Page 55 of Gifted & Talented

“I did wake up from a nap today unable to move,” commented Arthur.

“You didn’t think that worth mentioning?” asked Meredith.

Arthur shrugged. “I thought it was one of those weird dream paralysis things.”

“That’s never happened to me. Has it ever happened to you? Or to anyone outside of a horror novel?”

“Well, Sister Rational, at the time it was unclear,” Arthur said.

Something about his tone of voice was soothing, almost hypnotic. “I appreciate how calm you’re being, Brother Pragmatism,” said Meredith, her mouth dry. A headache pulsed behind one eye. Lou’s ghost remained in the haze of her periphery—scowling, middle finger up, something Meredith’s vision couldn’t clear away. Fucking stye.

“Thank you, I think I’m handling everything really well—”

“Hello?!” said Eilidh, who was still there, despite Meredith’s intention to ignore her. “How can this be a thing that keeps happening?”

“Unclear,” Arthur replied.

There was a crash of glass bursting from the chandelier overhead, a bright stream of sparks falling below to catch on the edge of their father’s Turkish-style rug. “Oops,” Arthur said, and attempted to reach for something to rise to his feet before frowning. “Wait. Can’t move my legs yet.”

Just then the office door opened. “I smelled fire,” said Gillian, holding a champagne flute in one hand and surveying the scene with one efficient sweep before spotting the smoldering edge of the office carpet. “Yes, fire. One second.” She disappeared again, then reappeared, handing Mereditha glass of water. “That should do it. I’ll let you get back to whatever this is. Are you all right, Art?”

“Mostly,” said Arthur.

“Well, good luck, I suppose.” Then Gillian was gone.

Meredith, having very nearly lost her hold on reality, took a steadying glance at the very real, extremely concrete glass of water, contemplating the more ineffable things that had occurred in her chest. From the edge of her vision, the specter of Lou was still staring intently. Meredith considered asking what she wanted, but then again, she already knew. Ghost-Lou was only ever there to prey on Meredith’s weakness, and this was definitely one.

Meredith didn’t think of herself as a person suffering from undue loss, but it turned out she really didn’t want to look at the people around her as things that might be gone from her at any moment. Having now lost Arthur twice, however temporarily, she was beginning to diagnose some feelings of deep-seated anxiety, almost as if she were approximately nine years old.

She did not like it, Meredith decided, when her brother died. Even when he came back to life, it was really very unpleasant.

“Something will have to be done about this,” Meredith commented to herself as she doused the rug with the glass of water. The fire petered willfully out as she bent to check the damage, blinking away the ghost in her mind’s eye and deducing with a sigh, “Well, there’s only one plausible solution. I should have known. I’ve thought about her at least three times already this week. That’s portent.” Meredith shook her head. “Even she would say so.”

“No,” said Arthur, looking concerned as he flexed his hand. “You don’t think—?”

“Who else would know what to do?” countered Meredith, who despite the minor catharsis of submission to the inevitable was never one to relish the taste of seeking help. The fact that she disliked it less than she disliked watching her brother die was really saying something. “You have a problem that can’t possibly be natural. We can’t tell a doctor you’ve fucking died twice. Who else are we supposed to ask?”

Arthur seemed to be battling similar feelings, though what he said aloud was, “Do you even know where she is?”

“No, but how hard can it be to find out?” Meredith’s pulse quickened. Her fingers itched.

“Who are you talking about?” Eilidh interjected, which the other two ignored.

“I don’t know about this,” said Arthur. “The last time I saw her…” He shifted uncomfortably. “We parted badly.”

“How do you think I feel?” said Meredith. “To say we parted badly is an understatement.”

The child-ghost in Meredith’s head stayed nine years old for a reason. It was safest that way, with Meredith’s betrayal not yet a glimmer in either of their minds.

“Wait,” said Eilidh. “Are you two talking about—?”

“I really don’t want to,” said Arthur. Except he did.

“Neither do I,” said Meredith. Except she did. “But you need to stop dying, and apparently Eilidh is some kind of apocalypse maiden, which as usual is somehow my responsibility now.”

Eilidh made a sound of juvenile ingratitude. “Inever said—”

“Do you think she’ll even talk to us?” said Arthur. “I’m pretty confident she hates us.”

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