The Discovery (2 page)

I too stand. "I just want you to listen. I've psychically seen your brother and Emily in the burning car wreck that took their lives seventeen years ago. I believe that Andy died that night, and had it not been for the paramedics that got Emily out of the car and to the hospital—where my mom was an emergency-room nurse—I would have died too."

I give her a moment as I watch her eyes grow wide.

My pulse trills under my skin. "I'm psychic, and my visions have brought me to you. I've seen your name and I've been led here to find my family."

The woman isn't having any of this. It's at this moment that I wish I'd opted for the speech-communication class this semester so I'd know exactly what to say and how to show the proper body language to calm her unease. This is certainly not the most fluid exchange I've ever had.

The once friendly and welcoming hazel eyes turn blazingly hella-bad on me. "Do you know how many psychics have walked through my door telling me they know where my brother is or what happened to him?"

"No, I just—"

"Dozens! Literally dozens of them! They've told me everything from Andy's being a victim of a serial killer to his joining the merchant marines and sailing off to Asia to his being involved in the slave trade. I've had psychics tell me his soul was in my dog, represented in my artwork, and, best of all, living in an old bottle of sand that I have in my house that he and I collected together in Myrtle Beach when we were eleven. Do you know how many of these psychics' stories I've hung my hat on, only to be vastly disappointed in the end when I still have no clue where he is or what happened to him?"

She stops her tirade to drink in air, and I take the opportunity to try to bring calm, if that's even possible. "Yes, ma'am. I totally understand. I've struggled with this whole psychic awakening like you wouldn't believe. But I've been right about so many things. And my visions brought me to the fact that Emily Jane Faulkner
was
my birth mother. She
did
date your brother in college, didn't she?"

"That's none of your business," Andi snaps. I've hit a nerve.

"It is, though," I say, nearly begging. "I'm trying to find out
who
I am. You are a missing piece of the puzzle."

"That's not my problem, young lady."

Mom tries to intervene. "Andi, if you'd just—"

She spins on her high heels. "Just what? Have hope? Mrs. Moorehead, I've spent the last seventeen years trying to come to terms with my brother's disappearance. My twin brother. The person I shared a womb with. The person who was the only sibling I had. The person who was my best friend. I've been down this road before." Andi's eyes connect with mine again and then shift back to Mom. "This is an original act, I'll admit. Pimping your daughter out as a psychic so I'll react differently. That's r ich."

I flatten my lips. "It's not an act, Andi."

"Who are you to suddenly come out of the woodwork?" Andi asks. The curls of black in her aura strengthen. "What do you want? A piece of the family fortune? You think that coming in here and saying you're my missing, perhaps dead, brother's long-lost child will entitle you to some sort of inheritance?"

What?
"Umm ...
no
. What money? Who cares about money? I just want to know who I am. Anything that might explain why I'm psychic and where I came from."

Mom steps between Andi and me. "We apologize, Ms. Caminiti, for any hurt or confusion we've caused. You have to understand that I'll do anything for my daughter. Believe me, I doubted her abilities as well, but she's the real deal."

Andi crosses her slim arms over her middle. "That's what they all say. I'd be much obliged if you two would just leave now. I'll forget this discussion ever took place."

Now tears do threaten, stinging at the back of my eyes. I
know
I'm connected to this woman. It's so clear; it's like gazing in a mirror and seeing my face looking back at me. "I
don't
want you to forget this visit happened. I want you to remember. I want you to think about any details of your brother's life. I want you to think of me."

She hangs her head and her silky black hair surrounds her face. A soft, emotionally choked voice says, "Please show yourself out. I have work to do."

I stretch my fingers to reach out to Andi, stopping only inches away from her. Flashed pictures dance through my head of Andi and me laughing together in the future, hugging even. We
are
meant to be in each other's lives.

My hand drops to my side and I muster up the courage to say one last thing. "I'm willing to submit to DNA testing to see if we're related. Anything to know who I am and where I came from. No strings attached."

The words hang in the air like drying laundry.

She scoffs and then extends her hand to indicate the spiral staircase. Mom tugs on mine and we descend to the main level. Surprisingly enough, Andi follows; the clicking of her heels taps out her judgment.

I stop and turn. "Please?"

Our similar hazel eyes lock and I sense a light of hope in the irises. It's brief, but it's there. So I reach into my purse and pull out the index card I'd filled out earlier, in the rental car. The one with my name, address, cell phone number, e-mail addy, Mom's cell, and the landline at our house in Radisson. I give the neatly written information to Andi Caminiti and take her hand in mine. Her warmth spreads to me, and I feel that there's a chance.

"Can we just try?"

I
N
R
ADISSON, IT'S TIME TO GET BACK
into the groove of my life—whatever that may be now—and not think about the encounter with Andi Caminiti or if I'll ever hear from her again.

The ball is in her court at this point, so I just need to focus on my friends, family, Patrick, and school. Bleck ... and I really have to hunker down in history class. Mr. Rorek isn't concerned about what's happening in my present. He wants me only to focus on the past and write a paper that will impress him.

Monday at lunch, I sit with Celia, Becca, and Shelby-Nichole, and we talk about our ghost hunting. Since the departure of Taylor Tillson to Alaska—with He Who Shall Not Be Mentioned, aka Jason "Won't Message or E-mail Me" Tillson—Shelby-Nichole has taken over as resident photographer for our group. It's great to have her with us, but I'll admit that her photography isn't as keen as Taylor's. That girl has a psychic eye for capturing the most amazing pictures.

This is good.

I need this.

Back to life. Back to reality.

Back to ghost hunting. I want to use the skills that I developed at the retreat in California to really help with cases and do more to help families who have experienced not only paranormal activity but also possibly fear and loss. Like what I'm trying to do with Andi Caminiti. No, no, no ... I won't think about her right now. Or my potential father. I'll listen to Celia as she reviews possible cases for us.

"Oh, you'll love this one. We've gotten an e-mail from this guy in Savannah who insists that he has a 'haunted sandwich' in his house," she reports with a straight face. Nothing rattles Celia Nichols. Doesn't miss a beat on the weird, outrageous, and wicked bizarre.

"Get out of town," Becca says with a laugh.

"A haunted sandwich?" I ask. "Is that even possible?"

Celia flips through her ghost-huntress notepad. "One James Pendergrass reports that he made a ham sandwich for his son, Jeffrey, age seven, two weeks ago, and before his son could eat it, a Civil War soldier came up out of the floor in his kitchen and went into the sandwich. Mr. Pendergrass claims that this turned the sandwich into a ghost and it's now haunting him."

Becca twists her black-dyed hair around her index finger. "What's this guy been smoking and why ain't he sharing?" she says, tongue-in-cheek.

I hold up my hand to stop everyone. "May I suggest we move on to a more sane case?" I just can't deal with someone
that
wack right now.

Celia moves to the next note. "Okay, there's a huge historical display that's going to be at the Radisson fairgrounds this weekend, focusing on the town's haunted past. It's this exhibit of objects from an old house in town that no one goes into. Imagine getting your hands on some of those historical items. I was thinking we could go together and maybe try our hand at getting some EVPs from the old relics?"

"I'm cool with that," Becca says. "I have a new recorder I want to test out."

"And, Kendall," Celia says, "you can try your hand at psychometry."

"What's that?" Shelby-Nichole asks.

Before I can answer, Celia speaks up. "Psychometry is the ability to draw out information about people, events, health, career, whatever is associated with an object, just by touching it or being near it."

"That's pretty cool," Shelby-Nichole says. She turns to me. "And you can do that?"

I nod. "What kind of items are in the display?"

"Pots, pans, clothing from the Civil War," Celia notes. "Some musket balls, clapboard and such from houses, pictures, tintypes, and, oh ... then there's Xander the Doll, who I've been dying to see. They don't let him out much."

"Xander the what?" Becca asks with a brow raised.

Celia almost pants with excitement. "Xander the Doll is like from the late eighteen hundreds and has all sorts of curses and stories attached to him. When he was still owned by the Farnsworth family the neighbors always cliamed he was responsible for weird shit that happened. Like lamps breaking, slats falling out of beds, that kind of thing. Worse stuff too, like sickness and bad injuries. Back then people said it was Xander that wreaked all the havoc."

"A doll?" Becca asks flatly. "Yeah, right. I've heard some stories, Nichols, but that one takes the cake."

Shaking her short black bob, Celia presses her lips together. "It's Radisson history. I remember hearing about it when I was a little kid."

"Where's the doll been?" I ask.

Celia shrugs and continues. "I haven't heard anything about Xander the Doll in forever. So it's going to be amazing to see him in the historical collection." She turns to me. "You're totally going to connect with him."

"Works for me." I can kill two birds with one stone: work on my psychometry skills and research Radisson's history to help me out with my Civil War paper. After all, it's not going to write itself.

The bell rings for fifth period so we gather up our lunch trays and clear out.

I wave to my
chicas
and then rush to my locker to grab my history book.

As I'm clicking the lock back in place, a text comes in.

>Trig class boring. Thinking of u.
>Just finished lunch. Thinking of u 2.
>c u Friday afternoon.
>Long wait. 2 long.
>Ditto that.
>Skype after school?
>Of course. Enjoy history.
>TTYL!

Awww ... Patrick's so awesome. Imagine that—a boyfriend who actually texts! Oh, did I go there?Yep. I did. Sorry, but I'm still a little bitter over how Jason Tillson and I were like all in love and stuff and then he just—
poof
—disappeared from my life like he was never there. Yeah, yeah, he had to move to his dad's in Alaska, but the last I checked, they did have cell phones and e-mail and Internet connections there. Haven't heard diddly-squat from him since we said goodbye in his driveway.

But Patrick...

Happy sigh.

He came along at just the right time and to just the right place. For both of us, actually.

Well, we thought we were going to have to do the long-distance-relationship thing, but the hand of fate stepped in and the air force transferred his father to the Atlanta area. Now, Patrick and his dad live in this nice house in Duluth, Georgia, which is only a forty-five-minute drive from Radisson.

He
calls me all the time.
He
texts me all the time. My Facebook profile is a picture of the two of us all smashy-faced together; he stretched out his arm and took the picture with his cell phone. Not that I'm worrying about it or anything, but I can't help wondering if Jason's checked out my page all the way up there in Alaska. I mean, everyone comments on how perfect Patrick and I are together. And I have to agree. Patrick and I mesh so much better than Jason and I did. Not that I didn't like being with Jason. It's just that Patrick and I share this psychic connection. He's not too overprotective of me or cynical about my abilities. He gets why I have to use my skills, investigate, and try to help people. Patrick appreciates what it's like to see, hear, and feel things that you can't explain. He understands the voices and visions in my head because he has them himself. We sometimes share them, in fact.

Now I dreamily float down the hallway toward the door that reads Mr. Scotty Rorek, my history teacher. I take my seat in the third row, plant my elbows on top of the desk, and rest my chin in my hands. Closing my eyes, I conjure up Patrick's handsome face, drawing it in my mind from memory. That firm jaw. Those chocolate brown eyes. The handful of gray hair at his temples. And the tat on his arm that is just like the one I have. Little bugger still stings like crazy and it's a task hiding it from my mom. She will go totally ballistic when she sees it, if she ever does.

Mr. Rorek walks in and sets his gigamonic coffee mug on the podium. "Turn to chapter twelve and let's talk about the Battle of Gettysburg, a pivotal moment in the War Between the States that some say..."

I tune Mr. Rorek out a bit as I think about Patrick and getting to know him better. Jason and I rushed things so much in our relationship. Patrick and I don't feel like we're on some sort of deadline. With Jason, I was the new girl in town with this strange ability and we were thrown together. That whole opposites-attracting thing. It was like wham, bam, it's over, ma'am. Just when I fell hard for Jason, everything blew up in our faces. And my heart truly broke when we said goodbye. I didn't have to be psychic to know that a long-distance Georgia-to-Alaska relationship wasn't going to work. I just never imagined it would be a cold-turkey thing.

Even though Patrick lives in another town, we've got it all worked out to hang as often as possible. We Skype for hours at a time—even helping each other with our respective homework—and he plans on coming to Radisson every weekend to hang out, ghost hunt with the girls and me. And, of course, some quality one-on-one time. Father Mass has an extra bedroom at the rectory, so Patrick has a home away from home. I do believe I'm settling into this psychic existence, my abilities, and all the new people in my life.