Chapter Four
Declan
I’ve been seen by a vast number of therapists over the years, but I’ve never made a home visit.
I’m not sure what I expected to find, but when I swing the hefty door open and enter Dr. Campos’ office, I know it wasn’t this.
An antique clock ticks away in the back corner, announcing each second aloud.
The sliding glass door behind his desk is decorated with velvet curtains.
A marble fireplace sits deep into the far wall.
The furniture isn’t so much old fashioned as vintage.
It’s cold, dark and uninviting. Which leads me to forget all sense of etiquette.
“Why have you agreed to see me?” I ask bluntly.
Propped up in hand-stitched-leather throne behind a mahogany desk, with his body slouched forward upon his elbows, Dr. Emmanuel Campos twirls a pen in his right hand as he stares through a set of bifocals at his next patient’s file. My file.
“An excellent question,” he says with a deep and austere tone. “You appear to have a very brief history of mental illness. More to the point, aside from what I would consider to be a minor case of PTSD, it’s a wonder you managed to pass the qualification screening for my services.”
In his sixties and enjoying retirement, the highly reputable Dr. Campos has only recently agreed to take on a new patient, with the potential to take on more in the years to come.
During his time working at Patton State Hospital, he developed a viable treatment for night terrors.
In doing so, he discovered another breakthrough.
Though the scientific community rejected many of his revelations, Dr. Campos became a pioneer, specializing in cases involving delusions perceived by patients to be of a paranormal nature.
“My god, where are my manners? Hello, Mr. Roberts,” he says in a stir as he stands to make his way from behind his desk.
He’s a tall man, much taller than myself, and an easy foot and a half than Miss Paxon.
His head is covered in thick salt and pepper hair.
His skin is rough and tanned, like many old men who have had their shares of alcohol.
The office smells like Aquavelva and mothballs, which tells me he’s a man who finds something he likes and sticks with it.
Unsure of what to expect, I reach out to greet the doctor, who, at first glance, reminds me of my grandfather.
“Please, call me Declan,” I say, catching his hand in mine.
The doctor’s grip is firm, much like my grandfather’s, who always told me nobody likes a dead fish for a handshake.
“You have quite a reputation,” I continue, unsure of whether to speak or hold my tongue.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
The look on the doctor’s face is less than ecstatic. Then again, I’m sure I look like a common man compared to the doctor’s usual patients, unworthy of his expertise.
“Please, Declan,” says the doctor, struggling with his need for formality. “Take a seat, any seat you’d like.”
Preferring the comfort of having my feet up, I sink into a padded leather loveseat. Once settled, I remove my shoes and assume the position with the doctor’s accompanying ottoman beneath my heels.
“Before we begin,” says the doctor, taking a seat in a recliner positioned opposite from my chosen perch. “Do you have any questions for me?”
Dr. Campos is a professional, and he’s in the business of providing a service to those in need. I am, in a sense, his customer. Treating me as such is normal, if such a thing exists, though I’ll never get used to being treated like a patron in such a setting.
“How should I address you?” I ask plainly. “You want me to be formal and call you Doctor Campos?”
“My name is Emmanuel Campos,” he responds. “Yes, I am a doctor. But no, you’re not obligated to address me so impersonally. Whatever is most comfortable for you should work for me, Declan.”
“Okay, then, Doc,” I take a rebellious swing, “what is your approach?”
“My approach?” He purses his lips in confusion.
“Well, whatever you call it,” I quip without an ounce of clarity.
“I’ve been to several head-shrinkers. No two alike.
And while I know you’re the best at what you do, I have no idea how you do it.
Your approach, Doc.” I can tell that my mischaracterization doesn’t impress Dr. Campos by the squint in his eyes.
“That’s a fair question, Declan,” he replies as he begins his newly designed semi-orientation.
“Once we’re able to get through the basic information that tells me who you think you are—” His words cause force my head to do a double-take.
“I’ll ask you more specific questions that require detailed answers.
Then, we’ll work together to figure out what it is that’s negatively impacting your life.
” He seems to expect resistance. However, I’m still confused by the doctor’s riddle-like disposition.
And, having never enjoyed the complexity of the infamous Rubik's Cube, I can’t help but wonder if this meeting will seem like one giant puzzle.
Although a confusing stranger who specializes in crazy people, there’s something about Dr. Campos’ grandfather-esque presence I find inviting.
It could be that the doctor fits into my general affinity for the elderly, which, in my mind, is anyone over the age of fifty.
I figure they’ve lived through and seen more than I could have in my short life, and I respect them because of it.
Or, maybe I’m too dumb to know better. Whatever the reason, somehow, I feel secure in the Doctor’s office.
Perhaps this is the help I’ve been looking for.
“Declan,” says Dr. Campos, his favorite pen flickering in his right hand again. “Your file says that you first started experiencing your, we’ll call them night terrors for now, when you were a teenager. Is that correct?” My eyes flutter, surprised by the doctor’s quick leap to the greater issue.
“So much for getting through the basics,” I jest. My voice spiking with wonder. “What happened to laying a foundation?” It’s not his fault I have such a healthy distrust of head doctors.
“Please,” he continues, “go back a bit, before the first night you remember having these terrors, and tell me what comes to mind.”
“Honestly, Doc?” I let my rhetorical question rest in the air between us for a breath. “I don’t recall a time before. I was only seven or eight when they started. My memory of any good is long gone.”
“There must be something in there, Declan,” he urges. “Take your time. Think. Tell me the first thing that comes to you.”
I don’t want to freak out or lose my temper here. I need this man’s help, and acting like a child won’t accomplish anything. I shut my eyes and breathe in silence. This thing is in my marrow.
“My dad,” I spit out, unsure of why he flew through my thoughts.
“Great,” the doctor whispers encouragement. “What about him?”
“He’s smiling,” I add. “I can’t see much else. Just him, sitting there. With a grin on his face. Actually, he sort of—” My eyes flutter open and dizziness swirls between my ears. “Fuck.”
“What did you just see?” Dr. Campos deftly recenters my attention with his question.
“It,” I mutter, still coming down from the spinning.
“I thought you saw your father,” he pushes again.
“I did, but—” I get stuck in my thought. My eyes dart left and right, scanning for what I saw to manifest itself once more. “He’s gone. It’s gone. I don’t know what I saw. But, this is how it happens. One second, I’m fine. The next, It’s there.”
“I can see this is weighing on you heavily, Declan,” he responds with humble levity.
“I’m not here to upset you. I simply want to get an idea of how your mind operates.
Frankly, this came up must sooner than I expected.
So, let’s take a ten-minute break. You can use the restroom out in the hall, or, if you want some fresh air, feel free to go out on the patio and unwind.
” It’s as if the thought in my mind made its way to the doctor’s mouth.
Dr. Campos stands, clipboard in hand, and walks to the door where I entered.
“We’ll pick things back up afterward,” he says as he exits the room.