couldn’t hit Ignore a second time. Jesse would abandon his patients, get in his car, drive over, and strangle me. Well, not literally, but metaphorically.
“I have to take this,” I said to Becca. “It’s important. But we’re going to get back to that accident you were talking about. Okay?”
“Whatever,” Becca said with another one of her infernal shrugs. “It’s no big deal. I don’t know why you’re asking me all this stuff. I said I’d never do it again, and I won’t, okay? God.” Then she dug out her own phone, slumping even further in her chair as she began to text someone.
So she had friends. Interesting.
“Hey, Jesse,” I said, swiveling around in my desk chair so my back was to the haunted girl. “How’s your day going?”
“How’s my day going?” He sounded incredulous. “What’s happening over there?”
“Here?” I asked casually. “Nothing. It’s work. You know. Boring. Why?”
“Don’t, Susannah.”
Susannah. Susannah. Susannah. I loved the way he said my name. The truth was, I loved everything about him.
“You know I can tell when you’re lying. Even over one of these things .”
Except the way he always knew when I was lying, and his impatience with modern technology. Those things I didn’t love so much.
This had made our separation when he’d gone away to medical school and me to college—though we’d only been four hours away from each other—extremely challenging. He’d insisted on letters.
“We may no longer have a mediator-ghost connection, Susannah,” Jesse went on, “but I can still tell when you’re feeling something strongly, and earlier, you were afraid. I felt it. I was dealing with a four-year-old with a bee in her ear, or believe me, I’d have driven over there.”
“And what, precisely, would you have driven over here to do?” I lowered my voice so Becca couldn’t overhear me. “Spank my naughty bottom? Please do not get my hopes up.”
I found that joking often worked as a means to distract him when he was being a little too extrasensory perceptive.
“Susannah.” He didn’t sound very amused.
“You know it gets me hot when you’re mad. What are you wearing right now under your stethoscope?”
“You’re not funny.”
“Oh, come on. I’m a little funny.”
“Not as funny as you think you are. Tell me what happened.”
Crap. This was one of the many problems of being in a relationship with a former ghost.
“There was a little incident here at work involving an NCDP,” I said. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. But she did turn out to be a little more aggressive than I expected.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Becca lift her head to glance at me. She was eavesdropping, of course, and thought I was talking about her. She didn’t know what NCDP stood for. She was probably wondering why I’d said she was aggressive.
“At the school?” Jesse sounded surprised. “The one you told me about earlier? A tourist?”
“Student.”
“Father Dominic must be slipping,” he said, sounding concerned. “I would think he’d have taken care of all of those when the semester first started, well before you got there.”
“I’m not sure he’d have noticed this one,” I said, carefully guarding my words, both because I was speaking in front of Becca and because I felt defensive on behalf of Father Dominic. “It seemed harmless at first, and barely perceptible.”
It was getting hard not to notice that one of Jesse’s other prejudices, in addition to cell phones, was against his own kind—well, what used to be his own kind, anyway. The closer he came to acquiring his medical license, the less interested he seemed in helping the dead.
I guess I could understand this. Having spent a century and a half as a deceased person wasn’t listed as one of the official causes of post-traumatic stress disorder in the DSM ( Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders ), the bible of mental health professionals, but I
“I have to take this,” I said to Becca. “It’s important. But we’re going to get back to that accident you were talking about. Okay?”
“Whatever,” Becca said with another one of her infernal shrugs. “It’s no big deal. I don’t know why you’re asking me all this stuff. I said I’d never do it again, and I won’t, okay? God.” Then she dug out her own phone, slumping even further in her chair as she began to text someone.
So she had friends. Interesting.
“Hey, Jesse,” I said, swiveling around in my desk chair so my back was to the haunted girl. “How’s your day going?”
“How’s my day going?” He sounded incredulous. “What’s happening over there?”
“Here?” I asked casually. “Nothing. It’s work. You know. Boring. Why?”
“Don’t, Susannah.”
Susannah. Susannah. Susannah. I loved the way he said my name. The truth was, I loved everything about him.
“You know I can tell when you’re lying. Even over one of these things .”
Except the way he always knew when I was lying, and his impatience with modern technology. Those things I didn’t love so much.
This had made our separation when he’d gone away to medical school and me to college—though we’d only been four hours away from each other—extremely challenging. He’d insisted on letters.
“We may no longer have a mediator-ghost connection, Susannah,” Jesse went on, “but I can still tell when you’re feeling something strongly, and earlier, you were afraid. I felt it. I was dealing with a four-year-old with a bee in her ear, or believe me, I’d have driven over there.”
“And what, precisely, would you have driven over here to do?” I lowered my voice so Becca couldn’t overhear me. “Spank my naughty bottom? Please do not get my hopes up.”
I found that joking often worked as a means to distract him when he was being a little too extrasensory perceptive.
“Susannah.” He didn’t sound very amused.
“You know it gets me hot when you’re mad. What are you wearing right now under your stethoscope?”
“You’re not funny.”
“Oh, come on. I’m a little funny.”
“Not as funny as you think you are. Tell me what happened.”
Crap. This was one of the many problems of being in a relationship with a former ghost.
“There was a little incident here at work involving an NCDP,” I said. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. But she did turn out to be a little more aggressive than I expected.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Becca lift her head to glance at me. She was eavesdropping, of course, and thought I was talking about her. She didn’t know what NCDP stood for. She was probably wondering why I’d said she was aggressive.
“At the school?” Jesse sounded surprised. “The one you told me about earlier? A tourist?”
“Student.”
“Father Dominic must be slipping,” he said, sounding concerned. “I would think he’d have taken care of all of those when the semester first started, well before you got there.”
“I’m not sure he’d have noticed this one,” I said, carefully guarding my words, both because I was speaking in front of Becca and because I felt defensive on behalf of Father Dominic. “It seemed harmless at first, and barely perceptible.”
It was getting hard not to notice that one of Jesse’s other prejudices, in addition to cell phones, was against his own kind—well, what used to be his own kind, anyway. The closer he came to acquiring his medical license, the less interested he seemed in helping the dead.
I guess I could understand this. Having spent a century and a half as a deceased person wasn’t listed as one of the official causes of post-traumatic stress disorder in the DSM ( Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders ), the bible of mental health professionals, but I
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