How do you really act happy about that when your entire life has consisted of doctors trying to label you with one form of mental illness or another? My faith in the medical field is riding pretty low. Instead of accidentally offending her by saying something that will undoubtedly come out wrong, I just force a polite kind of-smile onto my face and nod. Maybe she gets that response a lot, because she doesn’t comment. She chatters the whole time she works checking my heart and lungs and whatever else. I suppose it’s probably supposed to distract me, but it really doesn’t. I just hope this is over soon.
“Now,” Dr. Fischer says, “Agent Morton was a little vague on all the reasons behind the physical today, but a thorough exam for female agents would normally include a pelvic exam and pregnancy test just in case…”
Her voice trails off as my skin flushes red. Sitting down on a rolling chair near the exam table, she folds her hands in her lap. “A reaction like that usually either means there’s no reason for an exam and the patient is embarrassed to even discuss sex or the opposite is true and an exam is going to be necessary.” She pauses and regards me for a moment before nodding. “My guess is that I need to continue. Am I right?”
Wanting to sink into the floor, I nod. “I had sex with my boyfriend.”
“For the first time?” she asks.
I nod.
“Today?”
Another nod. I know the question coming next, so I answer to save myself from having to hear it. “We used protection.”
Instead of giving me a lecture or furthering my embarrassment, Dr. Fischer stands and says, “All right, well let’s go ahead and continue then.”
The awkwardness carries on when she has me lie back and position my feet, but it’s over quickly and she tells me everything is fine. She does, however, follow that up by saying she’s going to write me a prescription for birth control. I guess I should have seen that coming, but I feel my face flame scarlet all the same.
It’s not until she asks me to sit back up and I find her sporting a familiar look that I remember why I really don’t like visits to the doctor. I don’t bare a lot of skin normally, for good reason. Sitting here in only a paper gown, there’s no chance she didn’t see all the scars. I know what questions are coming next.
The last time I was at the doctor’s office—well, the last time I actually remember—it was for whatever vaccinations it is you get when you turn twelve. That guy hadn’t even seen the worst of it before he spawned the same look. All he did was ask me to remove the light pullover I’d been wearing despite how warm it was. If he’d planned to give the shots in my other arm, it probably wouldn’t have been so bad.
The scar on my right shoulder looks uglier than the circumstances warranted. It had been a year earlier when I was hiding out in our backyard tree after a fight with my mom that one of the ghosts appeared right next to me. That wouldn’t have been so bad—I’m used to them popping up whenever they please—but when I ignored him and he tried to touch me, over I went.
I broke a branch on the way down and got a pretty good gash. That, mixed with the bruises running up and down my arm from a mad rush to escape another ghost a few days earlier where I ran into more than one wall…well, my mom was called in immediately and a discussion about abuse kicked up. My mom blamed me for all of it. Not that she came out and actually said that, of course, but I knew.
As Dr. Fischer must have seen the same scar when she pulled back my gown to check my lungs, and I know she didn’t miss a variety of old wounds on my legs from various incidents. Here comes the inquisition. Dr. Fischer clears her throat, making me tense, and then she throws me for a loop.
“This isn’t an official physical that would normally be ordered before employment, but I’m going to take some pictures to put in your file just to be ahead of the game a little. Your status is still in the wind a bit, but I can’t imagine it will take too long to work things out once we get through the other tests next week.” She sets her papers aside and her expression becomes even more serious. “Agent Morton has given me the basics of your situation, so even while I was a bit surprised by the amount injuries you’ve sustained previously, I’m not here to make accusations.”
“You’re not?” Skepticism runs rampant through my mind.
Frowning, Dr. Fischer says, “I’m assuming there have been questions about abuse in the past, right?” I nod and she mirrors the motion. “From what Special Agent Morton has told me, you’ve been watched very closely since age ten, and he’s assured me abuse isn’t an issue. Of course, if you have something different to say about the matter, I’m here to listen.”
“No,” I say quickly. “My parents have never hurt me. It’s the ghosts.”
The ghost part kind of slips out without thinking, but Dr. Fischer only nods like she actually understands. “Okay, back to the pictures then. They’re purely for documentation, so your file is complete. Every employee…”
“I’m not an employee,” I argue. “I’m not anything, really. Just Agent Morton’s pet project, I guess.”
“But you plan to be an employee, right?” Dr. Fischer says with a smile.
Frowning, I’m not sure how to respond. She said something similar a few minutes ago, but I was so focus on preparing for a discussion about abuse that I didn’t really process what she said. Agent Morton promised me a job if I passed all their tests, but is that really what I want? Slowly, I say, “It would just be as a consultant of some kind. I wouldn’t think I’d need a file and a physical for that.”
Dr. Fischer cocks her head to one side. “Well, the process to become an official FBI consultant with the level of clearance you’ll need is a pretty involved process, but from what I understood, Special Agent Morton has different plans.” She shrugs, but smiles despite my confusion.
What feels like forever later, she finishes with her pictures and notes and sets everything aside. “Now, before I let you get dressed again, I do want to discuss one more thing with you. Before you came to Georgia, you had been seeing a therapist regularly. Is that something you wish to continue?”
“No.” It pops out of my mouth before I even fully process the question.
Dr. Fischer doesn’t seem surprised. “May I ask the reason for that?”
“They never believe me, so what’s the point?”
She nods. “I can definitely understand your position, and I won’t press you about it unless I think it’s necessary, but I do want you to know that we have psychiatrists on staff who are used to dealing with agents like yourself and Morton. There won’t be an issue with them not believing you if you decide you need someone to talk to.”
I’m too surprised and leery to really respond. At this point in my life, I feel like I’ve had enough therapy to qualify me for some kind of award. I’m not eager to jump back into it, but part of me does wonder what it would be like to talk to someone who actually believes me and wouldn’t tell me I’m just imagining things. It’s a question for another day.
When Dr. Fischer leaves the room, I hustle to get all my clothes back on. I don’t know why I’m in such a hurry. Going back to the apartment sounds even worse than therapy right now. I know I’ll have to face Malachi eventually, but not yet. I hit my trauma ceiling for this week a while ago. I put off thinking about the confidence draining apology I’m going to have to gear myself up for and step out into the hall. Agent Morton is waiting for me just as he promised.
The first few hallways we walk down, the trip is silent. It’s not until we’re alone in an elevator that I bring up what Dr. Fischer said. “What exactly are your plans for me now? It’s not what you told me before.”
“No, it’s not,” he admits. “Things have changed.”
“How?”
“You’re stronger than I ever imagined. I don’t want you as a consultant anymore.”
“You don’t?”
He shakes his head. “I want you as an agent.”
The doors of the elevator slide open. It takes me a moment to get my feet m
oving. We’re halfway across the lobby before I manage to pull my thoughts together. “Don’t you have to have a degree or something to join the FBI, and not be, you know, crazy?”
“By crazy, I assume you’re referring to your psychiatric history?” He looks down at me and I nod. To that, he only smiles. “If you saw what mine looked like before I was recruited, you wouldn’t be so worried.”
If I wasn’t curious about his past before, I certainly am now. Hardly the time for those kinds of questions. “There’s still the college issue. I can’t get in…anywhere.”
“I think you’ll be surprised to find out just how much having an FBI agent in your corner can help when applying for college,” he says as he gestures for me to go through the metal detectors ahead of him. Once we’re both out, he says, “You should be getting your acceptance letter within the week.”
I trip over my own feet as I spin around to face him. The words bubbling up from my throat stick and nearly choke me. “What?” I croak.
“You’ll be classified as an intern of sorts while you’re in school, working directly with me. Once you graduate, then we’ll discuss full time employment.” He’s smiling, but this isn’t a joke. I feel lightheaded as I realize he’s serious. Maybe a job with the FBI should be what’s really getting to me, but oddly enough, it’s going to college.
He pushes open one of the exterior doors, and I follow him in a haze. It’s not until he nudges me and I look up to see he’s pointing at something that I focus on what I’m doing. When I follow his gesture and see Kyran waiting for me at the curb, I look up at him questioningly.
“I figured you might not be ready to face Malachi just yet,” he says.
Just a little perplexed, I ask, “Why didn’t you call Holden?” I mean, I’m sure he has phone numbers for every single one of my friends. We’ve probably all got GPS trackers somewhere on our bodies just for good measure, too.
Hedging, Agent Morton doesn’t answer right away. When he does, I’m even more confused. “Did you know Kyran and Holden have been friends for over a year? Through email, mostly.”
“What?” I ask. Is that really true? I can’t imagine why he would lie to me, but I also don’t understand why neither of them mentioned it. What does that have to do with him calling Kyran today?
Agent Morton clears his throat and says, “I figured that if Kyran finds out about what happened this morning, it’s probably better that he’s with you and not Malachi.”
What? I want to ask, but I also don’t want to ask. A second later, Agent Morton is pushing me toward Kyran anyway—probably to avoid having to explain himself—and I miss my chance to figure it out. As soon as I reach Kyran, he pretty much tries to squeeze me in two. My arms wrap around him as well, and it actually feels really good after hiding from everyone for the last few days. As much as I feel a weird connection with Malachi, there’s something different with Kyran, like he really understands me even though we’ve only know each other for a few weeks. Does that have something to do with what Agent Morton said?
“Are you okay?” Kyran asks when he finally pulls back. Concern is etched into every square inch of his face.
“I’m fine. Promise.”
“Did Malachi hurt you?” Blood drains from my face as I realize he already knows. My inability to answer brings red to Kyran’s face. His hands, still gripping my shoulders, tighten to the point of almost hurting. “I could kill him right now,” he seethes.
“No!” I finally manage to blurt out. “He didn’t hurt me, and it wasn’t his fault. Please, Kyran, don’t say anything to him. I need to talk to him about a few things first.”
His teeth grind back and forth as he tries to shelf his anger. It doesn’t really work.
Hoping to diffuse this before it blows up in my face, I try for distraction. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Holden knew each other?”
Kyran knows what I’m trying to do, judging by the sour look on his face, but he gives me this one, though his voice is no less friendly than before. “Because those were the rules.”
“Rules? What rules?”
The tiniest bit of tension releases from his shoulders. “Holden would tell me about the ghosts, things that had happened, so I could understand everything better, but I wasn’t allowed to try to contact you in any way. It was supposed to protect you, but it…”
“It what?”
“It didn’t really work, now did it?”
Frowning, I don’t know what he means. Kyran hasn’t done anything to me. “How did it not work?”
I fear he’s going to blame what happened this morning on himself for getting Malachi to watch my show in the first place, but he doesn’t.
“I wanted to learn more about the ghosts, figure out how much of what my family believed in was true. Talking to only Holden was supposed to keep me from getting close to you, but it didn’t,” he says. “Now you’re here, with Malachi, and things seem like they just keep getting worse and I feel helpless to stop any of it from happening. I think it’s Malachi that has to do that for some reason I can’t explain, and that kills me, because I didn’t want it to be him.”
I don’t have to ask who he wanted it to be, because the pain in his expression makes it all too obvious. He looks away before I can respond and leads me over to the passenger side of the car. I barely even realize that it’s my car. He must have had someone take him to go pick it up. It seems so unimportant. Everything Kyran just said weighs on me so heavily I feel as if I might be crushed.
Kyran has known me, in a way, through Holden, for over a year. He believes in the ghosts, and in me. What he said about Malachi being somehow connected to all of this, I’ve felt it as well. More so after whatever it was I did this morning. I have no idea what to do about it, but I think he’s right. I know he’s right. I care about Malachi so much, but I hurt him. Everyone else seems to be pissed at Malachi for what I did. Maybe there’s some logical reason for that, but I think something besides just my need and panic pushed us both. All I do know in this moment is that even with everything that’s happened, Kyran wanted to be the one.
31: Connection
(Echo)
The apartment is practically empty when Kyran brings me home. Holden is nowhere to be found, and Zara has her purse in her hand when I walk in. Her arms fling around my body as soon as she reaches me. “I’m going to take Kyran home,” she says, “but I’ll be right back. I, uh, changed the sheets on your bed. We can talk when I get back if you want.”
Tears prick at the backs of my eyes as I nod. “Thanks, Zara.”
She nods and pulls away. A second later, she’s out the door, and both she and Kyran disappear down the stairs. Silence is usually unnerving for me, because I know I’m never really alone, but for once, it doesn’t bother me. Dragging myself to my bedroom, I collapse on the mattress that’s still lying on the floor.
Shame, fear, and confusion roil around inside of me. Everyone knows Malachi and I had sex…and then I ran out of the apartment like a crazy person. After that, it doesn’t seem like the ghosts can do anything to make my life worse, but I’m sure they can if they try hard enough. I thought moving out here would be different. All that’s changed is that I’ve found even more ways to screw things up than before.
My plan for the rest of the day is to wallow in self-pity before forcing myself to face Malachi tomorrow. It seems like a pretty good plan. When do my plans ever work out, though? The sudden drop in temperature sends me scrambling off my bed. Backed up against a wall, my eyes dart around for any sign of Archer or whatever killed him. Even after I see Madeline Crew sitting politely off to the side, it takes me a few minutes to calm back down and breathe again.
“Madeline,” I say, my voice sounding like it’s been sandblasted. “What are you doing here?”
Gesturing to the notebook and pencil still sitting next to the bed after my failed attempt at communicating sans pain with Archer, she seems to be asking for a chat. I know Madeline won’t hurt me, but moving away from t
he wall is still a challenge. I can’t help searching the edges of the room for any other visitors. Even my regulars seem to be taking a break right now. It’s just me and Madeline.
Settling back on the bed with the pencil and notebook, I tell Madeline it’s okay to “talk.” Her first question isn’t terribly unexpected.
Why hasn’t Malachi gone back to the estate and retrieved what I left him yet?
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I think partly he’s struggling to believe in all of this still, but mostly, going back really freaks him out. Kyran, too.” I shrug apologetically. “Plus, there’s kinda been a lot going on. My fault on that.”
I understand Malachi is afraid, but he must go back. He won’t be able to protect you if he doesn’t. Also, none of this is your fault. This morning included.
My eyes close as a whole new round of mortification hits me. Malachi’s great grandmother, dead great grandmother, knows we had sex, and now she’s ticked off at him too. Yeah, this is totally all my fault. Hoping to avoid any further discussion on the matter, I focus on the first thing she said.
“What’s at the house? And why does Malachi need it to protect me? Are Kyran and I right that there’s something more between Malachi and I when it comes to the ghosts?”
In my state, I’m prevented from talking about it in detail, but you are right about Malachi.
“Who or what’s stopping you from explaining?” I demand.
The same beings that killed Archer, she writes, and if you want to prevent it from happening again, you must get Malachi back to the old estate. He will fail without what I left him.
“How do you know about all of this?” It seemed so coincidental a few weeks ago when Madeline came on the show and brought both Malachi and the FBI into my life. I’m beginning to suspect it was anything but.
The Ghost Host: Episode 1 (The Ghost Host Series) Page 25