The Awakening (27 page)

"Time to go dark?" she asks.

"Tonight, we ghost hunt."

There's an unobtrusive thumping on my bedroom door. For a moment, I think it's Emily trying to make contact again. It's not her, but it is a near ghostly face.

"Mom? Are you okay?"

She purses her lips together and toys with a Kleenex she's clutching. Has she been crying? Am I the cause? Crap on a crutch.

"May I come in, Kendall?"

I don't exactly have a choice, since she's walking in and closing the door behind her. Not that I mind having her in here, but I sense great fear, angst, and concern from her. There's a small purple and white flyer in her hand, and I'm concerned that the nurse of the house is about to suggest some sort of intensive medication for her troubled teen.

"Mom, before you say anything, just let me say that I'm fine."

"You're not fine, sweetie."

I strongly inhale. "I know you're weirded out by all of this. How do you think I feel?"

Mom hasn't exactly had much time to adjust to the fact that her older child is a psychic who sees, hears, and talks to spirits. I suppose I'll be grappling with it for the rest of my life as well. However, there's nothing either of us can do about it. It's a calling, just like Father Castellano and Loreen said.

Mom steps toward me. "Your safety and well-being is my chief concern, Kendall. You speak of ghosts and spirits like they're neighbors come in for a glass of iced tea. Telling me you hear voices in machines and can use odd equipment to detect dead people ... well, what am I supposed to think?"

We're back to square one. "That I'm involved in a cult." Right. Because east Georgia is a bastion of cult activity. I roll my eyes and sit on the end of my bed. My sneakers are clutched in my hands and I know I'm not joining Celia anytime soon at city hall.

Sitting next to me, Mom places one hand on my arm. She pauses and wets her lips, as if searching for the right way to say something. "I don't think this is satanic in nature, although I have spoken to our new priest about it."

"Yeah, Father Massimo. I've met him." Her eyes give away her astonishment. "See, Mom, I'm not the devil-worshiping heathen you think I am."

"I don't think that!" she snaps. "What normal sixteen-year-old wants to ghost hunt, though? What happened to hanging with your friends, going to high school football games, eating pizza, dating cute boys?"

I snap to attention. "Maybe I do all of that now. Celia and Taylor are my best friends." I've yet to tell Mom about being ostracized by Marjorie. "Becca's cool too. We hang out at school and we have the ghost hunting in common. They get me and accept me for who—
and what
—I am. Jason Tillson likes me for who I am."

Her eye twitches a little. "Who's Jason Tillson?"

I begin smashing my socked feet into my sneakers. "Taylor's twin brother. He's gorgeous, and sweet, and he likes me. He doesn't think I'm a freak. Like you do."

"Kendall, I didn't say that."

Standing, I say, "You're thinking it, though."

Mom's gaze drops to the floor. "Your father and I disagree on allowing you the freedom to do this ghost hunting. I don't think it's right. Not with me or with God."

I nearly dive at her. "But Dad was
hurt,
Mom. Like, almost knocked down the staircase."

She shakes her head in clear denial. "Your father's always been a bit of a klutz. Remember that time at Taste of Chicago when we got to go on stage with Emeril Lagasse and he burned his hand on the grill?"

Feeling the frustration bubble to the surface, I cram my fingers into my hair and rub my head. "This isn't about Dad being accident-prone or anything. The guy in the city-planner position before him specifically left the job because he was attacked by the same entity. He was afraid, and that ghost succeeded in his mission of scaring that guy off."

Mom's on her feet in a heartbeat. She places her hands on my shoulders and sternly looks into my eyes, not with the distress of a worried mother, but with the face of a medical professional. "Sweetie, you need help."

My first instinct is to vomit. Then burst into tears. Maybe both at the same time. Either way. My own mother thinks I'm a complete mental case.

"I-I-I don't need help, Mom. I need
understanding
."

She lifts my chin with her forefinger. "The only way I can understand is if you let me help you." She suddenly shifts from concerned mother to registered nurse. "We had a lovely young sales rep in the other day, and she highly recommends Zyprexa for our patients. Dr. Murphy and I talked about the symptoms you've been demonstrating. I'll bring you in so he can examine you, and after he does that, he and I will discuss the option of putting you on this for the time being until we can get you to Atlanta and see a psychotherapist." She hands me a pamphlet.

My world tilts slightly. At least she isn't committing me ... yet.

I stare at the marketing material in my hand, dumbfounded, and then read out loud, "'Zyprexa is approved for the treatment of schizophrenia, acute manic, or mixed episodes of bipolar disorder, and maintenance treatment in bipolar disorder.'" I mean, I know a lot of kids today are on mood-altering drugs, and Mom's only being a concerned parent over my mental health. But how can she
really
think this about me? About her own flesh and blood? "Mom, I promise you I'm not bipolar or manic or schizo!"

She shakes her head. "Kendall, you might be suffering from a mild form of schizophrenia. If we can catch it when you're still young, we can halt the crippling effect it has on the brain."

Blood pulsates rapidly under my skin to the point where I believe my nerve endings are going to ignite. My brain is on fire. Searing thoughts, words, and reactions. My feet stay planted in one place, yet it's like my bedroom is spinning out of control. Like Dorothy's house in
The Wizard of Oz
as it tumbles and whirls through the tornado. What if Mom's right? She is a medical professional with a master's and tons of experience, after all. What if I really am losing my beans? It might actually make more sense than my being psychic.

It's not true, though. I
do
have this ability. And I
have
to use it to help these spirits that are trapped here.

Hot tears sting the corners of my eyes. I shove the flyer at my mother, when what I really want to do is rip it into ten thousand pieces and make confetti out of it. "No! I'm not going to start taking meds, Mom. This is who I am. You have to accept it."

"I can't!" she shrieks, fists curled by her side. "I won't!"

Dad's standing in my doorway, his eyes soft and sympathetic. "Sarah, we talked about this. Leave Kendall be."

"But David," Mom whimpers, "she's my baby. I have to help her."

Dad comes up behind me and wraps an arm around my waist. The warmth from him comforts and soothes me, ebbing my tears. "Sarah, we have to let her be who she is."

Mom sniffs. "I just want her to be happy and live a normal life."

"I think this is normal for me, Mom." I remember what Father Massimo said. "It's a gift that God's given me. I gotta use it."

"Maybe it is," she says softly. "But what if it isn't and I stood by doing nothing when I could have helped you?"

"Let her get to work, Sarah," Dad says. The bruise on his face is a little more purple than it was to begin with, but it will heal. A lot faster than a broken leg or a cracked spine would have if he'd gone down the stairs. I have to make sure it never happens again.

If Charles Stogdon is hanging around city hall, my friends and I need to bring peace to his existence so my dad will be safe from here on. From what Celia and I found earlier today, I just need the chance to connect with Charles, explain the circumstances to him, and straighten this out once and for all. "I can do something about what attacked Dad. I
know
I can. You've got to believe that." Then I throw Mom a bone. "If you insist, I'll go to a psychotherapist. But only to prove to you that I'm not crazy. You have to promise to get an appointment with someone who specializes in what I'm going through."

Mom sniffs. "I suppose I can do that."

"That's my girl," Dad says. "Both of my girls."

After wiping a tear away with her finger, Mom moves toward Dad and me. The three of us come together in a big ol' pile of Mooreheads—arms weaving around one another and hugging tightly. I know Mom loves me and is only protecting me. This is my calling, though.

When we break apart, Mom lays her palm against my cheek and then kisses me lightly. "I love you, Kendall. You're still my little girl."

Smiling into her touch, I say, "I always will be. But I'm a ghost huntress now."

Mom breaks free and excuses herself. Moments later, she returns with the small black velvet bag that holds my rose quartz pendulum. "If you're doing this," she starts, "you're going to need this, I suppose."

I palm the gift from Loreen and then hug Mom again. "Everything's going to be all right. I promise."

I hope I can live up to that vow.

T
WO HOURS LATER,
at dusk Saturday night, we're ready to hunt.

"I sure hope this works." Celia braces for the protection I'm about to give her. She's outfitted in her special ghost-hunting flak jacket, complete with tools, equipment, extra batteries, and a small cross in one of the pockets.

"Loreen says we have to protect all of the equipment as well."

"Okay, Moorehead. Go for it." Celia stands with her arms and legs spread, like she's getting wanded by TSA at the Atlanta airport. I take the Clinique Happy bottle, now full of Episcopally blessed holy water, and I spray it all over her. "Hmm, salty."

"Stop that," I snap. "Don't be sacrilegious."

"Get the cameras and computers so the spirits won't suck the battery power dead," she says.

We spray the laptop—as much as you can—the temperature gauges, EMF meters, and basically everything else in a fine mist of the magical blend. I turn it on myself and spritz my face and my chest, and then I have Celia do my back. I also make the symbol of the cross on my forehead and do a good "in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit" up and down and sideways cross. Loreen e-mailed me earlier to remind me to dab some holy water at the base of my neck, behind each ear, and around my belly button. Something about protecting the body's chakras. I don't even want to know what that means ... yet.

Celia seems confused. "I thought only Catholics crossed themselves like that."

"Everything's optional in the Episcopal Church."

She shrugs. "I'm Baptist—not that I go to church that much—but whatever works for you."

I tap her skull. "It only matters what you believe, Celia."

"Hey, y'all," Becca says as she runs into city hall dressed in a black turtleneck and black jeans, like she's going to rob a bank instead of track ghosts. "We doin' this?"

"We certainly are," I say.

Becca looks from me to Celia and then back. "You two okay now?"

"Everything's cool," Celia assures her. "We talked and—"

Holding her hand up, Becca interrupts. "I don't need the deets. Just tell me what I need to do."

"First off," Celia says, "you need protection."

"Why?" Becca asks. "Am I having sex with some hot century-old ghost?"

I cackle. "Hardly." Then I squirt her with the water. "Here, use this on your equipment too, so nothing goes wrong with it."

She stops me with her hand on my arm. "Look, K, I just wanted to let you know that I don't really give a shit—in a good way—about you and Jason. He's fine, so why shouldn't you go for it? What you do is your business."

"Thanks, Becca."

As we're setting up base camp in the front hallway, I pick up the familiar purring of Jason's Jeep outside. Excellent! He got my text message and is going to assist tonight. He's right about having a skeptic to keep us honest. It
is
a good thing. Whenever Celia gets too caught up in the science and I get too bowled over by the metaphysical, Jason can keep us both grounded.

The front door opens and he steps in, dressed in an RHS sweatshirt and baggy jeans. As happy as I am to see him, I slump a bit when I notice that Taylor's not following behind.

"Hey," I say tentatively.

"Hey yourself." He smiles and tugs me by the arm. "Can I see you over here for a sec?"

I gaze over my shoulder to see if Celia's upset with me. I don't want to rub this thing with Jason in her face. No worries, though. She's on her hands and knees under the folding table connecting some sort of cable to the computer monitor. Girl's in her element, let me tell you what, and I don't think she gives a rat's patootie about Jason and me right now.

I follow him around the grand staircase. There's a nook underneath where they store extra folding chairs. Jason spins me around and pins me to the wall. Before I know it, we're locked in an amazing kiss. A. Maze. Ing. One that I feel in every electron, neutron, and proton in my body. His lips are soft and sweet, and deep down in my gut, I know this is the first meaningful kiss of many more to come. This is the reality of my many dreams about him.

Jason pulls back, but keeps his hands on my hips. "Look, Kendall. For the record, I'm
not
sorry about this thing that's happening between us."

My mouth falls open. "You're not?"

"No. Are you?"

"I, I, well, no." Honestly, when have I had time to think about it?

He scrubs the top of his short-cropped blond hair with one hand. "I can't explain what's going on here. It's like I can't help myself. I'm drawn to you, Kendall." He levels his eyes at me. "You didn't put some sort of spell on me, did you?"

I have to laugh. "I'm psychic, not a witch."

Moving in to kiss me again, he says, "I had to check."

As much as I'm enjoying frenching him right here, we need to get back to the others. "Later?" I say more than ask.

"You can count on it."

His intense blue eyes back up his words. I close my eyes to the toe-curling inside my Reeboks and the bolty sensations zipping up and down my spine. Without thinking too hard about the feeling sprinting through me, I kiss him firmly on the lips to let him know that I'd love to pick this up at a future date.