Chapter Fifteen #2
“You just did,” he replies, still in a teasing mood.
“Here is what I will tell you about the significance of you telling me her, Daphne’s, name.
” He looks over the tops of his lenses directly at me, then switching to a serious tone, further explaining, “I feared that if I couldn’t get you to trust me with her name, Declan, you’d never be able to talk to me about the things causing you the most anxiety, the things that are mentioned in your file, briefly.
” He sits back and grabs his clipboard. I assume he’s writing down Daphne’s name for the record.
“Now, Declan, let’s talk some more about this, Daphne. ”
“Okay,” I say. “What more do you want to know?”
“Well,” the doctor speaks slowly, “how long were the two of you together?”
“You mean how long did we date?” He won’t get it yet, but I need clarification.
“If that’s how you interpret the question, that’s fine.” The doctor sounds more and more like the riddle master from our prior meeting.
“Four years,” I answer emphatically. “Daphne and I dated for four amazing years.”
“Wow.” The doctor seems surprised by my energetic response. “And how long ago was this?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” I reply with my own question; something doctors usually love.
“The four years, Declan,” he asks. “When did they come to an end?”
“Oh.” I feel a little dumb, but sleep deprivation is a bitch. “Sorry, I have a hard time recalling when exactly I last saw Daphne, but it has been several years. Why do you ask?”
“Why don’t you let me worry about the questions, Declan?” The doctor gets a little snippy, hoping to curb my probes as we proceed. “Let’s try this. How long ago did you meet?” he asks.
“Almost ten years,” I answer.
“Interesting,” the doctor mumbles. “Tell me, Declan, exactly when did you meet this, Daphne?”
“I just told you, Doc, almost ten years ago.” I respond with cynicism-laced words, shaking my head in confusion.
“I don’t mean to be rude, Declan.” His voice sounds like he wants to avoid patronizing me, though he’s close to failing.
“But, the fact you say almost ten years means it wasn’t exactly ten years.
” His eyes perk up as he enunciates the intent of his question.
“What I really want to know is, do you remember specifically when you met this, Daphne? Perhaps the month and year, or even the date?”
“It was my eighteenth birthday, Doc,” I say, ignoring the fact that I’m starting to feel like a third grader.
“My, my.” The doctor sounds intrigued. “You’re not far from your birthday. I hadn’t realized it until just now. Do you have any big plans for the day?”
“Huh?” I mutter, puzzled by his random detour.
“For your birthday, Declan,” he says. “Do you have any big plans for your birthday? Sure, it’s only your twenty-eighth, but that doesn’t mean you can’t celebrate.”
I haven’t enjoyed my birthday since before my mother got the nerve to pack our shit and move us away from my asshole of a father. Before every year was a reminder that, unlike my friends, I didn’t have a father who loved me.
“Um, no,” I say, growing concerned with where this could possibly be going. “Why?”
“No reason,” he replies. “I happen to love birthdays, is all. I’ll keep yours in mind.” He makes another note on his clipboard. “Well then, back to Daphne. Were the two of you happy together?”
“What?” I can’t keep up with the doctor’s direction. “Yes. We were very happy. Madly in love.”
“Really? So, you got along when you were together.” He peppers me with his follow-up.
“I thought so,” I mumble through indifferent breath. “We only argued about her home life,” I say. “You know, the stuff you asked about before.”
“Yes, I wrote it down, actually.” The doctor points at yesterday’s notes on the clipboard, and I roll my eyes.
“Well, Declan, I have to ask. If everything was going well—I mean, if you were as in love as you say, why aren’t you together now? Did you break up?” I knew this question was coming. They always want to know about the heartbreak.
“We didn’t break up, Doc,” I reply. “I loved her more than anything.”
“You didn’t?” The doctor’s brow contorts.
“Nope.” I’m reluctant to say any more. This is where it always goes wrong. Where everyone decides they’re excavators, digging for more about Daphne, getting further from focusing on me.
“You haven’t seen her in—” He pauses, and I can tell he’s doing math. “Well, nearly six years, is that correct, Declan?” he clarifies, and I can tell he’s skeptical.
“That’s correct, doc,” I say, still restraining myself from expanding. “Six years. Give or take.”
“Then let me ask you this,” the doctor tries again. “How did your relationship end?” He’s determined to get his answer.
I roll my eyes back in my head and let out a large sigh. I consider the conversation that will have to take place if I answer the doctor’s question. I’m not sure I’m willing to have it. This is taking up far too much time, but I figure I’ll never get the help I’m seeking if I don’t just say it.
“I wish I knew,” I say bluntly. Then, nothing. It’s quiet. The doctor doesn’t react. Doesn’t respond. Doesn’t do—anything. Nor for a good while.
Minutes pass before the doctor flips through my file, looking for a note from a previous therapist, but finds nothing. And he won’t find it. It’s not there. I’ve never answered the question before.
“Tell me more.” He insists and waits.
“I dropped her off at the park after our last date.” I feel like I’m reliving the past, and the pain in my heart causes my hands to shake.
“We made plans to go out again. Like we always did. Then, I watched her walk into the distance. Again, like always. And that was it. I went to pick her up the following night, but she never showed. I never saw her again.” I didn’t notice while I was talking, but tears are welling at the base of my eyes and that feeling of extreme loss washes over me.
“I’m sorry, Declan,” the doctor says, his voice filled with empathy. “This must be difficult for you to talk about. Would you like to stop for today?”
The offer’s unexpected. It’s an unmistakable sign that he is interested in understanding, and it softens something in the pain I’m feeling.
“No,” I tell him the truth. Stopping means I have to go home to another horror. “Please, I’d like to continue.”
“Then, Declan,” he eases in, “I want to point out that it seems odd to me that you were in a relationship with a woman for years. But you didn’t live together. You never went to her home. Did she visit yours?”
I supposed I shouldn’t be shocked he’s asking. It’s a logical inquiry given how abnormal everyone else tells me we were.
“All the time,” I respond with a bit of energy. I know this is the common relationship response, though it’ll be the only one I can offer.
“That’s good, at least,” the doctor acknowledges. “Then, what did you do?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“When Daphne didn’t show up for your next date, what did you do?”
“Everything I could think of,” I reply. “The police told me I was crazy. Hell, everyone I’ve met before coming to you has said I’m crazy.”
“Crazy?” The doctor doesn’t quite get it. “Why would everyone think you’re crazy?”
“They all say I made her up. That Daphne was in my head. A figment of my imagination. A hallucination at best. But she was real.” Streams of saline cascade down my face, recalling the trauma anew.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” the doctor says, taking a moment to choose his next words. “Your file shows you saw some good doctors. It’s odd that any of them would accuse you of making Daphne up given where you were in the process of getting a diagnosis.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Doc,” I snip at him, though I know I shouldn’t. He’s not the issue. He hasn’t told me I’m a lunatic, yet.
“Do you know Daphne’s last name?” He utters a course correction.
My tears stop instantly as I glare through the doctor’s glasses and into his eyes.
“Yes, Doc.” I force the words through my teeth. “I know her last name. I told you, I’m not making this up.”
“I believe you, Declan. Take a deep breath.” He tosses his hands up and motions towards the floor to de-escalate the situation.
I inhale slowly through my nostrils, letting all the air fill me with peace.
I’ll be okay.
“So,” the doctor continues. “What is it, her last name?”
Here we go.
“It’s Brooks,” I say. “Her name was Daphne Brooks. Are you satisfied?”
The seconds that follow unfurl like a slow-motion replay at the Olympics.
I watch as the clipboard drops from Dr. Campos’ hands, crashing to the floor.
Papers disperse in every direction. Pens and highlighters fall one by one from his lap as he slowly tries to stand.
His hands spasm while he grips the armrest. The look of shock on his face suggests he’s staring at a ghost in the shadows of the room.
His breathing becomes rapid before he stumbles, nearly falling to the floor.
I rush to catch him, but he swats at my hands, signaling me to stay away.
“Are you okay, Doc?” I ask, concern lacing my voice. “Do you need me to get someone, Miss Paxon perhaps? Is your wife home?” The doctor ignores my attempts to assist.
Dr. Campos reaches his arms out in front of him to brace against the wall, wheezing. Every breath seems more difficult than the last, until I ultimately decide to act.
“Miss Paxon!” I yell for his sultry assistant, hoping he has a condition I don’t know about and she’ll know what to do. “Anyone!” But nobody comes.
Dr. Campos makes his way out the door and into the hallway at the top of the stairs. He turns back toward me, white as a sheet, still wearing that look of disbelief.
“Don’t you go anywhere, Declan,” he barks at me through his burdened breath from across the room. “Just give me a moment.”
He closes the door, leaving me alone in the torch-lit room.