Chapter Five
Declan
During the doctor’s brief reprieve, I find myself pacing back and forth across his back patio chilled to my core. I don’t have many memories of my father, and I’m not certain whatever that was qualifies. I wasn’t ready. Not for It. Not then. It’s getting worse. Fuck. I need to calm down.
Staring hard at my pay-by-the-minute flip phone, I contemplate calling her.
My girlfriend. My love. But a sad realization comes to mind.
I can recall the most insignificant things in life in great detail.
The day I was first hit by my father. The moment I got in my first fight.
The cheat code to my favorite video game.
Fuck, I remember the exact minute on the day I lost my virginity.
However, I don't know a single phone number.
Not my girlfriend's. Not my mother's. My brothers'.
Kent's. Not a single one. Sure, I can navigate through my contacts.
I can tell this tiny hand-held computer to call anyone.
But fuck me. I can't recall an actual sequence that will cause any acquaintance's phone to ring.
"Oh well," I mumble in a shameful tone of frustration.
A smile creeps across my face when I click the call button beneath her name. Though, as the line rings once, it occurs to me she's probably working. It rings again, and I hope she's not too busy to answer. But as her voicemail introduction begins, I let out a big sigh and end the call.
What the hell would I have said anyway? That I'm stressed out? That I'm worried I'm once again wasting my time? That I’m a lost cause? She knows how I feel. Besides, she’d just give me shit for suggesting I’m worthless.
I save her from the grief of my pointless whinging. Instead, I flick my finished butt to the floor and stomp it out. But before I can return to the Doctor’s office, the phone vibrates in my hand.
She must not be too busy after all.
Some doctors say I'm precisely the type of person Sigmund Freud was talking about when he developed his theory on the Oedipus Complex. Not that I want to fuck my mother, but the fact I'm engaged to an arguably younger version of her does raise questions.
I remember when I was fourteen. I lived a mile and a half from my high school.
I made that trip by foot every day. Rain or shine.
As luck would have it, on my way home the day before Christmas vacation, I ascended a dirt incline connecting the east side of the neighborhood to the west. At the top of the path was a group of classmates smoking cigarettes and picking on another student.
I hated bullies. Almost as much as smokers.
Thinking I was some sort of heroic avenger, I dropped my backpack to the ground and ran toward the ruckus.
If I'd really been paying attention, I would have counted the ten attackers that were about to ruin school break.
The group easily divided in two and beat the shit out of us both.
One of the dickheads even pulled my shoe off my left foot and smacked me across the face with it. Happy fucking holidays.
Anxious to talk to anyone at this point, I answer my pulsating phone. "Hey babe," I greet the woman I pray is my wife-to-be.
"Hi sweetie." We usually greet one another with some term of endearment. "Is your meeting over already? Haha." She chuckles before whispering, "That would be a record."
"You're funny." I chuckle sarcastically before sighing. "The doctor already certified me as hopeless."
She hates when I rag on myself. She’s heard about my run ins with bullies. About my disapproving father. About how I’ve never been good enough for anyone.
"Declan!" she exclaims with resounding disapproval.
“We’re taking a quick break is all, babe. Chill. I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t quip back at me, choosing instead to let the silence tell me how much she’d like to slap me for patronizing her.
I pipe up and tell her about my frustration and general lack of optimism with my appointment.
Luckily for me, she knows me better than I know myself.
I'm sensitive. She knows I’ll lose my steam.
When I finally stop bitching, my lover smiles.
I can’t see her through the phone, but I can always feel when her energy shifts as the corners of her mouth curl up.
"Sweetheart." She stops, and I clock her endearing tone. "Please, for me, try to be patient."
She’s right. She’s always right. I need to be patient. After all, this is my last chance.
“I love you,” she adds when she’s certain her message was received.
"I love you too baby," I respond and catch a glimpse of Dr. Campos coming back into his office. As I end the call, I feel peace swell in my chest. I don't know what I'd do without her.
"Hey, Doc," I call out as I shut the sliding patio door behind me. "Let's do this."