Whisper (21 page)

In the relative quiet, my heels tapped the linoleum in
sync to the softer clomp of Jamie’s worn black work boots. Without a word, he took my hand. I knew he could feel me relaxing with every step we took away from the ER. For once, my Waves were doing him a favor.

A drinking fountain droned beside a glowing red Coke machine at the end of the hall, across from the restrooms.

“I don’t actually even like soda,” I confessed.

“Convenient, since we’re broke.” He smiled. “I just remembered this was a quiet spot, from when I stopped in the restroom to clean up.”

“Clean up…? Oh. God.” His forehead. The cuts. Without thinking, I leaned in and swept my hands over his hair, searching for the damage Keith’s broken bottle had done. The chestnut brown locks felt soft between my fingers, and Jamie sighed, closed his eyes.

“They’re not deep,” he muttered.

I felt a warm shiver at the top of my scalp as I breathed in the spicy, woodsy scent of his shampoo. Then I saw the blood, dried in the cuts near his hairline. “Deep enough they could leave scars.” A memento of the night he’d risked his life and his freedom for my sister…. No, I realized. For
me
. He’d helped me follow my feelings. Made me see that I could. Should. “Jamie? I never got a chance to say this—”

“You’re welcome.” His cider gold eyes were open again, gazing right into mine.

I blinked. Of course he could sense my gratitude. I wondered, what else could he sense? That being so close to him made me feel dizzy?

Closer, I want you even closer.

I thought about the way he’d squeezed my hand in the car after I spilled my whole life to him. The way he’d wished for me to be happy when he knew I wasn’t. The way he’d found the courage to stay with me back at Keith and Ray’s. I felt a rush of hunger, and then his warm hands were holding my face, drawing me toward him, his mouth on mine, warm and soft and addictive. I wrapped my arms around him, happy shivers trailing down my back as we kissed, knowing he was feeling the same bliss. And for a minute the whole hospital—the whole Whispering world—was silent.

Icka was still dozing, Dad and Jamie still going over the emancipation process, when Mom showed up.

For once Aunt Jane, who trailed her, looked sophisticated and put together compared to my mother. At least Aunt Jane’s hair looked clean, while Mom’s hung to her shoulders in greasy, honey blond ringlets. Her gray linen trousers and lacy cotton shirt were wrinkled as tissue paper. Her eyes swollen from crying, features wavering through an array of tics and grimaces. I’d never seen a human being look so stressed.

“Joy! Honey.” She raised eager eyebrows at me, hoping I’d hug her, but I stayed seated with my arms folded across my chest.

Dad didn’t rise to comfort her either, but in a gentle tone he said, “Jessica’s going to be all right, Kel.”

“I want to see her,” Mom declared, defiant tears slipping down her cheeks. “I need to see her now.”

I thought about how Dad redirected his thoughts so we wouldn’t Hear them and feel bad. As Mom shambled toward the front desk, I focused on mentally redecorating the waiting room in cooler colors,
not
on wishing she’d go away. As angry as I was, I couldn’t bring myself to hurt Mom’s feelings in her current state.

After a few moments Dad sighed and stood, and I followed him.

The four of us piled into the small hospital room and stood around my sister in a horseshoe. I watched my mother take in the sight of her daughter hooked up to machines.

Icka groaned and tossed in her sleep. The same thing was happening to her that had happened to me at every slumber party I’d ever been to. The sheer volume of Whispers around her made it impossible not to wake up. She looked around the room and swallowed. Then she spoke. “Um…who the hell
are
all you people?”

Mom stared.

“And who am
I
? How did I get here?”

Mom made a sound like a whimper.

Icka grinned. “All right, all right. Just kidding.”

This was actually Dad’s brand of humor, and I half expected him to say, “Good one, pumpkin,” and bump fists with her. Instead he bent down and hugged her tight.

Aunt Jane was next, petting Icka’s buzzed scalp as she held her.

My stomach was getting that nervous burny feeling. Icka had made it clear Mom was the last person she wanted to see, and I truly couldn’t blame her, but Mom looked so shaken up…. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her—even if I was still mad at her for lying. And I just couldn’t deal with the thought of Icka snubbing Mom when she was like this.
Jessica,
I Whispered,
I wish you’d be nice to Mom just this one time. I’ll never ask it again.

The moment I’d thought the words, the hospital room disappeared.

And, blink: I was little again. Standing in a misty forest under a giant oak tree beside Icka and a grinning Aunt Jane, all three of us hacking with little knives at a brown spongy fungus growing from the oak’s trunk. Behind us in the mist paced a gray wolf. Then I was back in the hospital room, and Aunt Jane was standing back up after hugging Icka. That scene was what Icka had wished for us, how she’d wanted us to be raised. But it wasn’t what had happened.

Then, blink: Dad in his courtroom suit, taking long strides on his treadmill with a four-year-old Jess by his side. Jess was running, panting, to keep up. Her knuckles accidentally brushed the side of his leg, and he recoiled as if from a bug.

In the hospital room I saw Dad gently cover Icka’s hand with both of his.

Blink: an even younger Jess, short legs swinging from a green plastic chair in a different hospital room. Across from her, Mom sat up smiling in bed, cradling a bundle
wrapped in blankets. Carefully Dad leaned over and picked up the bundle—a small red-faced baby—and walked over to Jess with it. Her eyes widened, and then she opened her arms—

“What have you done to your hair?” Mom’s broken voice said, pinning me back to this tiny hospital room.

“Holy shit!” Icka patted her head as if searching. “You think the nurse stole it? She looked shady.”

To my surprise, Mom laughed. Well, technically, it was more like a laugh-
cry
. “Jessica. Stefani.” She managed to say as tears streamed down her face and into her hair. “I. Have been so. Scared for you! How could you…so many—
so
many things could have happened to you! Seeing you alive, I could just…I could just kill you!”

You would not think that such a declaration would lead to a hug, but that’s what happened. Mom lunged at Icka, who actually opened her arms in time. They stayed there for a long time, both of them crying.

I stared, confused and even a bit left out. I thought I’d understood their relationship, but I’d obviously missed something key.

Dad looked at Aunt Jane questioningly.

She shrugged.
Wish I understood it myself.

He smiled.
I just hope it lasts.
Then he took
my
hand in both of his and said, simply, “Thank you.”

And then everyone in the room was saying it.

“Thank you, Joy.”

“Thank you.”

Icka met my eyes suddenly, making me wonder what sort of images and memories
I’d
been sending
her
over the past few hours since our mental link opened up. That day of playing hooky at Cannon Beach? Kissing Ben? Waving the gun at Keith and Ray? It seemed incredible that just days ago I’d been showered with birthday roses. Life had seemed pretty good then, other than the problem of my evil sister, Icka. I’d had cool friends, the perfect mom, and a rep for being the sweetest girl in the world. Now it was clear that whole list had been an illusion. My sister had been trying to show me this for years, had grown frustrated and started to shout, to scream, but the louder she yelled, the less I heard her. A giant crater loomed where my old identity had been, and I had no idea what to fill it with. Still, looking around this hospital room, I had hope, for all of us. I had more strength and power than I’d ever imagined. I had Jamie. I had Parker, a new kind of friendship, a peer. And I had this connection I’d finally won back, the warm blue eyes winking at me over Mom’s tearful embrace.

I hoped it would be enough.

I’d like to thank:

My agent, Jim McCarthy; my editors, Jill Santopolo and Kristin Daly; production editor Jon Howard; and publicist Laura Kaplan for their talent, enthusiasm, and sheer awesomeness.

The fabulous critique partners: Jeanne Barker, Barrie Bartlett, Suzanne Brahm, Jean Bullard, Billee Escott, Sam Hranac, Dorothy Crane Imm, Peter Kahle, Ruth Maxwell, Lyn MacFarlane, Jim Pravitz, Kevin Scott, Ingrid Scott, Sheri Short, and Anita Mohan.

My friends Regina Carr and Jesse Robbins. You changed my life when you dared me to drive up to Seattle, live at your house, and write books.

Peter, Ranna, Dean, and Ellie Kitanidis, for truly being there for me over the years. Your faith and support has made all the difference.

Robert. You give me courage, keep me sane, make me laugh, and inspire me to keep growing as a person.

Jacket design by Thomas Forget