The Awakening

by Marley Gibson

  "Okay, Madame Curie! You win!"

  Celia laughs and sticks her tongue out.

  "You wanna walk home together?" I ask.

  "Sorry. Can't. I have my Segway." She examines the setup in front of her. "Besides, I need to finish this. I'll be home in an hour or so, though. Tell you what. Bring the video recorder over then." She lowers her voice and looks around. "You know ... we'll look at it."

  "Oh, okay. Sure." I am curious to see if there's anything on there. "I'll see you then."

  As I'm headed out of the classroom, Celia calls out to me. "Yo, Kendall. Go take a walk around town. Get to know Radisson. It's not a bad place. You'll see."

  Celia Nichols knows what she wants to do with the rest of her life. I don't even know what to do this afternoon. I suppose a nature walk will do me some good.

  I smile and wave back at her.

  Sure, why not? I have an hour to kill.

  All right, I'll admit it. Radisson, Georgia, is a quaint little town.

  I say little because, well, it is. The welcome sign at the city limits boasts a population of 14,877. Obviously, that's not counting the four-person Moorehead family who just joined the ranks. Talk about a downgrade from Chicago's nearly three million people.

  I'll stop comparing, though. This sojourn around town is supposed to be about getting to know Radisson. I'm stuck here until I graduate, so I might as well kick back and get comfy.

  From RHS, I walk east on Main Street four "city blocks" until I reach the Square, in the middle of town. The Square is Radisson's main drag and shopping area. My dad's office in city hall is across the way, in the building with the large clock tower on top of it. Lining the perimeter of the Square are charming yet kitschy stores, such as Delver's Drugs (with an old-fashioned soda counter) and Karol's Kountry Kitchen restaurant, featuring "down-home mac 'n' cheese" and some kind of concoction I've never heard of—what in the world are rutabagas? There's a fabric store, a hearing-aid place (love the name: Stick It in Your Ear), an arts and craps place (because, honestly, it all is crap), and a coffee shop named Central Perk, obviously a nod to Friends. A men's clothing store is on the corner of Main and Pace, with a shoe store across the street full of Crocs of every size and color and a sign that reads "Warning: we're temporarily out of Webkinz."

  I head over to the middle of the Square where there's a well-kept park, complete with shade trees and flowers in planters. In the center of the park is a tall granite Civil War memorial with a Confederate soldier facing south. It says he's a soldier at parade rest. Hmmm, doesn't look too restful to me, clutching that musket to his side. There is a fishpond to the right of the monument that has a small fountain gurgling away. I can see how someone might like sitting on the nearby bench and enjoying the afternoon. Not me, but someone.

  Suddenly, the wind shifts and seems to dance around me. My skin grows cold and clammy, and my footing falters. Oh, man, I'm terribly lightheaded. Whew. Where did that come from? Okay, maybe I will be someone who sits in this park. I drop to the bench, and my heartbeat accelerates, pounding fe rociously against my lungs. My head is woozy and I sense all the blood rushing straight down to my feet. On top of that, my stomach hurts. It's like I've eaten bad pizza. You know, when you think the leftovers still look good after three days in the fridge, then you have to make that quick dash to the bathroom. Yeah. Just like that.

  I wonder if I can run into Central Perk and use their washroom.

  Since there are no crosswalks, I look both ways, wait for the pickup truck decorated with Georgia Bulldog stickers to pass, and then scoot across the street. I grasp a nearby lamppost with a death grip to keep from falling to my knees. Something serious is happening to me. Words tangle in the back of my throat. I cry out for help in my head. Someone call 911. Or my mom. Man, it's like there's a firecracker show going off in my head. I hear pops and music and voices and talking and ... whoa ... what's going on? I spin around to see if a store is piping Muzak out onto the sidewalk. Nope.

  A mosaic of colors dances around me in a fuzzy rainbow effect. Is this for real or am I hallucinating? Were those mushrooms that were in my lunch salad of the magical type? No, that's absurd. Maybe I breathed in too much of those acetate fumes Celia was cooking up in the chem lab.

  A woman walks past, checking me out from head to toe. "You must be Roy and Elva's granddaughter," she says.

  More random rockets explode inside my head. Or at least, that's what it seems to be from the noise in my brain. Can anyone else hear what's going on? Is there a volume knob somewhere? I wish I could shut this off. But how?

  "Ummm, no, ma'am. I'm not," I say politely when all I want to do is scream bloody murder.

  The woman flattens her lips. "You look just like Elva. Are you sure?"

  The mental sparklers and colors have now morphed to a full-throttle headache. I so don't want to talk to this woman right now. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sure of who I am."

  "Of course you are," she says with a dainty laugh. "It's just that Elva's granddaughter is about your age and I thought..."

  Her words become a mangled mishmash lost in the cacophonic orchestra of my mind as a slow realization penetrates the brain traffic and noise, forming one painfully clear notion: I know her name.

  I see the letters in my mind: H-e-l-e-n P-e-a-r-l-m-a-n.

  Helen Pearlman was born here in Radisson and ... I rub my temple. She leaves town only once a year to go stay at her beach house in ... I wince, searching for the details on the edge of my gray matter. There's sun, water, and sand painted across my memory like I've been there myself. Of course, I haven't—I've got it! Grayton Beach, Florida ... in the Panhandle.

  My hand flies to my mouth.

  How the hell do I know that?

  "Are you all right, dear?"

  I nod, afraid to speak.

  "Y'all sure now?"

  "Stomachache," I mutter, thinking it's the easiest answer.

  "My Lawrence has the same problem. He eats at least two packs of Tums a day and—"

  More flash cards of information skitter across my mind's eye. Lawrence isn't her son. He's her husband. For some reason, I know this as sure as I know my own name. And, umm ... Lawrence had a goiter—What on God's green earth is a goiter?— removed from his neck last May. Eww...

  I shift my gaze back to Helen Pearlman, wife of goiterless Lawrence, hoping I don't appear as horrified as I feel.

  Ribbons of color surround her, and I blink to focus. Yellows and pinks seem to dance about her head in a spotlight of sorts. Is the sun playing some sort of trick on my eyes? People don't just walk around with, like, halos of rainbow hues all over them. Seriously. And the intense, sudden outcropping of anger within me is nearly frightening. I want to lash out at this poor woman, although she really hasn't done anything to me. WTF?

  "You'll have to excuse me, please," I say. "Nice to have, umm, met you."

  She waves after me as I stumble away. I'm completely discombobulated and I'm freaking out here! The pavement under my feet feels like quicksand, but my legs are leaden as I try to walk. My hands are tingling, and the pain in my head is massively forceful. It's like part of my head is missing. At this point, I wish it were—anything to take away this pain!

  I don't think I can make it to Central Perk. It's too far down the street. Light-years away, it seems. I need air-conditioning, water, and a seat. Probably an emergency room, as well. I must be having an aneurysm or something none of the doctors on ER can correctly diagnose.

  There's some random store directly behind me. I push on the glass door and hear the jingle of several bells when I burst inside. The cool air conditioner surrounds me, tickling my neck and causing the hairs on my arms to stand at attention with chill bumps. To my right, a woman in jeans and a T-shirt that reads "I know I'm psychic 'cause my underwear says 'medium'" stands and smiles at me.

  "Hi there!" She's young. Maybe in her early thirties.

  I somehow find my voice. "May I use your ladies' room, please?"

  The woman star
es at me with great scrutiny, like she recognizes me. Oh God. She doesn't think I'm Elva's granddaughter too, does she? Stupid small town.

  Her hands spread wide and she waves around my head with a look of fascination. "Oh my goodness! You're literally bursting with energy!"

  I'm bursting with something, that's for sure.

  The pupils in her hazel eyes are widely dilated. From the pungent odor of incense in the room, I assume she must have been smoking some marijuana before I came in. Marjorie's older brother used to smoke the chronic in his room, so I recognize the transcendental look this lady's got.

  "The bathroom," I say, trying to nudge her out of her daze.

  "Oh!" She snaps out of it with a knowing expression across her lips. "Sure, hon. Up the stairs and to the right."

  I smile. "Thanks."

  "And when you're done," she calls out, "I'd love to have a long chat with you, Kendall."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I FREEZE IN PLACE on the third step up.

  My bottom lip quivers when I start to speak. "H-h-how do you know my name?"

  Instead of answering me, the woman stretches out her hand. "I'm Loreen Woods." She emphasizes the words, like they're supposed to mean something to me.

  "Nice to meet you," I say, still puzzled and even more wigged out than I'm letting on. Not wanting to be rude, I sheepishly reach to shake. When our hands touch, Loreen's eyes close and she breathes in deeply, clasping my palm securely to hers. A near vibration passes through me, like we're sharing a pulse. I want to pull away, but she seems entranced again. I pump our hands up and down twice and then release. Her lids remain shut, so I take a moment to check this place out.

  Jeezy-chreezy. What have I walked into?

  Candles and incense line one wall. Another is covered in books and CDs. I also see pyramids, crystal balls, tarot cards, and I Ching sticks, whatever those are. There's a jewelry counter that sports racks of crystals and stones hanging from chains. Not really necklaces, but something pretty. A sign over an old-fashioned cash register reads "Divining Woman." Uh-oh. Have I wandered into some sort of fortunetellery psychic-babble store? My mother would shit a gold brick and throw holy water on me if her devoutly religious self knew I was even within ten feet of this place. I feel the need to get out of here fast.

  Loreen's eyes open. "Kendall. It's so wonderful that you stopped in."

  Okay, I need to get hold of this situation. My pulse seems to have calmed down, and I no longer feel like my insides are going to explode. "Again—how do you know my name?"

  "There's a connection to you that I've been feeling for several days, but I didn't know what it was until you just walked in here," she explains.

  "What kind of connection?" Do I really want the answer?

  Loreen lets out a pent-up sigh. "A connection between our souls. Perhaps we knew each other in a previous life? I'm not sure. All I know is that I am supposed to guide you."

  Hello, Shirley MacLaine, get Larry King on the phone! Someone's stealing your act.

  This is a farce. Some sort of new reality TV show that Bravo's filming here in the sticks of Georgia. Will Heidi Klum pop out from behind the rack of tarot cards? This woman's not for real.

  "I think you have me confused with someone else." I move toward the door, thinking that now that my dizziness has passed, I can make it home without a visit to the necessary (as my grandma used to call it). Home, where I'm going to lock myself in a closet until all this weird shit stops happening to me. Or until it's time to go off to college. "I don't need your bathroom after all. Thanks anyway."

  "Wait, Kendall. We must talk."

  "Why?"

  "You see, I'm a psychic healer and sensitive," she says. I suppose her T-shirt isn't a joke then. "I have to say, there is a tremendous amount of energy surrounding you."

  "Thank you?" I ask more than say.

  "Something brought you in here to me today, Kendall," Loreen says. "I've seen you in my dreams and had advance knowledge of you in my card readings. You've been experiencing some, shall we say, strange things?"

  It's like I've been doused in the face with a glass of (sweet) iced tea. (No such thing as unsweet tea here.) I gulp down the unease lodged in my throat and say, "Yeah, how did you know?"

  Loreen takes a seat on an old Victorian couch with burgundy cushions. She pats next to her. "You're what, sixteen?"

  "I'll be seventeen in December." I sit down next to her.

  "Capricorn?"

  I smile. "December twenty-second."

  "Ahh ... on the cusp. You were born on the winter solstice." She reaches for my hand. "You're a very special girl, Kendall. And you're only discovering your powers."

  Powers? Like a superhero or something? I mean, who wouldn't want Wonder Woman's curves and bosiasms—I sure would!—but I don't think I possess any special powers. "I don't understand—"

  "I shouldn't refer to it that way," Loreen scolds herself. "What I meant is, you're just discovering your abilities .The gift that you were born with. Your sixth sense. You're a sensitive, Kendall. I can feel it. Your aura is strong and your energies are pulsating out of control."

  Could this be what's causing my headaches? That is, if I were to believe her mumbo jumbo.

  Loreen bites her bottom lip and scowls at me, as if she knows what I'm thinking. "Your mother is a sensitive?"

  I try not to snicker. "No, she's an Episcopalian."

  Loreen ignores my attempt at humor and studies me. "Hmm. I could be reading that wrong, but I swear, it feels like you've inherited your sensitivity."

  "Not unless Mom's holding out on me." I doubt it, though. My mom's as religiously conservative as they come. She wouldn't even let me read Harry Potter because she said it was a "training manual" for witchcraft. Whatever! Hello, it's fiction. While I can see Mom clutching the Book of Common Prayer, I can hardly visualize her hunched over a crystal ball hosting a'séance to communicate with the dead. "So you really think I'm sensitive?"

  A nod from Loreen. "You've only started to open yourself up, and you don't know how to control your gift. The least little thing can set you off with an emotional outburst—anger, nerves, trepidation, fear—anything, especially when you're surrounded by paranormal activity."

  I stand up. "What is it with everyone in Radisson being obsessed with ghosts and spirits and shit? Don't you people have a movie theater or HBO?"

  "Paranormal elements are very in vogue right now," she says, laughing.

  Hand on hip, I retort, "What? Ghosts are the new black?"

  "You could say that. We're in an age of awareness and awakening like no other time in our society. A lot of paranormal experts"—she uses finger quotes around the word experts— "think there's a thinning of the dimensions surrounding us. It's almost like we're in a new age of enlightenment! I mean, who doesn't have a ghost or angel tale?"

  I didn't, until recently.

  Loreen adds, "Well, it's not considered taboo anymore."

  Needing some distance, I walk over to the bookshelf to review titles: Awakening Your Psychic Powers; You Are Psychic: The Art of Clairvoyant Reading and Healing; and Psychic Development for Beginners. Are you kidding me? They might as well be titled Psychics for Dummies. That would be me, if I were to buy into this.

  I'm too confused by all of this information and the physical things that are happening to me. But I'll admit to having a curiosity about this sensitivity Loreen seems to think that I have. "Maybe I should get one of these books. Which one do you recommend?"

  Loreen waves her hand, shooing me away. "You don't need anything like that."

  Wow, she totally sucks as a saleswoman. How does she pay her rent each month if she doesn't move the merchandise? I bet she's just reeling me in to try and get me to buy something more expensive. Like a chi machine. Marjorie's mom has one, but then, she's a little imbalanced to begin with. She's originally from Los Angeles.

  "Come sit back down," Loreen instructs with the warmest smile.

  I obey, because I am intereste
d. Like, why is this occurring now?

  "This awakening is occurring because you're in an incredible hotbed of paranormal activities here in Radisson," Loreen pipes up, answering my unspoken questions and echoing my father's words from earlier. Do they print that phrase in the brochures that the tourism bureau hands out and then make the citizens regurgitate the words ad nauseam? For Christ's sake! "How ... what...?" Man, I've got to be careful with what I think!

  "This is an old town, Kendall, full of history and death and battle and scars from the Civil War. There are a lot of energies around that see your shining light of understanding and they're standing up and shouting, 'I'm here!' at you. Your awakening is coinciding with your move and being surrounded by such rich history."

  Okay. Hold the phone. Now I ask my questions out loud. "Why wasn't I having all this weird stuff happening to me when I was in Chicago? We are the home of Al Capone and his mass-murdering gang of goons, not to mention the infamous Resurrection Mary and all the other ghosts of Archer Avenue."

  Marjorie and I got ditched in Resurrection Cemetery on Archer Avenue this one time back in junior high when we were riding around with kids our parents wouldn't have liked for us to associate with. Marjorie swore then a million times over that she actually saw Resurrection Mary, the vanishing hitchhiker, when we were standing outside trying to flag down a ride out of there. She said she saw a woman with blond hair and a white dress not far from us, and then she was gone. I never really believed in things like that—and Marjorie soon got over her fear and denied the alleged sighting later, saying she was having some sort of anxiety attack and had too much adrenaline flooding her system—but now I'm starting to wonder.

  "Well sure, Chicago is full of its own ghosts and spirits," Loreen says as she nods. Ha! I've gotten her! "What I'm talking about is more focused on you, Kendall. There, your mind was quiet, and here, it is alive and awake."

  "Are you kidding me? It's crazy-quiet now. So much so that I can't sleep at night."

  Loreen shakes her strawberry blond hair. "I'm not talking about your surroundings. We're talking about your mind, which is anything but quiet. I bet it's like the Fourth of July in there at times. Are you experiencing loss of sleep, strange appetite, and/or odd pains throughout your body? Vivid dreams, perhaps?"