The Guidance

chapter Seven

I grab the sissy bar—or in this case, the "oh, shit!" handle—over my head as Mom takes the exit for I-85 off I-20 like she's Kyle Busch pulling in to have his tires changed. "Whoa, Sarah!" I say, only half kiddingly.

Mom shakes her head. "I knew we should have left Radisson earlier. I don't want to keep the doctor waiting."

As a longtime nurse, Mom thinks it's incredibly rude for patients to keep the medical staff waiting when they have set appointments. Of course, she has no defense for how patients always seem to have to sit in the doctor's waiting room for weeks on end, reading year-old Redbooks and back issues of Sports Illustrated.

"We've still got a half-hour to get there."

"Atlanta traffic is always a nightmare."

"It's Saturday," I say.

"We'll still barely make it downtown." Mom switches her Volvo into the left lane and guns it past a rickety old pickup truck doing its best to keep up with the early-morning interstate traffic. "Did you deliberately try to make us late so you wouldn't have to do this?"

My brows knit together as I stare at her over my sunglasses. "Uh. Wha—I can't believe you think that! I said I'd do this, and I'm doing it. Geez."

Mom bites her bottom lip and reaches over to touch me on my blue-jeaned knee. "I'm sorry, Kendall. I'm just nervous about this meeting and what we might find out."

That your daughter's really psychic, Emily says in my head.

I mentally wave her off. "I'm not trying to be the bratty kid, Mom, you know that. Kaitlin has that role down pat. I want this over and done as much as you do."

In no time, Mom zigzags through the I-85 raceway, exiting swiftly downtown and turning onto Peachtree Street. This is really the first time I've been to the city. I'd love to have a chance to explore the Underground, go and visit Coca-Cola World, see the Carter presidential library and Martin Luther King Jr.'s grave, take in a Braves game, or even see my beloved Blackhawks play the Atlanta Thrashers (High-Stickin' Chickens, more like). Maybe Jason and I can visit the city together one weekend when I'm not ghost hunting. If I still get to ghost hunt.

We park in the office-complex garage and make our way into the building. It smells of antiseptic cleaner coupled with a Febreze-like odor. It's times like these that I wish I didn't have that clairsentient ability where I'm able to pick up spirits through my sensitivity to smells. Not that there are any spirits here. Are there? No, it's a pretty recently built building and it's not like it's a hospital, where people die and stuff.

I need to get a grip on my thoughts. Especially since some quack is about to start dissecting them.

"Sarah and Kendall Moorehead to see Dr. Kindberg," Mom says to the receptionist. "We have an appointment."

The nurse checks us in and tells us to wait. Great. Mom drives like a bat out of hell to get here, and they make us wait. Whatever.

My BlackBerry sings that I've received a text message, so I pull it out of the case.

>Patience 4 the patient.

Huh? Who's this from? There's no number to text back.

Mom tsk-tsks me. "Do you have to do that now?"

Another beep.

>I'm here if u need me. E

How did you do that, Emily?

Just then, the door to the inner sanctum opens and an older man steps out. He's wearing a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and no tie. He's sporting a crewcut, like he's just finished a tour in the Middle East with the Eighty-second Airborne. His khakis don't look institutional or anything, so maybe this guy doesn't have a stick up his ass after all. "Mrs. Moorehead? Kendall? Why don't y'all come on in?"

I follow behind Mom into the nondescript medical office. Plants in one corner, a large brown suede chair in the other. The standard couch is against the back wall, facing an outstanding view of the Georgia Dome.

"I'm Dr. Ken Kindberg. Nice to meet both of you."

Mom shakes his hand and introduces me.

"Hi there," I say politely.

He spreads his arms wide in welcome. "Have a seat anywhere you like and let's get to know one another."

"I presume the couch is for me?" I try not to be snarky. This dude's just doing his job.

"Is that where you want to sit, Kendall?"

Oh dear God. And we're off. Honestly, I've watched enough TV medical dramas to know when a psychiatrist is psyching you out. I want to be true to my word to my parents, but do I have to put up with him trying to get all, well, psychological on my ass?

Calm down, Kendall ...

Knowing that Emily's with me, I breathe a little more easily. Instead of taking the couch, I plop into the gigamonic suede chair.

Dr. Kindberg grabs a legal pad and a pen from his desk and scoots his chair around. That leaves Mom sitting on the couch, which is ironic, considering how she might need some counseling when it's proven that I'm not sick or faking.

After the beginning mindless shitchat about moving from Chicago, how I like Radisson, if I'm making friends and stuff, Dr. Kindberg clicks the end of his pen and laser-beams his eyes at me. "So, Kendall, your mother tells me that you've been experiencing restless sleep, headaches, and tingling sensations in your extremities."

"Yes, sir, I—"

Mom sits forward. "You know, Dr. Kindberg, I'm a nurse and I've been doing a lot of research on Kendall's symptoms. The insomnia could certainly be a reaction to the move and being in a different time zone. However, the headaches are so severe and are causing these"—she slices her eyes over to me and lowers her voice—"visions that she claims to have."

"I don't claim anything, Mom. I have them." God, I sound like Kaitlin. I have to remain calm and not act like a baby.

She's got your best interests at heart, Emily pleads.

"I'm concerned that Kendall may be in the beginning stages of dementia or, heaven forbid, schizophrenia," Mom diagnoses.

Dr. Kindberg is making notes. "Do you have a history of either of those diseases in your family?"

"No, but—" Mom stops and glances out the window for a moment. "Neither my husband nor I have family members who have suffered from either."

"Kendall, I'm going to ask you some very personal questions and I need you to answer honestly," Dr. K. says.

"Sure." I mean, why not? I'm an honest person.

"Are you taking any medications?"

"Besides popping a Claritin every now and then because of the pollen?"

"No, dear," Mom says. "He means prescription medications."

I shrug. "You know I don't."

"Yes, but maybe you've gotten something from someone at school," she says in a voice that I can't believe is coming from my mother.

"Are you kidding me? I'm not some OxyContin addict, nor am I buying Ritalin off kids at school!" What is this garbage?

"Kendall! I'm exploring all avenues here."

"You know me better than that, Mom. Honestly!"

Dr. K. stands. "Mrs. Moorehead, perhaps it would be best if Kendall and I meet alone to go over these questions."

"I have a right to know what my child is doing."

"I'm not doing anything, Mom. Please believe me." We're not going to get anywhere with her running this meeting instead of the psychiatrist. "Let me just talk to him."

Mom picks up her purse and reluctantly heads toward the door. "I still think I need to be here with you."

"Don't worry," the doctor says. "After Kendall and I talk, I'm going to have her take some tests that can be used to determine if she's truly having psychic encounters."

"I don't know—"

"I'll be fine, Mom. There's a Starbucks in the lobby. Why don't you go give them all of your money on that Dolce Cinnamon thingy you like so much?" I flash a confident smile toward her so she won't see how scared shitless I really am. I want her to sit and hold my hand and merely listen and not think the worst of me. But I've got to do this on my own. I've got to prove that what I'm going through isn't psychotic, a sickness, or anything evil.

When the door closes, Dr. K. retakes his seat. "Okay then..."

"Okay," I echo. I fidget with the fringe on the edge of a throw pillow. I should stop before he starts taking notes on my squirming.

"So, do you deal with kids like me a lot?"

He peers over at me. "Psychic kids?"

"Yeah"

"Sure. That's why you're here. I have a lot of clients who are going through the same sense of awareness that you're possibly having. We just need to answer more questions and do some tests and rule out everything medically possible so I can set your parents' minds at ease."

I cross my Timberlanded foot over my knee. "Fire away with the questions."

Over the next fifteen minutes, Dr. K. asks me about everything: my drug usage (if any), if I smoke, if I drink, if I'm I sexually active (Jason and I just started dating!), if I take birth control, if I sniff glue (WTF?), about my menstrual cycle (I could not be more embarrassed), if I've ever been abused, if I force myself to throw up (I'm not Courtney, thank you), if I've ever been pregnant or had an abortion (see aforementioned no-sex answer), you name it. By the time he's done, I feel completely violated and mortified. Maybe Mom should have stayed in the room.

He clicks his pen again. A nervous habit, or just thinking? "Very well, Kendall. Thanks for your honesty. Please understand, all of that is merely standard, and I mean no disrespect with any of it."

"It's cool, Doc."

"Like I said, Kendall, I deal with a lot of kids who are experiencing what they believe to be paranormal activity or connections with spirits that have passed. Often, children have overactive imaginations or are trying to get attention from their parents or it's related to stress caused by some change in their lives. Didn't you just recently leave all of your friends and classmates behind in Chicago to move to"—he thumbs through my file—"ah yes, Radisson. Lovely little town."

I hold my hand up. "Dr. K., I understand what you're doing. I really do. Yes, it sucked royally having to leave Chicago to move out to East Bumblebutt, USA—"

He interrupts me with a sincere chortle. "That's a good one. I'll have to remember that."

"But seriously, with this awakening, I haven't had time to miss home or cause mischief. I just want to fit in the best I can. You know, being normal, or as close to normal as I can."

"What do you consider normal, Kendall?"

I quirk my mouth. "Umm ... not talking to the ghost in my house or seeing deceased Civil War soldiers all over town. Not hearing the thoughts of others or knowing how people died." I stop for a minute. "Though maybe this is normal for me now. My friend Loreen Woods tells me that I've probably had this gift my whole life and am only now experiencing it full-blown."

"Loreen Woods?"

"Yeah, she's sort of my mentor," I say. "She's helping me develop my abilities."

"How do your parents feel about that?"

I roll my eyes. "How do you think? Mom's like really religious and is having a hard time with the fact that I'm practicing divination in my room. She's marked passages in the Bible with Post-it notes on how divination is wrong. She ratted me out to my Episcopal priest, but fortunately he's open-minded and has experience with gifted people and tells me it's God's plan for me."

"I see," Dr. K. says. "Well, one step at a time, Kendall."

Now I bite my lip. "What do you have in store for me?" Visions of extra-long needles sucking fluids out of me while I'm strapped down to a gurney in a straitjacket cross my mind. This is definitely my imagination in overdrive.

Dr. Kindberg stands and opens a door to an adjoining room. Ahhh, the torture chamber. Or maybe not. "First off, I have several tests I'd like to do with you. Nothing intrusive. Some mind exercises to see how good you really are. I like to test for precognition and extrasensory perception. It's a good way to gauge if a patient is faking for the sake of attention, has a severe medical problem, or really does possess the skills you think you do."

I don't think I possess psychic abilities; I know I do. And I also know something else that Ken Kindberg, MD, PhD, doesn't know. I have Emily with me. My ace in the hole.

"Let the games begin," I say with a smile.





"Okay, Kendall. I want you to breathe, relax, and concentrate." Dr. Kindberg sits across the table from me and shuffles an ordinary-looking deck of cards.

"Watch out," I say with a grin. "I'm killer at blackjack."

He laughs and lays out five cards in front of me, face-up. "These are Zener cards. We use them in a guessing game to test if a patient might have extrasensory perception. They were invented by a well-known psychologist named Karl Zener. There are twenty-five cards, made up of these symbols."

I glance down at the cards laid out.



"These are the cards I want you to concentrate on," he informs me. "I'm going to shuffle more and then take a card out of the deck one at a time. You won't see the face, but I'll ask you to identify the symbol on the card. And we'll keep going through the deck until you've had enough or are tired."

Dr. K. reaches for a clipboard with some sort of score sheet on it. Geez, what if I can't do this and I fail? Then he'll think I'm a fraud and not really experiencing these conversations with spirits. As he turns over the first card and looks at it, my pulse accelerates. How will I know which symbol to pick? Will it be right? Wrong? Holy crap! This is worse than calculus!

"Relax, Kendall," he repeats. "Focus on the card. Trust your instincts."

I open my mouth to speak, but he stops me.

"There's no rush."

I close my eyes, picturing the rows of cards: circle, cross, square, star, squiggly thing.

"Squiggly thing," I say.

Not saying a word, Dr. K. makes a mark on his chart.

"Well?"

"I'll go over the results with you when we're done."

I slump a bit in the chair, wanting immediate gratification. Guess I'll just have to be patient. I try to relax and control my breathing so I can see the cards in my mind's eye. He picks up another one and holds it up, the design facing toward him. It's not like I can make anything out through the thickness of the card.

"Star."

Another card.

It's a square, Emily whispers to me.

Ugh! I wish she wouldn't tell me. "Square." What? She already told me.

"Circle," I say for the next one, after a few moments.

This one's a cross ...

Put off, I smack my hands on the table. "Would you stop?"

Dr. K. widens his eyes. "We just started."

"No, not you." I close my mouth before I say too much. "Sorry. Go ahead."

We go through the entire pack with me reporting each geometric shape. Over a hundred, at least. Emily gave me only a handful of the answers. Though doesn't that prove I talk to spirits, if one is helping me out?

Last card. I'm exhausted. It's like my mind's been on a treadmill or something. I don't think I have the strength to make another guess.

You're tired, Kendall. It's a circle ...

"Emily! I told you not to tell me!"

Dr. K. slowly looks up at me. "Who's Emily?"

I panic. "No one."

"Kendall, you have to trust me with the truth."

Tell him ...

I swallow hard. "Emily is the spirit who lives in my house and ... helps me out."

"I see," he says. "Is she helping you out now?"

I fold my hands together on top of the table, trying not to wring them together. "Yeah, I'm sorry. I only listened to a few of her answers. I really wanted to do this on my own."

He doesn't seem fazed by this at all. Then I remember he deals with kids like me all the time. I only hope I'm one of the ones he actually believes.

"How many answers did Emily assist with?"

"About a dozen," I say.

Swiftly moving his pen across the score sheet, Dr. Kindberg tallies up my results. "You're either very lucky or Emily was giving you the correct answers."

"Seriously?" Why do I feel like dancing? "So how'd I do?"

"Very impressive," he tells me. "You scored in the very high range, Kendall, showing significant psychic ability. Mind you, this is only one measure and we still have a lot of testing to do." He gathers up the cards, straightens them, and places them back into the cardboard container.

My intuition tells me that he sort of thinks I'm full of shit.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

He reaches up and scrubs his left hand through his crewcut. "I'm not here to judge, Kendall. I'm here to test and diagnose and talk and decide the best course of action for you."

Dude thinks I'm completely insane. Oh, right ... I have a spirit that talks to me in my head. Can't exactly prove that to anyone. It's not like any of these adults—except Loreen and maybe Father Massimo—would take me at my word.

We can convince him together, Emily suggests.

How?

I'm here to help you ...

"Let's go back into the office," he says, holding his arm out to escort me. "I'm very impressed with your perception, Kendall. But I'm still concerned that you're hearing voices and getting headaches and physical traumas." He sits at his desk; I sit in the chair.

"It's just Emily most of the time. Unless it's during a ghost investigation. Then I usually pick up the spirits in the area we're in. Sometimes we get EVPs—you know, electronic voice phenomena—that match what the spirits are saying to me."

"And the headaches?"

I shrug. "The headaches mostly warn me when something's up. Like when I first met Emily. Turns out she's been with me my whole life and I'm just now able to see her again. When I was little, my parents told me I shouldn't have an imaginary friend, and I believed them."

"She's not imaginary then?" he asks, taking more notes.

"No. She's very real."

He wants proof, Emily observes.

Then let's give it to him.

Emily appears near him, directly behind his chair. "Mention law school to him."

I clear my throat. "Umm, Emily says I should talk to you about law school?"

Dr. Kindberg's clearly taken aback. His mouth drops open. "What about law school?"

Smiling at me, Emily says, "He took the LSAT and applied to six law schools. However, he didn't accept any of the offers he got."

"Why didn't you take any of the acceptances you received?" I ask. "You had, like, five of them, didn't you?"

I love when an adult is speechless, especially a professional one like this who my parents are paying top dollar for. I continue to listen to what Emily is sharing with me. It's sort of a sad story about the young Ken Kindberg.

"Holy crap, Dr. Kindberg. Your mom got cancer and so you didn't go to law school? That's the saddest thing ever." I put my hand to my heart, feeling the skittering beat.

"How ... how do you know that?"

"I don't. But Emily does," I explain. "She says that you nursed your mom through her chemo and radiation treatments for a year before the cancer took her. She ... she ... oh my God. She went a bit crazy, didn't she? Poor woman. Almost like Alzheimer's. She was paranoid about everything and talking to herself. Oh, stop, Emily. I'm so sorry your mom died, Dr. Kindberg." The emotional tension in the room rises like a tsunami. It's like the walls are going to cave in and suffocate me from the sorrow and grief coming from him.

I can tell that the man is blown away. Shock is etched all over his face, although he remains calm. "Very impressive, Kendall. Very few people know of my mother's suffering."

"I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to—"

"No, no, nothing to apologize for. It was a difficult time for me, true; you obviously picked up on that. I've been torturing you a bit, so you felt you should do the same."

I jump to my feet. "God, no! I was just saying what Emily told me to say." I look past him to her. "Emily!"

"I wanted to show him that you're—that we're—for real."

"I needed to prove my abilities to you," I say softly.

He nods. "That you did." Dr. Kindberg stands and goes to the door. "Let's bring your mother back in here to discuss the next step, shall we?"

I stop him with my hand on his arm. This information I don't get from Emily; I sense it myself. "Your mother knows you went to medical school. And that you went into psychiatry to help people like her who couldn't help themselves." I choke back the tears gathering in my throat. "She's very proud of you."

Dr. Kindberg reaches over and rubs my hand. "Thank you for that, Kendall."

He turns and leaves to go get Mom.

Phew! I'm completely worn out.

"Well? How'd she do?" Mom asks, like I've just finished a midterm.

"Mrs. Moorehead, I'm quite impressed with what I've seen from your daughter. Based on our conversations, I believe she does possess some psychic abilities. However, I'd like to schedule a full physical and a review with a neurologist. And I think it would be best for her to have a CT scan to rule out any pressure on the brain."

"Of course, Doctor," Mom says.

Here I thought I'd just proven myself. Great.

Let the poking and prodding begin.