Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [3]
“My father’s getting ready to go to London. He’s kind of hard to pin down. Believe me when I tell you that there wasn’t anywhere else for me to go.”
Heather nodded, keeping a bland smile on her face. If she had to describe Angela’s expression to an interested party, she’d say haunted.
But why?
“Look, my problem—if that’s what it is—started when I was twelve. I see things,” Angela blurted.
Heather stiffened imperceptibly. Uh-oh. Holiday craziness. It happened. But not usually in her secluded office. Her smile faded into an expression of concern and she merely nodded to Angela to continue.
Encouraged, the girl went on talking in a halting voice. “I used to tell my parents when I saw them—when they would listen, that is. They always explained it away as a bad dream or an upset stomach. These . . . these . . . things I see, they happen . . . they happen to other people. At first it only happened once in a while, but then it became more often. I guess I scared my parents, too,” Angela fretted. “Their answer was to take me to a shrink. This hotshot psychiatrist said I was making a bid for attention.”
Heather hoped that was all there was to it. She couldn’t very well diagnose whatever was ailing Angela Steinhart. She wasn’t a guidance counselor or a psychiatrist, for heaven’s sake. Why had Angela come to her?
“Anyway, that was all my mother had to hear. She started following the doctor’s orders by ignoring me, which is what she’s been doing for as long as I can remember.”
That was way too much information. But there was no tactful way to simply ask Angela to leave. Heather tried not to stare too hard at the girl. “Tell me, what are these things you see?” There was an intensity about Angela that gave Heather gooseflesh. This job certainly had its drawbacks, and sitting here listening to this strange kid had just been added to the list. Everything she’d said so far seemed somehow rehearsed, like stage dialogue or a tall tale.
“Bad ones.” Angela’s face was now drained of color.
Heather was a little frightened for a moment or two. She considered calling for the emergency staff stationed at the clinic, but an instinct for self-preservation told her to wait. Her unexpected visitor had a lot of important connections, and it was best not to be too hasty. She had nothing to lose by letting Angela talk it out—and she could live without lunch, if it came to that. But the girl was silent, her mind obviously elsewhere as she fidgeted and looked around the room. Her gaze stopped on the video monitors.
“You can see everything from here, can’t you?”
Heather kept her expression neutral, hoping Angela’s question was an idle one. It was possible to read a touch of paranoia into it. “Pretty much. That’s just part of my job. You were saying?”
“Oh. Where was I?” Angela looked fixedly at Heather as if she had the answer.
“You were talking about things you saw sometimes.”
Angela nodded and pushed a straggling lock of hair behind her ear. “Yes. Once I got so upset I didn’t eat, and I ended up in the hospital.”
“When was that?” Heather asked, not really wanting to know.
“A while ago the doctors said I was hypersensitive. God!” Angela exclaimed pitifully. “I wish I wasn’t. But this feeling—that something bad is going to happen at the mall—is so strong. I wanted to talk to someone who works here,” she said in an almost inaudible voice. “Maybe it’s just me.”
Heather didn’t know whether to say yes or no to that. She noticed that Angela hadn’t offered specifics about her current prediction.
“Angela, as far as I know, it’s business as usual. Christmas is crazy, of course. But that’s nothing new. I appreciate your coming to talk to me about your concerns, but if you don’t mind my saying so, we all know that the holidays can be difficult for a lot of people. So,” she reasoned, “it isn’t just you. But it sounds to me like you might need someone who knows more than I do to talk to. You know, professional help—”
“I told you, I’ve had the pleasure. Several times. Different psychiatrists,