Embrace Page 8

  “Try panic attacks,” Dad said from behind me.

  Panic disorder came up.

  My dad read over my shoulder. “The symptoms match.”

  “But the causes don’t,” I said, deflated. “Besides, her parents would know if her family had a history of panic disorder, and Kaylee is the least stressed person on the planet.”

  “Keep searching.” He patted my shoulder. “You’ll find something. I have to get your brother dressed.”

  I just kept clicking on different links. One led me to mental illness, and I started to check the history of these diseases. There was data going back to the sixteen hundreds.

  All of the articles mentioned witchcraft. One of them included a picture of two girls, maybe twelve or fourteen, dressed in nightgowns like those worn in the seventeenth century. One of the girls crouched in a corner pulling at her hair. The other stood on a bed, apparently trying to climb the wall. Their eyes were haunted. Either one of them could have been Kaylee.

  The caption below the picture read:

  A properly cast curse will leave its victim defenseless and often a danger to herself. Medicine is frequently given to sedate the victim.

  I followed a link to another site. If I believed what I read, a curse was cast of the dark, drawing from the powers of evil, costing the spell-giver a piece of their soul.

  I clicked on link after link. Passages seemed to leap from the screen:

  There are two types of witches: the ones who call upon outside forces to give them power and the natural witch whose powers lie dormant within them until they are awakened.

  And,

  Natural witches are rarely evil and have the ability to recognize one another through simple touch.

  I kept reading, thinking that this just couldn’t be real. Magic was a trick of the eye. A skill that used illusion to give the appearance that the impossible was possible. As I read on, though, my skepticism wavered. The sites I found had me thinking there was much more to magic than pulling a rabbit out of a hat. I’d heard that people only use a fraction of their brain. What if someone could tap into that unused portion and harness power from within themselves, and then use that power to do their bidding? Hadn’t I woken determined to do whatever I could to help Kaylee? Maybe that meant believing in the obscure.

  Besides, Kaylee had gone from happy and confident to miserable and schizophrenic in minutes. Her symptoms certainly fit the actions of a person who has been cursed.

  I drank in the pictures and the words with a hunger that grew into vengeance. Believing more and more that I’d found what ailed Kaylee, I wondered how this could have happened and who would wish something so evil on her.

  Several sites warned about witches who brought destruction and bad fortune wherever they went, claiming these witches would draw to them the people they hurt. Another site felt a witch who used her powers carelessly would be easy for other witches to recognize. Power would leak from their very pores and bleed into every word they spoke, tainting the air with magic that could be tasted and felt.

  The more I read, the more I believed people really could have powers. Something about the idea resonated through me. It felt exactly right.

  Eventually, it was as if the words screamed at me: souls condemned, elements, the power of three times three, talismans, hexes, circle, sigil…

  The last site had my heart pumping:

  Test the powers within you with a simple spell.

  I slid the mouse up and to the left. The cursor followed—highlighting the picture of a printer—and I clicked on it. Our inkjet woke from sleep mode and churned out the article I’d been reading. I printed a few of the others before shutting it down.

  If witchcraft was real and someone did curse Kaylee, they were going to pay. One way or another I would see to that.

  The steady grumble of my dad’s old lawn mower could be heard coming from the front yard. Good for me, because I needed a few things from the kitchen, and there was no way he’d let me take seasonings, stemware, and cutlery upstairs without asking me what I was doing. I already knew how crazy I’d look.

  With the stack of newly printed papers clenched in my hand, I raced to the kitchen. Chase was pulling a full gallon of milk out of the fridge, clutching the flimsy plastic container with both hands.

  “Let me get that.” I managed to hook a finger under the handle before he dropped it.

  Chase’s cups were in the same cabinet as the stemware. The spell called for a chalice, but we were fresh out. I set one of my mom’s delicate wine glasses on the counter and grabbed a Lightning McQueen mug for Chase.

  “Is Kaylee better yet?” he asked.

  “I hope so.” I wasn’t about to tell my six-year-old brother the doctors didn’t even know what was wrong with her.

  “I made her a card.” He pointed to the table. It looked like an art store had exploded in that corner of the kitchen. There were as many pieces of brightly colored construction paper stuck to the top of the table as were glued to the white paper he used for the base of his card. Crayons were everywhere. His plastic zigzag scissors were on the floor under his chair.

  “She’s going to love it,” I said.

  “I bet she ate at that hotdog stand near the pet store. Remember how sick I got from their food?”

  “I do.” Chase had thrown up half the night after eating a cheese dog and fries there.

  I handed him the cup of milk, put the gallon back in the fridge, then rummaged around in the silverware drawer for a knife. I decided the long bread knife was overkill, yet a butter knife didn’t seem to have any mystical power to it. I needed something that resembled a small dagger. The carving knife drying in the dish rack near the sink caught my eye.

  I’d just wrapped my fingers around the black handle when Chase asked, “What are you doing?”

  What was I doing? Preparing an altar to perform magic? Like it was real. Like people went around blinking or pointing a finger or waving a wand and poof, whatever they were thinking at that very moment came true. If life were that easy, there’d be no need to work for anything.

  Lack of sleep finally caught up with me. I slid the knife into the drawer. While I had spent hours surfing the Internet looking for a magical cure, Kaylee was alone, laid up in the hospital. Nice friend I was.

  “I gotta go,” I said to Chase before racing to the front door.

  Chase trailed behind me. “Are you going to see Kaylee? Can I come?”

  “Not this time.”

  He frowned. Instead of arguing, though, he held out his hand. “Can you give her this?”

  “Yeah.” I took the colorful card from him, snatched my dad’s keys off the small table near the stairs, and dashed outside.

  Hoping Dad didn’t need to go anywhere that day, I waved my arms over my head to get his attention. He cut the engine on the lawn mower and walked over to me.

  “Can I borrow your truck?” I asked.

  He looked past me at his pick-up truck. It was one of those extended cab deals with a shiny silver lockbox that held his tools and a hard cover over the bed to hide the ladders and poles and other bulky supplies Dad used on a regular basis. The thing was a monster and his entire business on wheels. And I wasn’t the greatest at parking it.

  “Just be careful and park away from other cars.”

  “I will.”

  Kaylee had to be suffering from a type of panic disorder. It was the only explanation for her sudden outbursts. She wasn’t getting better because she was scared, and who wouldn’t be scared not knowing what was happening to them? The article Dad and I had found said that a person who suffers from panic disorders often worries about when the next attack will occur. Kaylee was probably consumed with fear, wondering when her symptoms would flare up again. The pressure to remain calm and in control would cause anyone to lose it. If Kaylee understood what was happening to her, she would be able to relax. She’d get better.

  I laughed out loud at how simple it was. How the doctors were missing the obvious
. If they’d just stop sedating her and take the time to address the problem, Kaylee would be home thinking about homework and the festival and, of course, the guys.

  I turned up the radio and sang along. The sun peeked out from behind puffy white clouds, promising a bright and cheery day. I should have grabbed a deck of cards before I left the house. Kaylee had to be sick of being cooped up in a sterile room with nothing to do.

  I pulled into a parking space at the back of the visitors’ lot, well clear of any other vehicles to keep Dad happy, and once inside the hospital, I made a quick stop at the gift shop. Minutes later I was riding the cramped elevator to the seventh floor, the latest copy of Cosmopolitan tucked under my arm and Raisinets and Jelly Bellies tucked in my purse. I wished I’d thought to grab a pint of Chunky Monkey ice cream—Kaylee’s favorite.

  The doors slid open, revealing a tiny waiting area. Four navy blue vinyl chairs sat across from public restrooms. The corridor to my left led to patients suffering from different neurological disorders, which I knew from a conversation I’d overheard the other day on my way up. Kaylee was straight through the waiting area, down a similar corridor. I’d walked this route so many times in the past few days, I could have found her room with my eyes closed. I hoped this day would be the last time.

  A nurse in a light pink lab coat smiled as I walked by her. When I turned the corner, I saw a guy with short dark hair leaving Kaylee’s room, which was at the far end of the hall. He went in the opposite direction. I squinted, trying to get a better look at him.

  “Isaac!” I half yelled.

  The guy didn’t even flinch. He was tall, wearing faded jeans and a dark sweatshirt. I couldn’t see his face, but the back of his head really looked like Isaac’s.

  I picked up my pace and called his name again. A nurse poked her head out of one of the rooms, her nose scrunched up in a disapproving manner.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled as I rushed past her.

  The guy was in the elevator when I reached the end of the corridor, his shoulder the only visible part of him.

  “Wait! Hold the—”

  A piercing scream echoed from behind me, bouncing off the bright white walls and stopping me in my tracks. “Kaylee.”

  Her name had barely made it out of my mouth as I watched the elevator door close. If that had been Isaac, he would have rushed back out. No way could he not have heard the frantic cry for help. I bolted back the way I came, reaching Kaylee’s room at the same time as a slew of hospital workers, including a burly male security guard.

  Kaylee bucked in her bed, back arched, trying to get as much of her body off the mattress as the straps around her wrist would allow.

  “Get her doctor!” a nurse yelled over her shoulder. She stood next to Kaylee’s bed, looking afraid to touch her. Mrs. Bishop was on the other side of the bed, face as white as a ghost and eyes red from the tears that just wouldn’t come anymore. The security guard went to take a step forward, but I jumped in front of him, pushing the nurse aside on my way to Kaylee.

  “These straps are just scaring her more!” I screamed.

  What was wrong with them? Since when do the people who are supposed to heal the sick resort to tying patients to beds? The whole situation infuriated me.

  “Kaylee, it’s okay.” I grabbed her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. “You’re okay. I promise.” I ran my hand over her bed, smoothing the sheet and moving the covers out of the way. “Calm down so I can get the straps off you.”

  The nurse started to protest, but I shot her a look that dared her to try and stop me. Anger trickled through my limbs, giving me the feeling that I could take her and the security guard if they messed with me. Kaylee’s doctor entered the room with another nurse behind him. The nurse carried a long needle and a bottle of clear liquid. My gaze met her doctor’s.

  “She’s fine.” I assured him. Kaylee had settled back onto her bed, her fists balled around the sheet. “Waking up this way just startled her.” I tugged at a strap to show what I meant.

  The doctor walked over to the bed. Kaylee grabbed my hand and squeezed. I bit back a yelp from her pressure while the doctor checked her pupils and pulse. Satisfied with what he saw, he directed the others to leave. Mrs. Bishop still hadn’t moved.

  “Help me get these things off her.” I removed the leather binding around Kaylee’s left wrist while her mom worked on the one on her right.

  “How’d you know what was wrong?” Mrs. Bishop asked.

  “If you woke up in a strange room tied to a bed, wouldn’t you scream?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Don’t you think that all this security is scaring your daughter? How is she supposed to believe that she’s okay if everyone is treating her like a psych patient? This is Kaylee we’re talking about.”

  Mrs. Bishop didn’t say anything, but she did free Kaylee’s other arm.

  “I’ll stay with her,” I offered. “Why don’t you go home for a couple hours, grab something to eat and change.”

  Mrs. Bishop had on the same navy pants and cream sweater she’d been wearing Saturday. Dark bags haunted her eyes. She ran her fingers through her chopped hair, her nails snagging on a few knots. “I could use a shower.”

  “Kaylee will be fine.”

  Kaylee, who seemed to be absorbing the conversation, nodded.

  I walked Mrs. Bishop to the door and whispered, “I won’t leave her alone.”

  I then plopped down on the bed, purposely bumping Kaylee’s hip with mine. She scooted over.

  “What’s happening to me?”

  I pulled the covers up to our waists.

  “You’ve had a rough few days,” I replied. “The doctors think that the shock of the near accident with that truck caught up to you. I should have come over that night. I never should have let you be alone.”

  Kaylee twitched a shoulder. It told me she was more traumatized by the event than she had admitted. I felt horrible for not realizing that before. I was her best friend. I know her better than anyone else. I should have known she needed me. I should have shown up on her doorstep with my pillow and a hug. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  I pulled the card my brother had made out of my purse and handed it to her with the Jelly Bellies. “Chase made this for you.”

  She looked at the brightly colored get-well wishes, a smile stretching over her face. “Tell him thanks and I love it.”

  “Will do.” I ripped open the box of chocolate-covered raisins. “Want to talk about it?”

  Her eyes roamed the room as if checking that we were alone. “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Maybe if you just tell me everything that happened with the MINI, every last detail, it will help you feel better,” I pushed, recalling one of the treatments for schizophrenia is therapy. Letting a person discuss her fears. I could only imagine how terrified Kaylee must have been in an out-of-control car that was no taller than the tires of a big rig.

  “It was the weirdest thing. You and I have been all over Massachusetts in the MINI and it’s never let us down.” She popped a Jelly Belly into her mouth. “It didn’t really want to go at first, you know? I’d press the gas, the engine would rev, but I wasn’t moving any faster. Josh just happened to be behind me when we were leaving school, so he followed me home.”

  I knew the rest. Her car had sputtered for several minutes before the engine warmed up, and it had seemed to be running like normal. She’d been on the main road when the brakes had gone out and the steering stuck. The MINI had stalled on her in the middle of an intersection. She swore it hadn’t rolled to a stop but had abruptly come to a halt. (I was sure that was a matter of perception, but didn’t say so. Instead, I gave her leg a gentle squeeze to say it was okay.) The grill of a semi had been kissing the chrome door handle of the car before it was all over. I let Kaylee recount the event in her own words: from the guy in a sports car honking at her for driving twenty under the speed limit to the bugs splattered against the grill of the truck, to not feeling
like she was okay until she’d been in Josh’s arms. He had been the one to call a tow truck. Last I heard, the MINI was still parked in his driveway.

  Kaylee’s shoulders relaxed. She stopped looking around the room as if expecting someone to pop up from behind the spare chair. By the time the nurse came to check on her, Kaylee and I were talking about how much homework Mr. Chapin gave. We were laughing and chatting, and it was like old times. The nurse even took the straps out of the room.

  Her doctor said that she had to remain at the hospital for the next forty-eight hours for observation to make sure she was really past the worst of it. I knew she was. Right then, sitting on the bed with the rough sheets under the hum of the fluorescent light above her headboard, Kaylee was back to herself.

  “You know something?” I inquired, waiting until she asked what before continuing. “You really need a toothbrush and a comb.”

  “Hah!” Kaylee belted out a laugh, then covered her mouth with her hand. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” She ran to the bathroom.

  “Because I was enjoying hanging out too much,” I called after her.

  I grabbed my cell phone and quickly typed a message to Josh, letting him know the good news about Kaylee’s condition. My thumb hovered over Send when a loud crash—like the sound of breaking glass—came from the bathroom.

  Chapter 8

  The Test

  PIECES OF THE BATHROOM mirror lay scattered on the sink and floor around Kaylee’s bare feet. She clenched her arm close to her chest. I stood in the doorway, a hand on each side of the doorframe, gaping at her.

  “Are you all right?” I managed to ask, secretly hoping that the mirror somehow jumped off the wall while she was brushing her hair. Then I saw a stream of blood running down her forearm. My eyes traveled up to her bleeding knuckles. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her hand. “Did you punch the mirror?”

  Kaylee didn’t reply.

  “What happened?” a voice said from behind us.

  We both jumped. Mrs. Bishop couldn’t have come back to the hospital at a worst time. She missed all the joking and chatting. She didn’t get to see her daughter acting like a carefree teenager.