Woof.
Celia's English bulldog licks at me; his tongue connects with nothing but air.
"Seamus, you can see me, buddy."
Woof ... booooowwww ... woof woof!
The noise from the dog rouses Celia and she groans.
This is working! I keep waving my hands at Seamus, riling him up. He barks heartily, digging his paws into the carpet like he always does when I start to play with him.
"Shuuuuuuddddup..." comes from underneath the pillow.
"We're getting to her, boy," I say.
Seamus continues. I hop up on the bed next to Celia and pat next to me. The hefty bulldog does everything in his power to follow me. This causes Celia to bolt up in the bed and flip over.
"Dog, you have gotta be kidding me." She rubs the sleep out of her eyes with her fists. "What is your major malfunction?"
My partner in crime paws at me right on cue. "Come on, boy. Show her I'm here."
Now fully awake, Celia flicks on the light next to her bed. I can see her immediately switch into full ghost-huntress mode. She watches Seamus carefully as he tries to play with me. I hold my hand up high and snap, getting him to balance on his hind legs. Celia's eyes follow his movement as she examines the spectacle before her.
She crawls out of bed and nabs her EMF detector and a digital recorder. Good girl.
I dash a quick prayer upward. "God, I hope this works."
Hundreds of times, I've been in the position to listen to a spirit without the help of modern technology. However, Celia's not blessed with the psychic abilities that I have. Instead, my best friend is gifted with an open mind, a sense of adventure, and an overwhelming belief that she will have her own genuine, bona fide paranormal experience. Who'da thunk it would be me giving it to her?
She flips on the EMF detector and begins a scan of her room, following Seamus around. "What are you seeing, Seamus? Is there a ghost here? Come on..."
I place myself directly in front of the meter, hoping I can make something—anything—register. Since I'm not officially dead, merely in this in-between stage, I don't know if I have the full energy to make anything register. Certainly I have the ability to leave her an EVP, though.
"Ceeeeeeeeeeeeelia!" I scream at the top of my lungs.
Seamus echoes my call with a howl of his own.
She glimpses around her dark room. "Someone is here, aren't they?" The red light indicator on her digital recorder clicks on. "Hi there," she says. "My name is Celia Nichols and I'm well versed in attempted communication with the spirits. I have a device here in my hand that can record your voice if you're willing to speak into it." She adjusts closer to where Seamus is nipping at my feet. "Just talk into the red light and I will be able to listen to whatever message you have for me."
Well, this is certainly interesting. I've been on the other end of the recorder many times. Never thought I'd be trying this so soon. Celia and I have even been laughing and kidding around about contact from the other side recently. I sincerely hope that I can get through to her.
I sit on the floor directly in front of Celia. Her silver recorder is perched between us.
"What is your name?" she asks.
"Kendall Moorehead, you dodo bird."
"What time period are you from? Are you a survivor of the Civil War?"
I roll my eyes. "Good Lord, no! Celia, it's me! Can you hear me?"
This goes on for quite some time, with Celia questioning me like I'm some random spirit. I don't know how to get across to her that it's me. There's no spiritual-contact code or secret phrase we planned so each of us will know who the other one is.
"I know!"
I bend down and put my mouth as close to the recorder as possible. I speak the only language the two of us share perfectly. Something we connected on the first time we met. Mentally, I scan my catalog of quotes from the Bard. I'm sure he will be able to get my message across.
Weariness encompasses me. I'm running out of strength.
So tired.
To sleep.
Perchance to dream.
Or in my case ... just to wake up to my normal life.
I'm ready to go back.
Chapter Sixteen
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
What is that annoying sound?
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
My nose itches. I reach to scratch it and—
Why are there tubes and wires connected to me?
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Stop that!
I open my eyes and blink into the fluorescent light overhead. Man, that's bright.
I try to swallow, but my throat is dry as a bone.
Grogginess envelops me in a haze of confusion. Where am I? What's with the beige ceiling tiles overhead? Why does my back hurt? Man, I totally have to pee. Everything inside me says it wants to get up and go to the bathroom, yet nothing reacts. I seem pinned down to the bed. Not even my bed. Where are my pillows? This isn't my Synchilla blanket. And where is Sonoma the bear?
I lift my hand again to swat at the itch now tiptoeing across my cheek. A clear tube hangs down, filled with a liquid that's slipping into my skin. An attempt to stretch only brings massive tingles and damn-near fiery jolts through me. I truly feel like I've been beaten within an inch of my life. It nearly takes an act of Congress, but I manage to twist my head to the right. My mom is asleep in a chair with her King James Bible clutched to her bosom. I hear the television overhead sounding softly.
"The Bruins beat the Islanders six to four today—" Click. "—the President called today for sanctions against—" Click. "—buy one Shamwow and get another free—" Click. "—I'll take Potent Potables for eight hundred, Alex—" Click.
"Gooooooood grief," I say in a moan, mustering up all the strength I have. "Pick a channel already, would ya?"
Jason drops the remote and is instantaneously by my side. "Kendall! Kendall! You're awake!"
"Of course I am." I try to roll to my side with no luck. "Who can sleep with the mondo channel-surfing going on?"
He laughs until he begins to choke up. "Miss Sarah—she's awake!"
Mom rouses in the chair next to me, then drops her Bible to the cushion. She pushes past Jason and flings herself over me. "Oh, my baby. My baby! Kendall, are you okay? Talk to me!"
I attempt to lift my right arm to hug her back; however, it's encased in a rather large bandage. "From the looks of it, I'd say—no?" My weak attempt at humor is lost on the visitors in my room. Mom begins crying and I can see the intense emotions in Jason's face too as he shifts his jaw from side to side. In the crease of his elbow, I make out a bulky Band-Aid. He follows the path of my eyes and smiles at me.
Then it all comes whooshing back to me, like a tsunami wave.
Everything.
The investigation at Mayor Shy's house.
The altercation with Sherry Biddison.
The ascension of some sort to a realm where Grandma Ethel and Smokey greeted me.
The sensation of utter peace and bliss.
And then, the coming back to ... the discovery.
Jason takes my hand. "You've been bad off, K. So I donated some blood to help out," he says proudly.
I blink hard again. "I know."
I stare past him to my mom—who ... isn't my mom at all. Yet she is. My heart aches as I witness tears of relief gushing down her weary face. Somehow I know she hasn't had a moment's rest since I tumbled down that staircase like Scarlett in Gone With the Wind. Mom takes my hand from Jason and she kisses the top before placing it against her cheek. I don't pull away or anything. Why would I?
We stay this way for a few moments. I close my eyes and relish the love being sent to me in such a simple act of affection.
"There's my girl!" Dad says, bursting into the room. "If you wanted attention, Kendall, you could have just said something," Dad teases, with a wink of his eye.
"Hi, Dad," I eke out. Dad. Only not.
With both parents here now, one on either s
ide of me, I have to speak up.
I alternate my gaze between the two of them. "I know."
"Know what, baby?" Mom asks.
My chest constricts in an ache I've never experienced as I attempt to shuttle the words out of me for all to hear. "I ... I know I'm adopted."
Mom's face falls. "Oh."
"And I know that my spirit guide, Emily—the one who was my imaginary friend so many years ago, the woman who Celia sketched and showed to you both—she is my real mother."
Dad seems stricken by this. He turns to my mother. "Sarah? Did you—"
Hand on her heart, she swears, "No, never."
Jason—just as shocked by this revelation—exits the hospital room quietly, pulling the door closed behind him. Now it's just me and Mom and Dad. Me and the Mooreheads. The people who raised me as their own.
"Please tell me," I beg.
Mom wipes away more tears. "Oh, Kendall. Now's not the time to get—"
"Really, Mom. I need to hear this."
With a deep exhalation, Sarah Moorehead begins the tale. "All I know is that I was on duty in the neonatal ICU the night of December twenty-second. I was called down to the ER to assist because they'd just brought in a young woman who'd been in a horrid car accident out on the interstate, and she was going into labor." Mom stops a minute to compose herself as she remembers the night that changed so many lives.
"I never knew the girl's name," Mom says, her eyes misty with memories. "She was in such a bad way. Only seven months along in her gestation."
I try not to consider that I was said "gestation."
She continues. "The girl and her friend were hit head-on by a drunk driver, and their car caught fire. The paramedics weren't able to save the driver. So sad, really. No wallet with an ID, and the poor thing's body was so charred, they weren't even able to identify the person through dental records. But the woman was removed from the car with the Jaws of Life."
Of course she was, I think. I envisioned all of that in my dream. My dream of Emily's past.
"While the doctors worked on saving the woman's life, I assisted with your birth. It was an easy one, I must say. You were a squirmy little thing, fighting your way into this world." Her eyes get glassy. "When the doctor handed you to me to clean you off, you wrapped your tiny little hand around my pinkie and held on tight."
I adjust my hand in exactly the same manner as Mom tells more of the story.
"I knew the poor woman wasn't going to make it. She hadn't been wearing her seat belt and was thrown into the dashboard. There was massive trauma to her head and chest. The impact itself is what caused her premature labor and your impulsive birth." She laughs at the thought. "But miracle among miracles, the woman fought to stay conscious through all of it."
"I wanted to see my little girl," Emily says next to me.
"Emily," I say in a whisper. Gazing into Mom's face, I tell her, "Emily's right here with us now."
I can see the disbelief in my mother's eyes at first. Then she glances about, as if she's looking for the young woman she once tried to save.
I prod Mom along. "Emily just told me that she knew she was going to die. She wanted to see me before passing on."
"I understand," Mom says with a sniff. "I did everything I could to assure the girl that her baby would be cared for. That we would give her the best medical attention possible. You see, your father and I had been married for seven years. We'd tried having a baby. I even had a miscarriage after an in vitro procedure. I truly believed that God had special plans for us, something other than us having our own child. So when you were placed in my arms in that emergency room, I felt an immediate bond and connection like I'd never had before with any of the other hundreds of babies I'd worked with."
"And I knew that," Emily says. I repeat everything to my parents as she shares it with me. "Sarah talked to me about wanting a baby of her own and that was why she worked in the neonatal unit. She promised me that my baby would be delivered safely and would have a fighting chance at life. I knew my own life was over. I knew I was alone. I knew no one had a clue where I was, the situation I was in, or even what my name was. I was on my way from Wisconsin to St. Louis when we were in that wreck in Chicago. I was going home for Christmas."
"Who were you with, Emily? Was it my dad?"
She shakes her head. "That doesn't matter right now, Kendall."
Oooh! I hate when she does that to me.
Mom seems to sense my frustration and continues with the story. "The young woman—Emily, you say?—was fading fast. Her vitals were slipping and her heart rate was slowing. I wanted so much for her to hold you in her arms, even if only one time."
I can't help but cry along as my mom tells this. Hot, sticky tears that blend into the bandage on my head and into my hair. I don't care, though. Not right now.
"Emily held you and kissed you. She said, 'Name her Kendall ... it's a family name.'"
Jerking to attention, I laser-beam my eyes at my ghost. "Your last name is Faulkner. Was that your married name? Maiden name? My dad's name? What? Throw me a bone here."
"In due time, Kendall. Let Sarah tell the story."
"What?" Mom asks.
I smirk. "Just like a mother. She's telling me to be quiet and let you finish."
Mom tries to laugh, only more tears come. She dabs them away with a tissue. "Emily passed you back to me and made me promise to take care of you. She wanted you to be raised in a loving home and for you to never know the tragedy that brought you into this world. Emily died a Jane Doe at Northwestern Hospital and remains that way today. I watched over you in an incubator for three months while you continued developing and growing stronger every day. Your father and I made all the necessary arrangements with the hospital and the local authorities to adopt you. I honored the woman who bore you by naming you Kendall." Mom tightens her grip on me as she weeps harder. "Have no qualms about it, though. You are my daughter."
My vision is completely watery and wavy, like a funhouse mirror. I sniffle hard before finding the words. "I know, Mommy," I say, reverting to my childhood, almost. "I know I should feel all sorts of negative stuff right now, finding out I'm adopted. But I only feel gratitude to you for letting me be part of your life. For wanting me and never letting me feel like I didn't belong to you." I address the spirit next to me. "And you, Emily. Through a nasty car crash and being in the hospital, you only worried about me. It was totally kismet that brought you to that hospital and to my mom. Thank you. Thank you both."
Mom reaches out in faith. "Thank you, Emily. You gave me the greatest gift of all."
I wipe away my own tears and address the two women, one on each side of me. "I've watched enough Lifetime movies to know I should scream bloody murder about lies and cover-ups and not being wanted or what have you. But honestly, I feel only gratitude at this point." I glance at Mom. "You and Dad have been amazing for letting me be part of your lives. And Emily ... in your final moments, you were only thinking of me—your unborn child. You're both amazing women."
As I peer at the two women who mean so much to me, all I can do is thank them ... and thank God. It's not every day you get a second chance at life. That's exactly what I've gotten.
"Mmm, lime Jell-O. Can I have it?"
Celia bounds into my hospital room and starts eyeballing my half-eaten lunch. Apparently, I've existed these past days on a diet of glucose and saline. Now I get chicken broth, tea, and gelatin as they build me back up to solid foods. I don't think anyone—even my best friend—is gonna scarf my dessert.
"Paws off," I say kiddingly.
"I give! I give!" Celia throws her hands up in the air to fend me off, and I notice a bandage that matches Jason's on her left arm.
"What happened?"
"This thing? You should know."
"I don't understand."
Celia grins wide at me. "Come off it, Kendall. Last night. My bedroom. The EVP session?"
I so don't know what she's talking about. Do I?
S
he pulls her Sony recorder from her pants pocket and sets it on my rolling table. "You promised me that you'd help me have a paranormal experience, and you lived up to it. Well—not lived, maybe. I'd say you were in some sort of state of unconsciousness somewhere between the world we know here and the ethereal world where so many of our, er, clients exist."
"What are you talking about, Nichols?" I think she's finally gone off the deep end.
"Hit Play."
With her recorder in my palm, I press the button and start listening. It's Celia having a very professional conversation with what she thinks is a spirit inhabiting her bedroom. Her questions are normal for an EVP session.
"You're doing great," I say. "I especially like it when Seamus chimes in."
"You seriously don't remember? Keep listening."
Whatevah.
Then I'm startled when I hear a rumbled voice through the static that sounds surprisingly like me. "It'ssssssssssssssss Kennnnnnn-dallllll."
"Shut up! That did not just say it was me." I'm too stunned to laugh.
Then I hear Celia on the recording. "Kendall? Is that really you?"
"Yesssssssssss."
"Tell me what you need from me," she says on the recording. Then Celia turns to me. "Ready for this? Longest class-A EVP evah! I had Becca run it through the Audition software and clean it up. This is what we got."
She presses Play again, and I'm floored by what I hear:
"'A minist'riiiiing angel shall muh sistah be, / When thou liest hooooooowling."'
I sit up in bed, despite the searing pain it causes to my fresh spleen-removal stitches. "Holy shit, Celia! That's Hamlet, act five."
"Scene one," she says with a giggle. "First time old Will Shakespeare's been quoted by a spirit and captured on tape, eh?"
I somehow recollect this. "I needed O negative blood and I knew that was your blood type. I reached out to you, Celia!"
She shows me her bandaged arm again. "And I answered the call. As did Jason."
"Both of you?"
"Yup. He's O neg too. Imagine that. Ironically, Taylor's not. Otherwise, you'd be blood brothers with all of us."
Jason did that for me ... even though we've been on the outs. I'm stricken by a memory of talking to Grandma Ethel about first loves. Jason's just that—a boy who loved me when I needed it the most. And what do you know: he pokes his head in my room right now.
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