Free The Awakening by Marley Gibson

If I were back home, Marjorie and I would be lining up at the United Arena for preseason Blackhawks hockey games. Instead, I'm in a strange land, running away from someone who says I'm awakening to my psychic abilities; oh, and I'm slinking home to check a videotape taken in my bedroom last night of a possible ghost.
    How is this my life?
    I tuck my hands into the pockets of my Roots Canada zip-up hoodie and keep walking. My head begins to ache slightly when I step into the next block. The aroma of honeysuckle tints the air, and I smile. Grandma Ethel used to have honeysuckle potpourri in her kitchen to cover up the smell of cooked food. That was before she died, three years ago. Honestly, if I could communicate with the dead—as per these "abilities" Loreen says I have—wouldn't I be chatting with Grandma Ethel, given how close we were?
    Continuing along, I drag my fingers along the rigid top of the bush-covered wrought-iron fence. The railing is worn smooth underneath my hand, indicating that it's been here for a lot longer than I have. The tapping within my skull continues, as does a newfound pressure in my chest that reminds me of when I had walking pneumonia in seventh grade and it hurt like all get out to take a deep breath.
    The fence ends and I see a wide-open gate leading into...
oh, hell no.
It's a cemetery!
    I start backing away, even as something seems to call out to me. Not exactly in a "yoo-hoo, Kendall" sort of way. More like I just
know
I need to go inside. I peer in at the green grass and expertly trimmed shrubs. The honeysuckle scent is even stronger, wafting toward me and inviting me to come in. Graveyards usually skeeve me out; however, there's something almost peaceful and serene about this place. I can't explain it ... it's beckoning me to step in and take a look around. Why not?
    There's a small dirt road from the gate that turns into a pebbled drive. From the looks of the graves and markers, this place is pretty old—probably dating back to the early 1800s, just like the town. To the right, ornate obelisks etched with family names reach to the blue sky. Massive mausoleums are scattered among plots that have been lined off with aged marble. These must be the more affluent town families from over the years.
    Beyond the nicer markers are paths leading to much simpler graves. Some are marked with stacks of red bricks around them. Others are merely noted with a single rock or a wooden cross. From the few inscriptions I can make out, these appear to be the graves of slaves, Indians, and unknown soldiers.
    The dull pain in my chest intensifies and I feel my breathing begin to labor. It's like I'm having an asthma attack, although I don't suffer from it, like Marjorie does. Mental illness, possibly, but not asthma. Could it be that I'm experiencing something akin to what happened at school yesterday with Courtney's throwing up and Okra's broken leg? Am I feeling something that these dead people were afflicted with?
    I don't panic this time. As an alternative to freaking out, I take a moment to focus on my breathing, like Mom talks about. In doing so, I note that the tension in my chest eases somewhat. An image—an awareness, almost—appears in my mind of a Confederate soldier with the same kind of chest pains. He ... he ... died from ... wait ... it's coming to me ... died from ... complications from ... pneumonia ... made worse by his..."Oh my God! He had asthma."
    Urged on by who knows what, I fall to my knees and begin clawing away at the marker in front of me. Red Georgia clay embeds under my fingernails, but I don't care. I move the rusty-colored dirt off the placard on the ground and pluck two long weeds that have crawled over the stone. Written on the grave is:
L T . C HARLES S. F AHRQUARSON

23 RD A THENS R IFLE B ATTALION

1844-1864

D IED OF A STHMA
    I pump my fist in the air and jump to my feet, beaming with pride over this revelation. Of course, there's no one here to celebrate