The Guidance - By Marley Gibson Page 0,29

Blackhawks play the Atlanta Thrashers (High-Stickin' Chickens, more like). Maybe Jason and I can visit the city together one weekend when I'm not ghost hunting. If I still get to ghost hunt.

We park in the office-complex garage and make our way into the building. It smells of antiseptic cleaner coupled with a Febreze-like odor. It's times like these that I wish I didn't have that clairsentient ability where I'm able to pick up spirits through my sensitivity to smells. Not that there are any spirits here. Are there? No, it's a pretty recently built building and it's not like it's a hospital, where people die and stuff.

I need to get a grip on my thoughts. Especially since some quack is about to start dissecting them.

"Sarah and Kendall Moorehead to see Dr. Kindberg," Mom says to the receptionist. "We have an appointment."

The nurse checks us in and tells us to wait. Great. Mom drives like a bat out of hell to get here, and they make us wait. Whatever.

My BlackBerry sings that I've received a text message, so I pull it out of the case.

>Patience 4 the patient.

Huh? Who's this from? There's no number to text back.

Mom tsk-tsks me. "Do you have to do that now?"

Another beep.

>I'm here if u need me. E

How did you do that, Emily?

Just then, the door to the inner sanctum opens and an older man steps out. He's wearing a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and no tie. He's sporting a crewcut, like he's just finished a tour in the Middle East with the Eighty-second Airborne. His khakis don't look institutional or anything, so maybe this guy doesn't have a stick up his ass after all. "Mrs. Moorehead? Kendall? Why don't y'all come on in?"

I follow behind Mom into the nondescript medical office. Plants in one corner, a large brown suede chair in the other. The standard couch is against the back wall, facing an outstanding view of the Georgia Dome.

"I'm Dr. Ken Kindberg. Nice to meet both of you."

Mom shakes his hand and introduces me.

"Hi there," I say politely.

He spreads his arms wide in welcome. "Have a seat anywhere you like and let's get to know one another."

"I presume the couch is for me?" I try not to be snarky. This dude's just doing his job.

"Is that where you want to sit, Kendall?"

Oh dear God. And we're off. Honestly, I've watched enough TV medical dramas to know when a psychiatrist is psyching you out. I want to be true to my word to my parents, but do I have to put up with him trying to get all, well, psychological on my ass?

Calm down, Kendall ...

Knowing that Emily's with me, I breathe a little more easily. Instead of taking the couch, I plop into the gigamonic suede chair.

Dr. Kindberg grabs a legal pad and a pen from his desk and scoots his chair around. That leaves Mom sitting on the couch, which is ironic, considering how she might need some counseling when it's proven that I'm not sick or faking.

After the beginning mindless shitchat about moving from Chicago, how I like Radisson, if I'm making friends and stuff, Dr. Kindberg clicks the end of his pen and laser-beams his eyes at me. "So, Kendall, your mother tells me that you've been experiencing restless sleep, headaches, and tingling sensations in your extremities."

"Yes, sir, I—"

Mom sits forward. "You know, Dr. Kindberg, I'm a nurse and I've been doing a lot of research on Kendall's symptoms. The insomnia could certainly be a reaction to the move and being in a different time zone. However, the headaches are so severe and are causing these"—she slices her eyes over to me and lowers her voice—"visions that she claims to have."

"I don't claim anything, Mom. I have them." God, I sound like Kaitlin. I have to remain calm and not act like a baby.

She's got your best interests at heart, Emily pleads.

"I'm concerned that Kendall may be in the beginning stages of dementia or, heaven forbid, schizophrenia," Mom diagnoses.

Dr. Kindberg is making notes. "Do you have a history of either of those diseases in your family?"

"No, but—" Mom stops and glances out the window for a moment. "Neither my husband nor I have family members who have suffered from either."

"Kendall, I'm going to ask you some very personal questions and I need you to answer honestly," Dr. K. says.

"Sure." I mean, why not? I'm an honest person.

"Are you taking any medications?"

"Besides popping a Claritin every now and