Whispering Hearts (6 page)

Garrett leaned forward, hands steepled between his knees as his long arms rested on his thighs.

“I know you wouldn't make this choice without a reason. A damn good reason. I would really like to know what that is.”

She wanted to tell him. It would explain everything. Why she was often distracted in public, why she wanted everyone to think she was a flake, why she carried those stupid spray bottles with her. Even the perfume bottle in her purse was just saltwater, for moments when she needed to disrupt a ghost without raising suspicions.

But more than anything, she wanted him to understand why she had turned him down every time he asked her out. Why she turned away every time he looked like he was about to kiss her.

Her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes again. She didn't let them fall.

“I am not your doctor,” he said. “I'm your friend. I've always been crystal clear about that. But even still, I'm legally and morally bound to make sure you are safe, that you are healing properly—that you aren't a danger to yourself or others.”

She nodded, sniffing as her nose started to run. “You need to protect yourself. I get that.”

“I don't give a damn about that. I care about you. I have to be sure you're getting the help you need.”

He let out another sigh, then leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes again. She hadn't noticed the deep circles underneath them or the layers of extra stubble on his jaw.

How much sleep had he managed in the last two months? Every time she'd woken up at the hospital, he had been at her bedside. And he always had news about Elsa and Dante, or Jazz. Rachel didn't know how he did it.

She leaned forward and grabbed the hand that was still resting on his knee. “You don't have to take care of us all. We're stronger than you think.”

He looked more than a little bewildered when he lowered his hand from his face. “We?”

“Elsa and Dante. Jazz and me.”

“You sure that's what you meant?”

“I don't understand.”

He stared at her for a few moments in silence, then said, “When you met with your psychiatrists, did anybody mention DID?”

“Of course not.” She laughed and shook her head. “The only acronym they threw around was PTSD.”

“Did they talk about schizophrenia?”

“I know what's real and what's not, Garrett. And I only have one personality. Why are you even asking me this?”

“Because I've been wondering about you for a long time. When we were working on my house, you were like a completely different person. A person I've caught glimpses of from time to time, but seems buried under this—”

“Ditzy socialite?”

He snorted again, and his lips quirked up in a tiny smile. “You said it. Not me.”

She let go of his hand as she debated how much to share with him. He couldn't truly understand her choices unless he knew what she was dealing with. But she couldn't bring herself to tell him. Not yet, anyway.

The only way to convince a skeptic was with proof. For that she needed a spirit who would talk to her and who knew things that would convince Garrett she was really speaking to a ghost.

As far as she could tell, he didn't have any spirits haunting him. And Rachel didn't have connections on the other side anymore. Not since she'd started to pretend her powers had vanished and that she was so hapless no spirit would turn to her for help. Not since she started hanging poppets in her windows and spraying everything with saltwater.

“The truth is I don't really know who I am.”

The words slipped out before she could think them through. But they were honest words—ones she had longed to share with someone. With him.

“My parents didn't shelter me. They
sculpted
me. To be the perfect daughter. The perfect accessory to my father's political career and my mother's social aspirations.”

She had never really let herself think about it before, let alone talk about it. Garrett didn't prompt her to go on, but let her take her time to formulate her thoughts.

“I tried to live up to what they wanted. Live down to it, really. My mother always told me not to sound too smart. She didn't want me offending people or scaring away suitors. ‘A proper lady is neither smart nor…'” Rachel stopped herself from finishing her mother's standard statement—
nor psychic.

Garrett took in a quick breath as if he was about to say something, but stopped, then let it out slowly. Rachel shook her head, laughing to try to cover her near mistake.

“Anyway, you know how boring those social events can be. I was always relieved when you were there. At least I would have someone to talk to without…pretending.”

“You never have to pretend with me,” he said.

If only…
She took a deep breath as she figured out the best way to share her thoughts without giving away too much.

“I've always been different. Strange, even. I have what I like to call idiosyncrasies. Hanging poppets in the windows and using my spray bottle everywhere to sort of mark my space… The behavior isn't a warning sign that I'm heading for a psychotic break because of what happened to me. It started way before
this
.”

She leaned back and straightened her arms a bit, which pulled her sleeves up far enough to reveal her scars. There were still pressure marks over the bands of pink and silver flesh from the stupid tennis outfit.

Garrett's gaze went to her wrists and seemed to get caught there. His jaws clenched, muscles standing out along his cheeks.

She pulled down her sleeves, breaking the spell her scars had cast over him. His gaze shifted back to hers.

Sitting next to him, staring intently at his face, it was impossible to ignore how beautiful he was, the warmth that spread through her body from his closeness, the way her heart seemed to become as infinite as the sky when he looked at her.

“Right now, I am okay,” she said. “Being here with you, I'm okay.”

His eyes glistened. The sight nearly broke her, but she forced herself to be strong.

They were together. They were safe.

In that moment, nothing else mattered.

Chapter Five

“How many more of these do you intend to make?”

Garrett mentally counted the windows in his house. “Ten more. That'll make an even sixteen. One for every window.”

They were sitting on barstools that lined the counter dividing his kitchen from his living room. Behind them, his couch, recliner, coffee table, and a big-screen TV filled the room. When he cooked for gatherings, his friends would hang out in the living room and they could all still talk. Well, if he ducked down lower than the cabinets that hung above the counter.

“You don't have to hang them in all the rooms. Mine would be enough.”

“They make you feel better. We're putting them up everywhere.”

He made another stitch in the tiny doll, pulling the thread tight, but not too tight. He tied it off, then started carefully turning the doll inside-out with the seams tucked away inside like she had taught him.

Rachel set to work cutting out more figures from some plain white cloth she'd brought along.

“Only in the windows,” she said.

Poppets.
He didn't know why the featureless things made her feel better. She called it an idiosyncrasy. He would call it a neurosis. There was more to it—he was sure. Until she was ready to tell him everything, he would play along.

Helping her make the dolls was an excuse to stay near her. He could observe her to make sure she wasn't having the relapse he feared. And he had to admit he just plain enjoyed being with her. She was tense, but he kept seeing glimmers of the way she had been when their relationship was just starting.

“Whatever you need.” He lifted his latest poppet and wiggled it like it was dancing. “These things are kind of cute.” Halfway between cute and creepy.

“Yours look better than mine ever did.”

He grinned and said, “Never thought I'd use my medical school training like this.”

She laughed—an honest-to-God laugh—and his stomach did a somersault.

“I'm sure the poppets are honored to have such a skilled physician working on them.”

He snorted as he added the finished doll to the pile, then picked up another set of cloth and started to sew. For a while, they worked in silence, settling into an easy companionship.

“Why did you quit, anyway?”

Her question came out of the blue, and he almost answered it honestly.

“Because I wanted more of this—more time with you—and working crazy hours at the ER wasn't going to get me there.”

Instead, he said, “Too stressful.”

“Sure.” She arched an eyebrow and cast him a wry grin. “It seems a waste to retire so early. Can't you start up a private practice or something?”

“I'd have to do another residency. I'm not up for that. Anyway, I keep myself busy.”

“
We
keep you busy.”

“I don't mind. It's nice having someone to take care of.”

She looked up at him, her face curiously unreadable. “Who takes care of you?”

“I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

“Size is not commensurate with competence. Look at Elsa. She's tiny, but when she's around, she's in charge of us all.”

“I can't argue with that.”

After a moment, he laughed and shook his head.

“What's so funny?”

“You. ‘Size is not commensurate…' Throwing around three-dollar words like that, you'll never get anyone to think you're a ditz again.”

She smiled and said, “I never felt like I had to be a ditz around you. Not when we were alone.”

“I noticed.” He set the latest finished doll on the stack, then started another. “Why is that?”

“Because when it was just you and me, I felt safe.”

The floor seemed to drop out from under him. He wished he was sitting on something more substantial than a barstool.

He made her feel safe. Warmth spread through his chest.

He wanted her to feel safe with him. He wanted her to always feel safe.

“I kept trying to get them to let me sign papers that would enable you to make medical decisions for me, but they said you couldn't because you had privileges at the hospital. How does that make any sense?”

He remembered her doctors asking him about it—and the nature of their relationship.

“Friends,” he'd kept saying. “We're just friends.”

But he still wouldn't consult on her case.

“It's a good rule. It protects everybody from doctors working cases…” He stopped himself from saying
they're too close to
. Instead he finished with, “…they shouldn't.”

She gave him a half-shrug, lifting one shoulder. It wasn't the flirty gesture he'd seen dozens of times before. More like she was tuning him out.

“It made sense to me. I mean, you're a doctor.”

The warm feeling in his chest chilled.

He shouldn't push it. He knew he shouldn't. But he was afraid she was reeling him in again. Telling him she felt safe with him, sharing that, then turning around and focusing on his medical knowledge…

It reminded him of when she had lived there before. One minute she'd say things that seemed to bare her soul, the next she'd laugh coquettishly and joke that she could never get involved with a doctor because it would make her mother too happy. She'd shut down or flit away.

The worst was when they'd be sharing a moment, and she'd abruptly start telling him about the type of woman he should find and settle down with. He already knew the exact woman he wanted to settle down with. He was looking at her.

“Is that it, then? It was just because of the credentials?”

“Of course not.”

She glanced up at him, but whatever she saw on his face must have been too much for her. She quickly turned back to her poppets, lips pressed tightly together.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—”

She cut him off. “No. You have every right to…feel that way. I get it. I'm flaky and confusing.” Almost under-her-breath she added, “Especially for you.”

She lifted one of the dolls and started to gently fill it with cotton balls she had found in his bathroom and fluffed up to act as stuffing.

“A lot of things are going to need to change,” she said. “I realize that now. I don't think I can play the ditz anymore. It's outlived its usefulness.”

“You ever going to tell me what the
use
was in the first place?”

She set down the doll and gave him a calm, level look. “I hope not.”

“Why?”

“For a start, you wouldn't believe me.” She picked up another poppet and stuffed it like the first.

Garrett smiled. He couldn't help it. He wouldn't believe her? That was rich. He shook his head and laughed.

“What?” she asked.

He tried to stop laughing. It was hard.

“I think I might surprise you there.” He grinned. For once it seemed that he had confused her. “I'm very open-minded about all sorts of stuff.”

“Really?” She arched an eyebrow. “How about Bigfoot?”

“Never met the fellow. Can't say one way or the other.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes, turning back to her work. “See? I knew you wouldn't believe me.”

“I didn't say I didn't believe. I just said I never met the guy. There could be a whole troop of Bigfoots running around in the Everglades for all I know.”

“Don't make fun of me.”

She glared at him for a moment, genuine hurt playing across her features.

Well, damn. She'd given him his first clue about what the hell was going on. And it was…Bigfoot?

“I'm not making fun,” he said. He was sure to keep his tone serious. “As soon as you're both up for it, we're having Elsa over. Once you've had a chance to catch up, you tell me what I won't believe.”

“Elsa? Come on. If there's one person in our group more grounded in reality than you, it's her.” Rachel kept filling the little dolls, stacking them up like cordwood.

“My definition of reality expanded a while back. I get that there are things going on that we don't understand yet. That science can't explain.”

“I'm not talking about things like the placebo effect.”

“Neither am I.”

Garrett's best friend had shifted his world view years ago. Finn's demonstration had knocked Garrett on his ass, as did the follow-up experiments Finn let Garrett run. It had taken a few weeks for the world to feel real again. Garrett was absolutely convinced that the world was full of mysteries well beyond what science could handle at the moment.

He was grateful Finn had shared his abilities with Garrett for many reasons, not the least of which being that Garrett hadn't flipped out when Elsa explained her own powers.

Time travel.

Once his mind wrapped around that whopper, everything else seemed tame in comparison.

Maybe Rachel had something going on too. Garrett couldn't guess what, except that it might deal with the voices she kept screaming about during her psychotic break—if that was actually what it was.

He looked at the poppets she had finished, a chill sweeping over his skin. They reminded him of bodies in the morgue. White sheets and…

Ghosts.

That was it. Had to be. He almost stabbed himself in the thumb as things started to fall into place.

Rachel had been fine in the ambulance, coherent and taking everything remarkably well. Once she was settled in her hospital room, she went out of her mind with fear.

She didn't mention what had happened to her, didn't ask about her friends. She just kept screaming about voices, covering her ears and thrashing her head. She begged Garrett to make the voices stop, to sedate her. Eventually, her doctors had to knock her out just to treat her injuries.

At the time, he'd thought the trauma of what happened to her had fractured her psyche. He'd never considered that the voices she was talking about were real.

Relief flooded through him, washing away the worry he'd been carrying since that night. Garrett didn't know how it worked, but he was sure he was right.

People died in hospitals every day. If spirits tended to linger, there had to be an abundance of them walking those halls. And if Rachel could hear them, that would have to be its own kind of hell.

He reached for her hand, brushing his thumb over the backs of her fingers. “You can tell me anything. You know that, don't you?”

“I know.” She smiled at him faintly, then pulled her hand away.

Maybe she wasn't ready to talk about it. He didn't want to push, so he went back to his little pile of poppets, taking the matter quite a bit more seriously.

When they were finished, she had a stack of sixteen little dolls with loops of thick white string attached to their heads for hanging them in the windows. They still had openings in their sides where Rachel had added the cotton stuffing.

“Is it time to close them up?”

Rachel shook her head and said, “They aren't ready yet.”

They looked exactly like the one that had been hanging in her bedroom window. Garrett set down his needle and thread.

“Okay. What's next?”

“Do you still do a lot of cooking?”

“Yeah.” He'd picked up the hobby after he retired, imagining family dinners and special gatherings with friends—like the dinner parties she had helped him host.

She let out a little breath and smiled. “Great.”

She slipped from her barstool and walked around the counter where they were working. She opened some cabinets and started pulling down spices.

“If you're hungry, I can make us something.”

“I want to get this done first.” She took out a bowl, then started sprinkling spices into it.

“Anything I can do to help?”

She paused, her gaze sliding to the nearly empty spray bottle she insisted on carrying around with her. He hadn't seen her use it since the car.

If she understood that he was open to helping her, she might decide to tell him about what she could do. And he wanted her to tell him. He didn't want to trick it out of her or confront her with it. He wanted her to want him to know—to trust him enough to share it with him.

Garrett slid from his stool and walked around the counter. He reached into the open spice cabinet and pulled out a big cylinder of iodized salt, then picked up the spray bottle.

“What's the ratio?”

She blinked a few times, like her brain was slipping gears trying to process his words. “What?”

“The ratio. Salt to water.” He held her gaze, noted how her lips thinned, her throat worked to swallow. He had her thinking, and that was perfect.

“About an inch of salt at the bottom, then fill it with cold water and shake it.”

“Anything else go into the mix?” He had never seen such intensity in her eyes.

She stared at him for a long time before saying, “No.”

“Should I dump it and rinse it first?”

“Yes, please.” She turned back to her concoction, getting out a fork and stirring everything together.

After he rinsed out the bottle and added salt and water, Garrett showed it to her before shaking it. If this thing was as important as she acted, he wanted to get it right.

“This good?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

He sealed it and shook it up, then walked back to his seat. He set the bottled saltwater on the counter within arm's reach.

Wasn't there some TV show where the people were always using salt against ghosts? But they used the actual crystals, not saltwater. There had to be some connection, though.

When she was finished, she put everything away except her bowl of spices, then joined him. She looked pensive.

“You're not going to ask?”

Garrett shook his head. “You'll tell me when you're ready. I can wait.”

Her lips pulled into a frown and she fixed her gaze on the poppets. She picked up a pinch of the spice mix and put it inside the doll.