The Guidance

chapter Fourteen

After Holy Eucharist on Sunday morning, I borrow Mom's car, pick up Celia at the back of my driveway, and then head over to Stephanie's house. Miss Evelyn answers the door wearing a cheery yellow dress that contrasts with the leaves outside that have begun to change color and fall to the ground.

"Hello, girls," she says politely.

"Hey, Miss Evelyn," Celia says. "We thought we'd come check on Courtney."

I inwardly groan, knowing I'm the last person Courtney wants to see the "morning after."

Stephanie appears from behind her mother, her hair pulled to the left in a side ponytail. "Hey, y'all. Courtney blew out this morning with barely a word to me or Mom."

I frown. "What did her parents say?"

"They didn't seem fazed or worried at all," Stephanie reports. "Her mom brushed it off as her just trying to be the center of attention at the party."

Miss Evelyn waves us into the house. "Have y'all eaten lunch yet?"

"No, ma'am," Celia says.

"We're just about to sit down. Come join us."

After all the weirdness that happened here last night, I'm too tired to decline. I simply follow quietly down the hallway to the airy white kitchen in the back of the house, wondering if everything I saw last night was merely part of a dream. But no, something did try to push me out of my body, and something definitely knocked Courtney out of hers.

The kitchen is roomy and bright, big enough for a banquet. Cold baked chicken, potato salad, deviled eggs, and three-bean salad sit out on the table—quite a feast for just a mother and daughter. Miss Evelyn goes to get plates and silverware for us, and Celia, Stephanie, and I each take a seat.

"If you ask me the truth," Stephanie starts, "I think Courtney was faking it last night. She's always loved being a drama queen. I mean, if she was really attacked by some ghost or whatever, wouldn't she have been more shaken up? I would have peed my pants!"

Celia shrugs. "Different people react different ways to contact with entities. It also depends on how she'd opened up her mind to allow the spirit to use her."

"Yeah, whatever," Stephanie says with a smirk. She passes me the chicken. I hold on to it as I wait for my plate. "She was snoring in her sleep last night, which tells me she wasn't bothered by too much."

Celia snickers. "Wait'll every guy at RHS finds out she snores."

I scowl at my friend. "You wouldn't."

"Nah."

A flowery plate is placed in front of me. "Now eat up, girls. We have tons of food left over because of last night's early exodus," Miss Evelyn says.

Celia piles the chow on her plate like she hasn't eaten in a week—I don't know where she puts it in that skinny body of hers—and I stab a small chicken breast with my fork. I usually love good old-fashioned deviled eggs, but for some reason the smell is not appealing right now. I'm anything but hungry. Nausea coats my stomach, the sour response to a feeling of ill will. Is it residual energy left from last night's activities? I turn my head, seeking out the entity I encountered at the party, but he's not here at all. Something else hangs in the air.

While Miss Evelyn, Stephanie, and Celia chatter on, I zone out, glancing around the kitchen. The walls are pristine, and every pot and pan hangs neatly from an overhead rack. The windows sparkle with the midday sun, and the smell of fresh lemon is in the air. It's all window-dressing though. The warmth and glow of this room is a facade, masking the true pain captured in the walls and furniture. I've read in some of Loreen's books that houses have lives of their own. That they keep the energies of those who have lived within them. In my head, I see images of all sorts of people who have used this room, zooming up to reflections of Miss Evelyn and a tall dark-haired man with Stephanie's eyes. Mr. Crawford. I feel her parents' anger at each other. The tenseness of their relationship. The accusations and acid words over money, extramarital affairs, and long working hours. I see Stephanie—only a few years younger—run away from the kitchen up to her room, seeking refuge while her parents fussed, feuded, and bickered over the tiniest little thing, words slashed about between two people who were supposed to love each other until death parted them. That would never happen though, as the State of Georgia saw to their official separation two years ago.

Miss Evelyn reaches out to me, knocking me out of my vision. "Can I get you anything, Kendall? Perhaps some iced tea?"

"Y-y-yes, ma'am. That would be nice."

She rises from the table and disappears deep back in the steel-applianced kitchen. I breathe a sigh of relief and appreciation over the fact that my parents are still together. So many kids come from broken homes. I mean, I know I'm going through this whole awakening thing that Mom doesn't get, but at least both she and Dad—and Kaitlin, when she's not being a brat—are there supporting me, for the most part.

I take a bite of chicken and chew quickly. "So, Steph, where does your dad live now?" Geesh, I hope that's not too personal.

She doesn't seem bothered at all. "He moved to Nashville before the divorce was final. I spend Christmas and summers with him, which is pretty cool since Vanderbilt University is one of my college choices."

"That's cool," I say. "I'm glad you get to spend time with him."

"Me too." She pokes at her potato salad and then says, "I really miss having him around all the time. Their fights just got to be too much and he ... left."

"It happens," Celia says sadly. "People are mean to each other for some very odd reasons."

A sheen of tears appears in Stephanie's eyes, and her bottom lip begins to quiver. "Kendall, I'm, like, so sorry for how shitty Courtney and everyone's been to you. Farah, Mina, and Megan are actually nice girls, and if they weren't under Courtney's influence, they'd like you. I know they would." She wipes her hand under her eyes.

Miss Evelyn places a glass of iced tea in front of Celia and one in front of me. "Now, sweetie, you don't always have to do what the popular kids tell you to do."

Stephanie rolls her eyes. "Right, Mom. And there was no such thing as peer pressure back in your time of the Stone Age."

"Of course there was. I'm only saying that you and Kendall can be friends, and you and Courtney can be friends. It'll all work out. You're all getting older and wiser, and the games of childhood will fall off by the wayside."

Celia snorts, but then covers it with a deep sip of her tea.

"I promise to try and get Courtney to mellow out," Stephanie says. "You know, since she's sort of ridden this as far as she can now."

"I appreciate that," I say, even though, deep down inside, I know Courtney Langdon and I will never be anything in the vicinity of the neighborhood of BFFs.

And I'm the one in therapy.





Speaking of therapy, I soldier through almost a week of evil glares from Courtney across the lab table and our poor pickled pig and make it to Thursday, when Mom takes me out of school early for another visit to Atlanta and Dr. Kindberg's office. And more tests.

Perched in his large armchair (I won't do the couch!), I tell him all about Stephanie's party and how the Union soldier tried to take me over. He sits quietly in his chair, tapping a pen against his lip and listening.

"So did anyone else witness this?" he asks.

"My friend Celia. She was with me as I forced the ghost out of my head."

"I've heard of this," the doctor says. "It takes a very strong person to withstand a body thief's attempt like that. And from what you tell me, this spirit is belligerent and crafty."

Finally, an adult other than Loreen who takes my claims seriously. Of course, he may just be humoring me before he jabs me with a needle full of Demerol.

He continues though. "The tests we've done so far on you, Kendall, show an incredible mental strength. Your IQ is 152, and your school records indicate no learning disabilities arising from your gift." He flips back in my chart a couple of pages and then narrows his eyes at me. "Having dealt with children in your similar circumstances, shall we say, I believe we've ruled out all of the mental obstacles that could be in the way of solving this mystery. I am inclined to believe that you do have the abilities you claim. However, being a medical professional, I feel it's my duty to explore all physical options as well."

I swallow hard. "Right. The CT scan you scheduled today."

"Exactly." Dr. Kindberg sits forward. "Look, Kendall, we've got to explore every avenue before we let you go. If you are psychic, you'll need to make a decision about how you want to live the rest of your life. There are counselors trained to help children with abilities like yours. Also, there are camps throughout the United States that specialize in psychic kids, helping them understand their gifts and honing their talents."

"What are the other avenues?"

"Ignoring your abilities. Going on with your life in a regular manner. There are medications we can prescribe that might possibly curb the visions and headaches, but you will also have to make a concerted effort to bury your gift."

I think of the parable in the Bible about someone taking a talent and turning it into many and someone else who buried his and always regretted it. I don't want to not do what I'm apparently destined to do. Wouldn't that be scoffing at what's been given to me?

"I want to keep helping people," I say. "My ghost-hunting group has already done a lot of good for folks. I've crossed several spirits into the light; we helped find a missing person; and we even debunked six or seven episodes of what homeowners thought were hauntings but which turned out to be things like bad wiring in the basement or leaky pipes or their teenager smoking in the attic."

He smiles at me. "It sounds like you've already made up your mind then."

With great confidence, I agree. "Yeah, Doc. I have."

"Good, Kendall. Let's get you over to the hospital for those tests so you can get on with your calling."

"Thanks for believing in me, Dr. Kindberg."

He winks. "That's what I'm here for."





"Are you okay, Mom?" I ask in the waiting room of the St. Joseph's radiology department. Mom fiddles with the crinkled pages of a two-year-old Good Housekeeping, which is a red flag for me that something's bothering her.

"I'm fine," she says softly.

"You're not fine. You're worried about me. You don't have to."

Her eyes darken. "I ... but ... how—"

I give her a wide smile. "I'm psychic, Mom."

"So you tell me." Her eyes drop to the magazine again.

I reach over and snag the hand closest to me and hold on tightly. "I know we've talked about this before and I understand that it's, like, your duty as a mom to worry about me twenty-four/seven. I'm okay. I promise."

She shakes her head. "I keep telling myself that. It's just so hard for me to reconcile the beliefs and teachings of a lifetime, from my parents and priests and the church, with your ability to communicate with the dead. It goes against my religion, and I'm struggling with that."

"I know. Even Father Massimo is trying to help us get through this."

"He is, Kendall. I appreciate his spiritual guidance. What scares me the most is knowing that I can't protect you if you're out there trying to contact the dead through all sorts of means that I find to be against the Holy Scriptures."

I do get where she's coming from. I pull my purse up next to me and rummage through the mess of pens, packs of gum, and loose change to find the sheet of paper my priest gave me on Sunday. I pass it over to Mom.

"Check this out. Father Mass did this. There are Bible verses that refer to what I'm going through. So maybe I am doing what God intended for me."

Mom reads the paper. "Matthew chapter fourteen, verse twenty-six: the disciples see Jesus as a ghost."

"Right! So if Jesus was a ghost, maybe they are real?"

She pulls her lips tight. "I just don't know, Kendall."

"Keep reading. There's the one in First Corinthians that talks about how the Bible is largely based on spiritualism with God. Then in Psalm Ninety-one and Luke, chapter four, verse ten, there are references to angel and spirit guides." I point at the last notation on Father Mass's list. "In John, chapter sixteen, verses twelve through twenty-three, Jesus talks of future truths that will be revealed to the world through mediums. Like me! Don't you see?"

Mom's eyes are filled with dewy tears, and I feel like a major shit for making her cry ... again. She's just trying to protect me. But I want her to see that I am protected. That I was chosen to have this gift.

"I appreciate that you have all of this research, Kendall. It means a lot to me," Mom says, squeezing my hand. "We'll see what the CT scan shows. You know I only want to keep you safe and never let anything hurt you."

"I get that, Mom. But I'm growing up. I can't wear a bicycle helmet forever. Loreen says that the only way we mature physically, mentally, and spiritually is experiencing the good with the bad. That it makes us well-rounded and sympathetic. I want to be like that."

Mom's voice raises some in the waiting room. "It's my job to protect you from anything that could hurt you."

"Some things," I assure her, "I have to learn for myself."

A nurse steps through the double doors opposite where we're sitting. "Kendall Moorehead?"

"That's me," I say, standing.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Mom asks. "I have experience with CT scans and I can talk you through it."

Now's the time to cut the cord a smidgety-bit. "I can do it, Mom. I'll be fine"

Mom kisses the top of our joined hands and smiles up at me.

I follow the nurse around the corner to the left and down a long hallway, where she shows me a changing room and a stack of neatly folded hospital gowns.

"Everything off that has any metal in it, including your bra."

As I change into the terribly unfashionable garb, I'm reminded of when I was a little girl and Mom used to bring scrubs and gowns home from the hospital for me to play with. I loved pretending I was a nurse just like Mom. I thought I was special because no one else had clothes from the hospital like I did. Now, as I look down at the mauve and cornflower crisscrossed design, I feel like a sick freak.

My BlackBerry beeps at me from inside my purse. I withdraw it from the leather case and smile when I see the instant message from Jason:

>Who luvs ya?

Moving my thumbs like I'm thumb-wrestling, I type back:

>U do! I hear u!

Shortly after, I get:

>Good luck w/everything.

>Thinking of u!

Time to get this over with. Knowing Jason's with me in spirit boosts my confidence. I stash the BlackBerry in my purse and grab my clothes. Outside the dressing room, a nurse takes my personal things and locks them in a cabinet for me. I return to the small waiting room and wait.

Fifteen minutes later, I hear, "Hey, Kendall, I'm Patricia. I'll be taking you through your test. Come over here and I'll start an IV so we can put the contrast substance in. Then we'll get you into the room for your test."

I wince when the sharp needle pokes me in the crease of my arm. I've never been a fan of needles, although Mom makes us get flu shots every year. Patricia finishes securing the IV and taping it onto my arm so it won't move.

"Is this test going to hurt?" I ask, barely recognizing the childlike voice. Sure, Mom explained the whole procedure to me in the car, but she's all blinded by the protective-mother thing, so I need to hear the word straight up.

"Well, there's a lot of lying still, which some people don't particularly like," Patricia says. "And you can get a hot-flash sensation when the contrast material is injected. It can also give you a little metallic taste in your mouth, but other than that, the test is pretty cut-and-dried."

I let out a long breath. "Let's hope so."

Patricia leads me down the hallway farther and through a set of swinging doors. "Are you claustrophobic?"

I hadn't really thought about it until I fix my stare on the machine in front of me. The scanner part is this monstrous—okay, not really, but to me it seems that way—machine with a tunnel-like area burrowed out in the center. A sliding table sits in the hole, and I can see that the X-ray equipment is inside the rotating middle. It's straight from Deep Space Nine and I'm starting to feel like the captured alien they're experimenting on.

It's okay, Kendall ..., Emily whispers in my head.

I steady my breathing and try not to freak out too much. It's no big deal. It's a camera. And a moving table. And it's gonna swirl around me with bells, lights, and whistles and peer into my insides.

Patricia pats the table. "Climb on up here, Kendall, and get comfy."

I do as I'm told, careful not to flash my undies to the technician behind the lead wall in the other room.

"So, my mom's a nurse," I say as I get situated, "and she says a CT scan is like slicing up a loaf of bread and then putting it back together to look at the images."

Chuckling, Patricia fluffs the pillow behind my head. "That's an interesting way to put it. She's right though. The scan will run with several sets of electronic X-ray detectors spinning around. The table you're on will slide through the scanner so the X-ray can follow a spiral path that works with the computer software in the other room to create the cross-sectional images."

Did Celia Nichols just enter the room?

"All you have to do is remember to breathe and not to move, Kendall." Patricia pats the pillow a final time and then moves to strap my legs down to the table. Flat on my back, I stare up at the industrial ceiling tiles. I center my energies on my breathing and try to relax, lulling myself into a meditative state until this is over.

"Okay, sweetie, here we go."

As the table begins moving into the tunnel, I do my best to ignore the thoughts creeping through my mind. I take myself somewhere else. I'm in a beautiful field of flowers. The wind is blowing, and the sun shines down brightly. I'm wearing a long flowy dress that drifts in the breeze as I run through the meadow. Peace and calm surround me. Nips of honeysuckle and juniper fill the air as I touch my fingertips to the blades of tall grass.

For a moment, I'm oblivious to the humming and drumming of the scanner as it inspects my brain for abnormalities. But then the machine jerks somewhat, knocking me out of my happy place.

A voice over the intercom says, "Sorry, Kendall. That happens sometimes. Are you okay?"

"Fine," I manage to eke out.

Okay, now I'm not tranquil at all. I'm lying in a frickin' metal tube that's shooting radiation into me. My heartbeat accelerates to breakneck speed, and my mind starts playing games. What if they've found something? What if they're zeroing in on a massive tumor pushing against my temporal lobe? What if I'm sporting a rare case of a disease they've never seen before and don't know how to treat? They work miracles with drugs and lasers today though, don't they? I could be the poster child for a new experimental procedure that saves lives and brain function. Would I have to have more radiation and chemotherapy? Would my hair end up in a pile on the floor? Oh God, it's bad enough being the new kid in school who claims to be psychic—now I'm bald too? I wouldn't expect Jason to date the bald chick. How uncool. But he already dates the psychic girl. He's not that superficial, so why am I painting him with that brush in my panicked state?

Questions, questions, questions. And I'm not the one to provide answers.

I need to just calm down and wait this out.

Suddenly, I'm not alone in the tunnel. A tender blanket of warmth covers me from my head to my toes, love so strong that it propels itself through my veins, powering my confidence and tranquillity. A delicate hand covers mine as it lies perfectly still on the table.

Emily.

She's here with me, holding me the best and only way she can. I literally feel her surrounding me in a soft bubble of shielding white light.

You're going to be fine ..., she comforts.

I understand completely and try to gulp down the anxiety clogged in my throat.

The CT clicks and spins around me, moving just as the nurse had told me it would. Instead of focusing on the negative of what might be, I concentrate on the images now flashing through my head of the people who have come before me on this table. There's John Sullivan from north of the city ... a town called Acworth. He had an accident with his motor-boat on Lake Gwinnett. There's also a woman named Lucille Something-or-other who was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor—eek!—but was treated successfully with surgery and chemo. Little Timmy Dennis, a boy from Minnesota who was visiting his grandparents in Buckhead. He rode his bike without a helmet and had some nasty hemorrhaging from a spill. Hundreds of others. Some nameless. Some faceless. All with a story.

And then there's me.

What will the test show?

A perfectly healthy, normal girl ..., Emily reassures me.

Somehow, I know she's right. I just do. There's nothing wrong with me. This is normal for me. I am who I am (excuse the Popeye reference) and can be what I am because that's the way it's supposed to be. I'll keep working with Emily and Loreen and Celia, Taylor, and Becca.

This is what I was destined to do.

Yes, you are, Kendall ...