’s been through. Being back home with his mother has helped. Echo spending time with him even more so. Understanding is a luxury to people outside the accepted norm. Having it heals many wounds. Despite being inconsolable during the two days Echo was recovering, he no
w babbles happily from the chair next to her as he explains the stories his father told him. Kyran’s analysis of the boy’s stories stopped cold when Echo was injured. No one, not even Malachi, complained when he hovered over Echo after her release from the hospital instead of jumping back on research.
Even though everyone in Echo’s small group has been well aware of Kyran’s crush on Echo for a while, I don’t think many of her friends understood the depth of his feelings for her until watching him come so close to losing her. I can’t say I was particularly shocked. Surprisingly enough, neither was Malachi, and he never once tried to interfere or complain about him watching over her.
The only aspect of Kyran’s behavior that has surprised me in the last few days is that he allowed Echo to convince him not to call in sick and work his scheduled days. I wonder if he’s regretting that as much as she is.
Outwardly, Echo appears worn out, but even tempered. She listens to Timothy’s explanations, takes notes, and watches her little friend draw pictures—crude versions of hieroglyphs and Egyptian gods. Echo is good at pretending to be fine. It’s enough to trick Timothy. He’s the only one. Mrs. Bridger glances worriedly at Echo every time she passes through the room. She sees how much the injury and dealing with her parents—who left this morning under protest and threats to return and take her home at the next sign of trouble—has depleted her strength. I’m trying to be patient, but her hidden fears and mounting sense of impending failure are making it difficult not to question her, and nearly impossible to focus on my own work.
Echo is technically classified as a medium, a person capable of communicating with ghosts in one form or another. Some mediums have dreams, others see mental images in themselves or others, some feel or hear messages, and a smaller percentage write or draw messages. In many ways, Echo fits multiple categories—which is odd in itself—but in other ways she doesn’t quite fit any of them.
The Ghost Host: Episode 2 (The Ghost Host Series) Page 17
