K.E. Ganshert - Luka: The Gifting Book 1 Companion Novel

Edited by: Betsy St. Amant

Cover Design by: Okay Creations

Copyright 2021 by K.E. Ganshert

All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the authors imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Im not supposed to exist.

The intrusive thought runs through my mind as I sit inside a drafty office, staring at the mugshot paper-clipped to a file in the doctors lap.

A teenager with dark, messy hair. Straight nose. Olive skin. Camo green eyes. A strong, symmetrical jaw. And full, unsmiling lips set in such a way as to suggest amusement. Or maybe sarcasm. The combination of features are objectively attractive. I understand this without any arrogance or pride. What I dont understand is how those features exist at all. They shouldnta truth I hadnt fully grasped until recently, when I overheard my parents talking in dulcet tones behind their closed bedroom door.

The next day, my father announced that we were moving. Across the country. To a town called Thornsdale on the northern coast of California. Now here I sit in a red leather chair at my very first appointment at the Edward Brooks Facility with its one and only out-patient psychiatrista man named Dr. Roth with an office that smells like ammonia. I picture him sanitizing with it after every session like crazy is a contagion. A germ to be caught. Maybe this is why the mentally unstable are locked away from society. If left in the world, they would spread their germs and we would have a full-blown pandemic on our hands. Nobody wants that, so the insane are sequestered awaytreated in seclusionuntil they are no longer symptomatic.

I look from the framed diploma on Dr. Roths wall to the tall filing cabinet beside his work desk. Theres no computer. No laptop. If I had to guess, there isnt an iPad tucked away in a drawer or anything else that might store hackable data. My fathers policy, no doubt. A man so rich and powerful he bought one of the countrys last remaining privately-owned mental health facilities in order to keep his son off the governments radar.

Dr. Roths bifocals slide down his bulbous nose as he studies the paperwork in my file. I watch him take it all in, wondering whats inside. The whole truth and nothing but the truth? Or did my father exclude the part where hes at least partially culpable?

I shift in my chair, the leather squeaking beneath me. Do you believe in God?

Dr. Roth looks from the file to me, caught off guard as he pushes up his glasses. Do you?

I know the correct answer. The widely acceptable answer. No, of course not. We live in a world that has systematically eradicated God and all things supernatural from existence. We live in a world that is purely physical and should it ever seem otherwise, just wait a moment. A reasonable explanation will be found eventually. Still, I cant help but imagine some cosmic creator constructing humans on a manufacturing belt high up in the sky. I glance again at the file in Dr. Roths lap. If such a God exists, then he not only forgot to tighten the screws in my head, he left something out altogether. Some vital piece that makes everyone else around me whole while I remain half. This is the symptom not in the file. The one I have never articulated and can never escape. The ever-present feeling that Im living life with a missing piece. A phantom limb. Probably the sort of thing a person ought to talk to a therapist about. But after overhearing that conversation between my parents, I dont think it would be wise.

Im not supposed to exist.

Dr. Roth scratches the whiskers of his mousy brown goatee, a spark of unmistakable interest in his narrowed eyes. A spark that has me feeling like a novel virus under a microscope. Why do you ask about God, Luka?

Just curious, I guess.

He crosses his ankle over his knee. Why dont you tell me about yourself.

I cross my ankle over my knee, too, mirroring his posture. With my elbows propped on the armrests of the chair, I steeple my fingers. What do you want to know?

How are you adjusting to the move?

I shrug. Weve been unpacking boxes for three weeks now, slowly and steadily filling our new homea behemoth house inside the gated community of Forest Grove, conveniently located a couple blocks south of this very facility. The surfings good.

Ah, yes. Surfing. It says here that you quite enjoy it. Dr. Roth shuffles through the papers. That seems like a solitary endeavor.

I dont mind solitude.

Do you consider yourself a loner?

I consider myself out of step. One notch removed. But I swallow the words and shrug again. The less I give Dr. Roth, the better. My goal, in fact, is to give him so little he renders our appointments unnecessary.

How was your first day of school? he asks.

Fine.

Did you make any friends? he says in a rush, almost like hes required to ask the question. Orders from his new boss, probably. At the request of the bosss wife. My mother really wants me to make friends.

Everyones been very welcoming.

Have you considered participating in any extracurriculars?

Like?

I hear youre good at football.

I dont mean to react. But I must do something. An eye-roll. A huff of breath, perhaps?

Whatever it is, Dr. Roth pounces. Does that annoy you?

Im not interested in football.

Your father seems to think the coach is interested in you.

I give him a third shrug. The coach is my new P.E. teacher. He saw me tossing a football in class and made a special call home that same day. My mothers eyes were aglow when she relayed the conversation word-for-word. That son of yours has one heck of an arm, Mrs. Williams. Its not too often I see a freshman throw with that much speed and accuracy. We sure could use him on the team.

My poor mother.

All of this would be easier if shed had an awkward son. An unattractive, uncoordinated son. Insteadin a cruel twist of fateshe got one with all the right ingredients. Except for the most crucial.

Im not supposed to exist.