Chapter Fifteen

HOLD THE FREAKIN' PHONE!

Are you kidding me?

I'm... adopted?

Trembling knees refuse to hold up even my ethereal body, and I collapse to the floor in a heap. WTF? My life so far has been one big farce. Lies. Lies on top of lies. A charade. A sham, travesty, mockery—and an absolutely ridonkulous situation.

The rest of my parents' conversation with Dr. Murphy is lost in my tumbled thoughts. My eyes dart between Mom and Dad. Between David and Sarah Moorehead. Who are these people? Where did they get me from? Did I come from the stork? Or from an underprivileged orphanage? Was I a prom baby no one wanted? Was I rescued from a dumpster or dropped off at a baby Safe Haven?

If I had a pulse, I'm sure it would be racing wildly. If I had a heart, I'm sure it would be breaking in half. Let's see the doctors try and mend that.

Everything I've known for seventeen years no longer exists.

I remember back to one of the first times I hung out with Loreen. She hugged me and had some sort of vision that I had lost my mother like she had. Well, damn it all if she wasn't right. Sarah Moorehead, the woman who taught me to tie my shoes and make cookies. The lady who punished me when I was bad and brought me Tylenol for Children when I was sick. The person who took me to my first dance recital and sat in the front row cheering even though I made an ass of myself as one of the mice in The Nutcracker. That woman is not my mother. Loreen once told me that my mother died in childbirth. And it's true.

I sit alone in the cold ICU room with my unconscious body. A frame that's bruised and battered and bleeding internally. One in need of further blood transfusions that the people who have clothed, fed, educated, and housed me my whole life can't give me.

Then I realize I'm not alone.

Emily is here.

She wears a hospital gown, not unlike the one my earthly body is wearing. Mine is covered in mauve and teal flowers. Hers is light blue.

There's something different about her this time. She doesn't seem so much like a ghost right now; rather, she looks like a real person. I lift my chin in her direction and link eyes with her. Soft hazel eyes, much like my own. Her hair cascades over her shoulders in loose waves. Sort of like mine—on a good hair day. Emily stretches her hand out toward me and brushes her fingers against my cheek. Her touch is warm and gentle. Warm? How can a ghost be warm?

"Oh, Kendall," she says, her voice not inside my head this time. Her words are clear and distinct, as real as she is right now.

"Emily." I'm barely able to get the word out for fear of acknowledging the truth in my head. "How can I feel you?"

"Because we're on the same plane."

"But I'm not dead ... yet."

Her eyes widen. "It's not your time, Kendall. It's not."

"That's what Grandma Ethel said." At least she had been my grandma; I realize now it was in name only.

I want to cry. No tears form or drop, though. I stare at the woman before me and take in her appearance as I've never been able to do before. Ivory skin untouched by the sun. Delicate hands and small wrists. Eyes so kind and caring. Then again, she has been with me my whole life. All at once, it becomes crystal clear. The lullabies that were hummed to me as a baby. The protection and guidance I've gotten since my awakening. The warnings over visions, dreams, and interactions with spirits who have an ax to grind.

Emily and I just stare at each other.

There are no words exchanged between us.

Hell, I'm psychic, remember? I just ... know.

"You're my birth mother," I whisper.

She smiles at me and stretches out her arms.

For a moment, I'm at peace. Like when I was in the near-heavenly garden with Grandma Ethel and Smokey. For a second, there's finally an explanation for who I am and where I came from and why I have these abilities. They were inherited. From my family. A family I never knew because of a tragic accident.

Emily cradles me to her, her long-lost love pouring out to me in waves that need no thoughts or words combined with them. Her lips touch my forehead and she rocks me tenderly.

"Everything will be okay."

"But I have so many questions—"

"Shhhh ... not now. Another day."

"You promise we can talk? You'll quit playing games and tell me everything?"

Emily nods her head. "It's time for you to go back. You have unfinished business."

"But Em—"

She fades away. I hunch over in near exhaustion from the news and events. I'm so tired. I want to sleep. I want to go back to that meadow and play with Smokey. I want to talk to my mom ... and my ... mom. So many questions. Not enough answers. I'm dizzy. I'm nauseated. I feel like I've been beaten to within an inch of my life. I need blood. The doctor said so. None in their donor bank. I'm fading fast. No energy to stay in this form.

Rest first.

Tired.

Can't...

I trip over to where my body lies in the hospital bed. If I can reconnect even for a little bit, maybe I can make it back. For some ludicrous reason, like useless trivia one needs only to win a game of Jeopardy!, I remember another person who is O negative. All I have to do is get a message to them. They can save me.

Then I can save myself.

I'm not quite sure how cool it is to sneak into someone's room like this. Of course, I've been bothered plenty of times by spirits who talk to me throughout the night, keeping me awake with their problems to the point that I practically fall asleep in class. I have no idea of what day it is or what time it is. I just know that it's dark and late.

I can't really explain how I got into the house, but here I am. I don't need to walk up the stairs 'cause I've still got this whole floaty thing going on. At the top of the stairs, I head straight for the room that I've hung out in countless times.

Celia is sprawled out on her queen-size bed. Her black hair is a messy mop. Her tank top is bunched up around her waist, and she has one leg thrown over the covers. She's snoring like ... a man.

Not sure how I can wake her up. I can't touch her and I can't move items in her room to get her attention.

Out of the blue, I get the sense that I'm being watched. Not by Celia.

"Seamus!" I say.

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.