Chapter Eleven
Declan
Dr. Campos places his clipboard and pen on the lamp stand next to his chair before removing his glasses to rub his eyes.
Giving no initial indication as to whether or not my story is useful, he stands up, places his hands on the back of his waist, and bends backward.
The movement is slow and gradual, leaning further and further, until a loud pop echoes across the room, followed by his gasping exhale.
“Well done, Declan,” he says while returning to his seat. “Your memory for detail is remarkable. And,” he hesitates, “I can tell that you enjoyed your evening with the young lady.”
I’m glad to hear something other than patronizing words.
Every other doctor I’ve told about the one-time love of my life has informed me, in no uncertain terms, that I’m out of my mind.
Many have gone so far as to accuse me of fabricating the entire thing.
But I’m not crazy. Mine is no tale of fiction. Nor is it an easy one to share.
“Thanks, Doc,” I say. “I always take my time telling that story. It was a night I never wanted to end.” Even now, I can feel her in my heart. “I tell you what though,” I add, “my mouth is as dry as my father’s ashes. Can I have some more water, please?”
“Of course, Declan,” the doctor answers. “It’ll be good for you to stretch your legs as well. Please, help yourself to as much water as you’d like. If you want to stand for a moment, be my guest. I believe we’re heading toward progress, and I want you to be as comfortable as you can be.”
There’s nothing as refreshing as a glass of ice water, and Dr. Campos pays for the good stuff.
None of that cheap shit from a recycled plastic bottle, or worse, purified via osmosis.
I chug the first in only a few gulps before pouring another to keep for the ongoing conversation.
This isn’t my first rodeo, and if Dr. Campos is anything like others, the journey remains at the start.
Hell, the biggest issue. The thing. The one I can’t escape. Well, I suppose we’ll get there.
Refreshed and settled back in, I wiggle my ass until it finds the perfect spot. I’m ready.
“Okay, Doc.” I signal for us to proceed. “I’m good to go. Thanks again.” I’m surprised by the genuine excitement I feel.
“It’s my pleasure, Declan,” he replies.
This guy really isn’t bad.
“I want to go back for a moment to this young girl with whom you fell in love,” he starts again, trying to fill in the blanks.
“Tell me about her family. What were her parents like? Did she have any siblings? How long were you together before she showed you her home? Give me the details about her personal life. Tell me who she is.”
I’m baffled by the onslaught of pseudo-questions. I know he won’t be happy with my answers—or lack thereof.
“Truth be told,” I say hesitantly. “She never talked about her family.” I cringe, anticipating invasive questions.
“Any time I tried to ask her about her parents or siblings.” I keep going when the inquisition doesn’t come.
“She either changed the subject or became frustrated with me. It was one thing she blatantly avoided discussing with me.”
Looking at me over the tops of his thick lenses, Dr. C’s eyes narrow to daggers.
“You mean to tell me that she never told you anything about her family?” He recaps in disbelief.
“Don’t you find that to be odd?” he asks, and he has a point, but that wasn’t important to me. I wasn’t with her for her family.
“Yes, I do,” I say. “Very odd, actually. Everything about her was odd. But I loved her. I wasn’t going to fuck that up by fighting about her parents.” I stop and wait for the doctor to attack. But—he doesn’t.
“That’s okay, Declan,” Dr. Campos says, though his tone suggests otherwise. “I’m not trying to beat you up about it. I simply wanted to know if you found it unusual. What about her home? When did you visit?”
Fuck. This is going to be a trend.
“I didn’t,” I answer. “Every date began and ended exactly the same. I picked her up and dropped her off at the park. Unless she spent the night at my place, but even that was a rare occasion. Whenever I tried to force the issue, I got the same result as mentioning her family. She was an unusual girl, Doc. She didn’t like to use the telephone.
All our dates were determined before she walked away from me the time prior.
I never found out her address. I couldn’t even drive by and see where her home was located.
What it looked like. How big it was. How dangerous her neighborhood was.
For all I knew, she was living in the park.
If it weren’t for the fact she always showed up in a nice outfit with pristine skin, with a fresh scent of cotton candy and flowers, I’d have believed she was homeless and hiding from something. ”
Dr. C looks concerned. I assume these aren’t the answers he expected. He hears a tremendous tale of a growing love, and it’s followed by a world of unknowns. I wish I had the answers he seeks, but I don’t.
This is where I always lose them.
“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” the doctor says, adjusting his glasses. “You were in a relationship with a woman who, from what I can tell, you cared for more than, perhaps, your own wellbeing. However, you didn’t really know anything about her. Is that right?”
I can’t blame him for being skeptical. To hear him summarize it in so few words sounds pathetic.
“I wouldn’t say that I didn’t know anything about her, Doc.” I try to recover. “I just don’t know the things you want to know.” My sincere words come out laced with sarcasm.
“Well at least tell me you know her name, Declan,” the doctor says, irritated by my quip. “You’ve gone through your whole story without calling her by name once, and I’m worried you’re about to tell me that she never told you that either.”
Here we go again, with this shit.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I bark back. “Of course I know her name. Who dates someone for years without knowing their name?” Why do they always talk to me like I’m a fucking moron? Everyone always hounds me about her name. Her family. Her story.
What about my fucking story?
“Really, Declan?” The doctor has trouble believing me. “Then what is it? What is this mystery woman’s name?”
It’s been six years since my first love disappeared without a trace. Six years of me being asked to explain our relationship. Six years of being told I’m crazy. That I imagined it. I’m tired of talking about her. I loved her. But I’m here for me.
“You think I’m making this whole thing up?
” I push myself off the chair and stand up, working myself into a fit of rage.
“You think I’d waste my time to create some elaborate story just so I can waste yours too?
You’ve read my file. Otherwise, you’d never have agreed to see me. Yes, Dr. Campos, I know her name.”
I’m not here to talk about her. I’m here to talk about me. My nightmares. My demon. Or whatever it is. The shit stalking me from the shadows. I don’t have time to rehash a past relationship when this—this—thing has all but consumed me.
Feeling our dialogue getting out of hand, the doctor stands up from his chair with his hand held out to freeze me in place like a child waiting for his father to hit him. After a moment of silence, he sighs, walks over to his desk, and places his clipboard and writing utensils down.
“I think we’ve gone far enough for today, Declan,” he says.
“I apologize for getting you all riled up, but it’s necessary for me to know the things that truly matter to you.
If you don’t mind, Miss Paxon will see you out, and I’d like to see you here first thing tomorrow morning. Shall we say eight o’clock?”
This has to be a charade.
The doctor appears totally unfazed, as if the near collision didn’t just happen. I’m ready to punch kittens, and he’s completely serene.
The fuck?
“Huh?” I ask, feeling like a bully just took the ball and left the playground. “Are you serious? I don’t get it.”
“Not yet you don’t,” the doctor replies without looking at me. “But for now, yes, that’s all. I’ll see you tomorrow.”