The Counseling (2 page)

"You have to text and e-mail and call and keep me posted on your retreat."

"Oh, you know I will," I say, rezipping my backpack so Sonoma the bear doesn't fall out going across the belt and through the scanner. "And you have to keep me posted on what's going on in Chicago."

Celia's dark eyes grow serious. "I'm going to find out all I can about Emily, K. I promise. My cousin Paul is still working on leads from the Wisconsin plate you had in your vision."

"Thanks, Cel." I swallow the sudden emotional lump in my throat as I think of my real mother, who died so young on a cold, rainy December night in Chicago. "I appreciate your diligence."

"You'd do the same for me if I were in your shoes," she says. Then she looks down at our feet. "Well ... your bare feet."

We laugh together and it feels really good. I'm blessed to have a neighbor and friend like Celia Nichols, a girl who welcomed me to Radisson with open arms and accepts me for who I've become. What that is, I'm still trying to find out. This retreat
has
to help.

"You're the best, Cel."

She nods. "Yep. I am."

We reassemble ourselves after our bags clear the belts and head down the escalator to the tram that will take us to our respective terminals. When we near Concourse B, I announce, "This is me."

Celia loops her long arm over my shoulder and squeezes. "You go get enlightened, Kendall, and I'll find out what I can about your family and piece together who the players are: John Thomas and Anna Wynn Faulkner, and whoever this Andy Caminiti was ... or is."

My chest aches at the names of my possible grandparents, who I saw in a vision, along with the Wisconsin license plate of Emily's destroyed car. And who is Andy Caminiti? The name I got in a vision. Did he die in the car crash with Emily? Is he alive? Is he my father? Does he know my father? Does he know
anything?

I sigh. So many questions. So few answers. But at least Celia's trying for me.

The tram stops and the electronic voice announces my terminal. With a final grip of hands, Celia and I separate, and I step off. The doors close between us and she waves at me, then continues on her way.

I follow the stream of passengers up the slow-moving escalator, all of them going to different destinations for various reasons. My psychic senses suddenly click in with awareness of the people around me. A near buzz of information encircles my head. The woman in red in front of me is going to a Mary Kay conference in Buffalo. The fat businessman in the custom-made suit is flying to see his mistress at the airport Holiday Inn in Louisville—classssssssssy; not, especially since I know he's got a wife and three daughters at home. The older couple behind me is going to the funeral of a friend in Dallas who died after a failed triple bypass. So much sadness, remorse, guilt, and anxiety. Emotions fly around, as thick in here as the airplanes are outside.

And then there's me. The psychic girl who's gained and lost so much and needs direction in her life. The one who is off to California where she hopes to find ... meaning for her psychic abilities and how she can move forward from a freaky near-death experience.

Okay ... so it's not a funeral or an affair, but it's emotional enough for me.

I take a deep breath as I step off the escalator and turn right in search of my gate and the plane that will wing me to the Left Coast in search of answers. I need to tamp down the angst and be open-minded about what lies ahead for me. Particularly, about meeting other people who are like me.
Kids
who are like me. And experienced adults who want to help, teach, and counsel. Enlightened guides who want to lead me in the direction I'm meant to go in. Whatever that is.

In six hours, when flight number 1518 touches down, I'll find out.

F
OLLOWING THE REQUISITE SAFETY REVIEW,
the takeoff, a can of Mr. and Mrs. T's bloody mary mix (sans alcohol, thankyouverymuch), and some mini pretzels, I adjust in seat 11A and try to center my thoughts, to focus on my breathing and not ... dwell on anything. Fortunately, seats 11B and 11C are empty, so once I make a quick run to the potty chamber—after the captain extinguishes the seat-belt sign—I'm going to stretch out and zzz my way into Cali.

When I get back from the bathroom, though, a man who wasn't there before is sitting in the aisle seat of my row. Maybe he moved after takeoff for more legroom or what have you.

"Sorry, sir, may I get back in?"

He doesn't look at me, just stares ahead blankly. He's dressed in nicely pressed khakis and a blue and white thin-striped button-down, like he's going to a trade show or it's business-casual Friday for him. Where was he sitting before? I wonder.

The flight attendant stops in front of me. "You may want to take your seat. The captain says we're going to have some choppy air up ahead."

"Sure thing," I say, not wanting to go against her authority. "Just waiting for him to let me pass into the row."

The woman looks at the adjoining seats and then back at me. "You're waiting for who?"

I glance at him.

I glance at her.

It all clicks.

My ears ring and my heart rate picks up.
Not so soon...

My psychic headache begins to tick away at my right temple and I realize that the dressed-for-work man in 11C is ... not a ticketed passenger. At least, not on this flight.

He's a ghost.

With that, the man twists his head up and winks at me.

Sigh.
Here I go again...

I shake my head at the flight attendant. "Sorry, I'll take my seat."

She smiles warmly, but I can read her thoughts, and she thinks I'm a silly teenager. I wish it were merely that. Right now, there's a spirit who's in need of my attention whether I want to give it to him or not. These damn ghosts will follow me anywhere, won't they?

Taking a bold step, I walk straight through the man in 11C like he's a wispy cloud and sit down. "Hey," I say softly without peeking over at him.

"This flight is taking forever," he says to me. "Do you know what time we're going to land?"

"Where are you going?" I ask.

He glances at his watch. "I've got to get to the West Coast office. A new server's going in and they're expecting me."

I breathe in, picking up his energies, which are crackling around me like fireflies on a July night. Information is tossed at me like beanbags, and I mentally try to catch all I can and sort it out as the headache pings away above my right eye. This guy works in tech support for a company with bicoastal offices. He's from ... Lawrenceville, Georgia. Other images flash before me. "Is your name ... Richard?" I ask, because I see the image of President Nixon in my head for some reason. Don't ask me to explain how my psychic images work. They just do.

"Richard Newman. I go by Richie," the man says.

"Kendall," I say in a whisper even though we could carry on this conversation without words. "Nice to meet you." When he extends his hand, I politely lift mine, although there's no physical contact between us. I watch as his fingers blend into mine, disappearing into my skin with his attempt to grip and shake. This doesn't seem to faze him.

"Do you know what happened to you?" I press.

"What do you mean?"

I scrunch up my face. "Like, why you're here?"

He stares at me blankly, unknowingly. Possibly perplexed.

His dark hair is short and spiked and his face shows his confusion over the situation. "I left early for the airport and caught my flight to Oakland. I don't understand why we're not there yet. The captain hasn't said anything about a delay and I can't get any of the flight attendants to answer my call button. I'm going to get my ass chewed if I don't get to the office."

Poor guy doesn't even know he's passed.

Concentrating on the spirit next to me, I continue to breathe in deeply and open myself up to the energies all around. I reach my hand over to where he's sitting and I fan my fingers about to connect with him the best I can. Now, without speaking, our minds bond and he shows me his last day.

Richie took MARTA from his house in Lawrenceville to the Atlanta airport a week ago and hopped this exact plane to take him to Oakland, California. Following drink service and a perusal of a story about the High-Stickin' Chickens' (my name for the Atlanta Thrashers hockey team) victory over my Chicago Blackhawks (damnit!), Richie got up to go to the restroom and suddenly felt an intense pain. I feel it now myself, searing across my middle.

"Your stomach hurt, didn't it?"

"Yeah, how did you know?" he asks with surprise in his eyes.

"I just do. It's sort of ... my thing."

"It was an awful cramp," he says. "I'm fine now, but it hurt like hell for a while. I thought it was just my thirty-five-year-old body reacting to the weekend's softball game. Man, we got our asses kicked."

I laugh softly. "What happened in the game?"

Richie shares the memory with me. "I was on first and Arredondo was at bat. Hit the hell out of it to clean the bases. I rounded third and felt the ball coming back in, so I kicked in the afterburners and slid. Got a raspberry on my thigh to end all bruises. And I remember feeling like I tore a muscle in my stomach or something. Dude tagged me out, so I was more pissed off about that."

I inhale deeply and stretch my hands out again, trying to connect with this spirit as much as I can. In my mind's eye, I see nothing but blood. Seeping. Slowly. Internal damage unknown to the man himself. Slumping in my seat, I ponder how to approach this, especially since he doesn't realize he's passed.

But Richie turns to me. "It was more, though, wasn't it?"

I smile feebly at him, but it becomes a frown because I can see ever so clearly what happened. This is what being a psychic/empath is all about. I want to cry at being the one who has to tell this guy that he's, like, dead. All part of the burden of my so-called gift.

"Richie," I say out loud. "I have something to tell you." Then I reach my hand across the empty seat between us, as if that's going to add any comfort. "You tore your abdominal muscle and it went unattended. You were slowly bleeding to death and didn't even know it until you collapsed. Right here on this very plane. Another passenger knew CPR and tried to revive you as the pilot made an emergency landing in Dallas."

I watch a crawling acceptance come across Richie's tan face. "Man, that sucks."

"Yeah, it does."

Richie stares ahead at the seat in front of him, his jaw slack in disbelief. It's best that I leave him alone until he wants to talk further. He needs time for this to soak in. About fifteen minutes later for me—perhaps a lifetime or a nanosecond for him—Richie turns. "I can't be dead," he says. "I just got paid. I've got a mortgage, and I'm getting married in a few months."

He puts his head in his hands and runs his fingers through his short-cropped hair. A young woman with a bright smile comes into my vision. Her high ponytail swings left and right as she laughs at something Richie said to her. Her name is Lindsey. The sparkle on her left hand tells me that she's the one he intended to marry. Tears well up behind my eyes as I think of his fiancée moving on without him. Now I need to help him move on.

Sitting back, he lets out a frustrated sigh. "I remember now. All of it. I knew I was dying. I didn't make it to the hospital, did I?"

I bite down on my bottom lip and try to tune in to the residual energy left here on this aircraft. "I believe the man who helped you revived you enough to get you off the plane and to the hospital. But you never woke up there."

"Damn. That totally sucks."

Acceptance seems to wash over him like a gentle breeze.

"You know you can't, like, stay on this plane forever, right?"

Richie slowly nods his head and then sits up.

"Have you seen the light, Richie?"

He nods again. "It's been around for a while. I just didn't know what it was."

"Do you see it now? Where is it?"

Richie points forward. "Up there. How do I, umm, you know, go to it?"

"You just do," I tell him. "Focus on it and let it absorb you."

"Just like that?"

I smile weakly. "Just like that."

"What about my girl?" he asks. "She has to know how much I loved her. How much I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. Have babies. Get a dog and a cat. All the stuff you're supposed to do. I've also got her wedding gift stashed in the attic of the house. It's a black pearl necklace I got off eBay from the family of a World War Two veteran who picked it up in Japan in the 1940s. Lindsey loves pearls, and these are the most gorgeous ones ever."

My heart almost stops for a moment over the love I sense from Richie for his fiancée. "Wow. That's an amazing gift that doesn't need to be lost." I gulp the emotional knob in my throat. I don't want to ask this question, but it's what I have to do. What I've done so many times. "Is there anything I can do?"

He looks around and lets out a long sigh. "Can you tell her about the necklace?"

"I-I-I guess I can." What? Walk up to her house, knock on the door, and relate this tête-à-tête to her?

"Yeah, exactly," he says with a smile, obviously hearing my thoughts. "And tell her something else for me, would you?"

Reluctantly, I nab my small notebook from my purse and make a few notes of what Richie wants me to tell Lindsey. I write down her address in Lawrenceville and her work information and all of the love-inspired things Richie tells me. He stops talking and relays the special message of ultimate love for his fiancée. Hot tears jet from my eyes as my heart throbs for Richie and Lindsey's loss. I write down his exact words, wondering how in the world I can convey them to the grieving woman with the same emotional impact as Richie.

"You'll make sure you get all of this to her?" he implores.

"I will," I say out loud, not knowing how or when I'll make it to her house or if this poor mourning woman will slam the door in my face and tell me to get lost. I wipe the tears from my eyes, hoping my makeup isn't streaked and running down my cheeks. "I'll do my best."