Chapter Thirty-Two
Emmanuel
Istare at the file of Daphne Brooks through an empty whiskey bottle, head in hands, worn out from the lack of progress with my current patient.
I was never accustomed to failure when I was in regular practice, but that was some years ago.
Daphne’s case is the one that broke me. Hell, it’s still haunting me now, though I’ll never admit it to another living soul.
I go back and forth between Declan and Daphne’s files, page by page, determined to find the missing clue to solve the riddle.
What don’t I see?
I’m certain answers are going to jump off the paper and slap me across the face. It has been hours since the last session with Declan, and I’m determined to stay until I find what I’m looking for. I open another bottle of bourbon and take a swig.
With each flip of a page, the puzzle makes less and less sense, and with each drink I take, the more convoluted the words become.
My frustration spikes just past midnight, and I chuck my empty glass across the room, taking joy in the sound as shards fall to the floor.
I’m exhausted. My body’s heavy and I need sleep, but I can’t just stop. Not now.
When I’ve decided my mind can take no more, I snap Daphne’s folder shut, a small piece of notebook paper falls out of the side and floats down onto my lap.
“Where did–” I begin to ask aloud, but I’m too drunk to finish. I adjust my glasses and hold the paper in front of my face. There are a few words in what I recognize as my writing:
Nightmare, Hallucination, Reality? Schizophrenia likely.
I read the cryptic note. Then I read it again, trying to jar the thought from my memory.
What were you talking about?
At first, the words seem meaningless. Everyone has nightmares.
And hallucinations perceived to be real definitely led me to believe Daphne was suffering from Schizophrenia.
With as much liquor as I’ve consumed, my logic, simply put, is absent.
But I can feel there’s something else I’m forgetting.
Something from before Daphne and Declan. And this scraggly note is the key.
I think about the initial file for Declan. About what pushed him to seek me. Of all the doctors in this business, Declan chose one who is retired.
“Just take a deep breath Manny.” I hear my wife’s soothing voice in my head.
And of course, I do as she says, even in her absence, inhaling and exhaling a long breath, flipping through the pages again.
First, Declan’s file. Then Daphne’s. Back and forth.
Again and again. 281 pages into the back segment of Daphne’s folder, and it clicks.
My hand scoops the receiver to the phone from my desk, and I press it to my ear. The line rings without me having to dial out.
“Yes?” My wife answers, and I detect faint aggravation.
“Sorry, love,” I offer as I see by my clock that it’s just past midnight.
“It’s fine, Manny. You okay?” Her voice is quiet and fleeting.
“Yeah,” I dismiss her concern. “I was hoping you could tell me where my file on Franics Wilkins is.”
“It’s in your drawer, like the others,” she explains. “You haven’t thought about him in an age. I’m glad you figured it out.”
“So, you knew?” It’s really more of a statement than a question, but the fact she saw the connection first has me frazzled.
“Of course,” she boasts. “I’m actually surprised you—it doesn’t matter. You’ve figured it out now.”
With the phone wedged between my ear and neck, I yank open the creaky file drawer, the metal runners screeching in protest. As my fingers slide over the manila tabs, I focus on the "W" section, my fingertips brushing past folders looking for the one labeled "Wilkins."
“It’s not here,” I snap unfairly. It’s not her fault.
"Take a breath, Manny," she reassures, her voice like a gentle breeze trying to calm the storm within me. "Look under 'F'. For some reason, you never put his last name on the label, so it will just say 'Francis'."
I hesitate before reaching for the old, faded folder.
Its dog-eared and frayed edges speak of its long history and the many hands it has passed through.
Several rubber bands, now stretched thin and brittle with age, barely contain its contents.
As I carefully peel away the cracked rubber bands, their once vibrant colors dulled to a gray, I place the folder on my desk with a deliberate motion.
The pages ruffle softly, like whispering leaves, and my eyes fixate on the intake form we completed just after I returned from my honeymoon.
The words leap off the page, alive and tormenting.
A nightmare since childhood. A nightmare, singular.
Something following him. Often by himself, but never alone.
My mind floods with memories of Francis Wilkins, a patient who had been under my care for years, and I feel a knot tightening in my chest.
I flip further through the file, my fingers tracing the well-thumbed edges as I approach the end. But the words are burned into my memory. I know what it says. Francis Wilkins vanished without a trace, right before his birthday, leaving behind a mystery that has never been solved.
"Anything else, hun?" Her voice pulls me back from the brink, snapping me out of my conflicted thoughts.
I push his documents aside, the weight of it lingering in my mind, and try to refocus on the scrap of paper taped at the back of Daphne’s file. But the feeling of unresolved tension refuses to fade while I stare at the note.
FRANCIS?
What have I done?
“Get him up. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”