Kat Richardson - Possession

In a moment I returned to the bedroom. Things were still a little blurry and the Grey persisted more than I liked, but I could see the living people in the room a bit more clearly. Wrothen had gone to a small desk on wheels near the monitors and was working at a computer keyboard. Lillian Goss and Richard Stymak were bending over the white table, listening to the digital recorder through small headphones. I wondered why they weren’t using earbuds, but I suppose some people don’t care for sticking things in their ears—or they’d been intimidated out of doing so by Wrothen, who I imagined wouldn’t approve of earbuds just on principle.

I went to the table and loomed until they noticed me and looked up from their concentrated staring at the recorder—the way one does when there’s nothing to look at and too much to hear. Lily Goss glanced up first and motioned at Stymak to stop the playback. Then they both pulled off their headphones and blinked at me.

“Have you . . . got any idea what’s happening to my sister?” Goss asked.

“Well, not really. Not yet. I need to know more—to observe more—which is not possible at the moment. The paint that got into my eye seems to have messed up my vision. I’d like to come back after I’ve seen a doctor and discuss this with you both. And I’d like to hear that recording.” I doubted it was going to be case-breaking—since that kind of thing only happens in TV shows—but I wanted all the data I could get.

“I can make you a copy,” Stymak offered.

“Could you e-mail the file?”

He nodded. “I sure can. It’s large, but if I can’t e-mail it, I’ll send you a secure link you can use to download it. I’ve got more if you want them.”

Yep, he was definitely a geek. My turn to nod. “All right. But let’s start with just the one, thanks.” I turned back to Lily. “I’ll call you to coordinate a time to return, if that’s OK with you.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. I . . . I’m the only one here from four to midnight. . . .”

“I understand. I’ll be in touch, but probably not tonight. Get some rest, Ms. Goss.” I found myself patting her shoulder—a ridiculous gesture I didn’t usually indulge in—and turning away to let myself out, but she rushed to walk with me.

As she opened the front door, Lily Goss touched my arm in a hesitant fashion. “Umm . . . I’m sorry . . . about your eye.”

“I’m sure it’s not a major injury and it was an accident.”

“I’m not. Sure, that is. Julie’s been . . . unpredictable lately. She didn’t used to talk. Now she babbles like you heard today. And she’s never thrown anything before. I am—truly—sorry.”

I wished she’d mentioned the talking and throwing things earlier, but I only said, “Nothing to be sorry for. I’m not quitting. I’ll be back.”

She bit her lip and nodded, frowning and disbelieving me. But I would be back—I wanted to know what was going on with Julianne as much as she did. There were ghosts, and there was something guiding her actions—if not actually possessing her body, which I wasn’t quite sure of.

I did, however, need to do something about my eye. The longer I let it go, the more the sting came back. Unlike another Greywalker I’d met, I had no desire to give up my sight—either Grey or normal. I’d gotten used to seeing the invisible, but it was not an adequate substitute for the normal view.

My eyes were watering badly by the time I got in to see my doctor, who sent me to an ophthalmologist for some kind of chemical test, who in turn sent me back to Dr. Skelleher with the results—dealing with the labyrinth of health care and insurance can be a royal pain in the ass, not to mention the time it takes.

Skelleher’s an odd young duck, but he understands my situation as much as any medical professional is ever likely to and he doesn’t believe there’s a pill for every problem. He gave my eyes a good looking-over and read through the ophthalmologist’s report. He always looked rumpled and sleepless, though a bit less so than usual today—his spiky hair might actually have been styled that way rather than having happened by accident. He had a small following of ghosts standing just behind him everywhere he went. They didn’t seem hostile and he was oblivious to them and any dampening effect they might have had; his aura was bright and colorful, shifting through gold and pink and shimmering, pale blue. Maybe he finally had a girlfriend—or a boyfriend; I had no idea what revved his engine. Whatever it was, he was tired, but pretty content with his life, which is something I rarely get to see.

He plopped onto the backless stool and took a deep breath before giving me the news. “You have some chemical irritation to the lid and sclera. It’s fairly mild, but it’s going to feel uncomfortable and itchy for a few days and may cause you to have some minor vision problems—blurry vision, watering, and so on. Like the ophthalmologist, I’d advise you to rest your eyes as much as possible, but I know you’ll ignore that. Try anyhow. Dr. Michaels prescribed some drops for the pain and some ointment to clear up the irritation, which you need to use twice a day, as I’m sure he told you. If the irritation doesn’t clear up with these meds, I’ll have to insist on your going back to Dr. Michaels. And I know you don’t like to do that. Also, don’t rub your eye. At all. Use the drops and make sure you pat any excess or tears off with a tissue. No wiping with your fingertips or the corner of your shirt or stuff like that.

“If you start seeing anything weird . . . Well, that’s pretty much normal for you, so let me rephrase that: If the irritation gets worse or you seem to be losing sight, seeing dark spots, having an unusual degree of tearing or blurring, bloody tears, literally seeing red, or the eyelid swells significantly, take yourself to Emergency. And I mean it. You do not want a major eye infection—at least the green pigment wasn’t radioactive, so you missed that complication. But I will bust your chops about it if you don’t do as you’ve been told.”

“Whoa, Skelly! Nice bedside manner.”

He shook his head. “Seriously. This is not something you can ignore. Chemical burns create conditions that can lead to severe infections and we don’t do eyeball transplants. And I shouldn’t have to remind you that your eyes are in your skull, very close to your brain, and you really don’t want massive infections anywhere near the blood/brain barrier.”

“I’m sorry I sounded flippant. I understand the implications.” I didn’t have to pretend to be abashed. “And I know I’m a difficult patient.”

“Actually, you’re not. But you are stubborn and prone to extraordinary accidents.”

I couldn’t argue against that. After all, Skelly had treated me for monster bites, ribs broken by ghosts, and any number of more usual injuries from physical confrontations. Not to mention a small case of being dead once or twice.

“I promise to do as instructed. I’ll go straight home and rest my eyes. But can I ask you a question first?”

Skelly pushed his hands through his hair and gave me a tired smile. “Sure.”

“What can you tell me about persistent vegetative states?”

“PVS?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I have a case that touches on it.”

“Ah. Well, I can’t talk about specific cases and I’m not a neurologist but I can give you a broad rundown. Do you know what a PVS is?”

“It’s like a coma, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s a separate thing. Coma is a short-term state that mimics very deep sleep—it only lasts hours to a few days while the cortex of the brain is severely traumatized. Then the patient either dies because the brain can’t survive the trauma, or they move on to a vegetative state where they may respond to some stimuli, may seem to be awake for a few minutes at a time, but they aren’t actually aware. Usually that state lasts a few days—a couple of weeks at most—while the brain heals from whatever trauma caused the initial coma, and after that the patient wakes up and resumes normal response to stimuli—or as much as they can.