Chapter Thirty-Six
Declan
“Declan,” the doctor responds, “it took me a while to put it together, but I think I’ve found the connection between you and Ms. Brooks.”
“Connection?” I ask with a contorted expression. “What connection?”
“You see,” he says. “Earlier, when I repeatedly asked you how long it has been since you last saw Ms. Brooks, you consistently give me an answer that suggests you last saw her well after the recording you just heard takes place. Thus, you claim to have seen her more recently than I have.”
I squint, trying to replay his riddle in my head, but simply can’t grasp what he’s saying.
“What does that have to do with anything, Doc? Why does it matter if I’ve seen Daphne more recently than you have?”
“Because!” A fleck of spit shoots from his mouth when he snaps, landing with a splat on the glass wall between us. “Daphne left my office that day ten years ago, and within a week, she was gone. Vanished.”
He can’t be right.
“What do you mean she vanished, Doc?” I press. “You mean she never came back to see you?”
That would make a little more sense.
“No, Declan,” he replies. “I mean she went to work days later, and has not been seen since, by anyone. Not her parents. Not her friends. Not anyone.” Dr. Campos pauses again.
“It’s not that people didn’t go searching for her.
We did. I even helped the authorities canvass known areas of interest to Ms. Brooks. ”
“Doc,” I say, feeling my face turn a darker shade of red. “How could nobody know where she went? And how can this even be the same girl I loved?”
“Her friend, I believe her name was Beth, said Daphne was supposed to meet up with a gentleman. Her boyfriend. After work,” the doctor explains.
“He was the best, and really the only lead we had. But he was clean.” He stops again.
The struggle to keep his shit together is plain on his face.
Between the booze and his rising blood pressure, it looks like he’s likely to need a doctor himself.
“I looked for her for nearly three years,” he continues. “Until I couldn’t anymore. She remains missing to this day.”
“You just gave up?” I ask furiously.
“Declan,” he says with a hint of pleading.
“My search for Ms. Brooks nearly killed me.” He pulls the collar of his shirt down to reveal a large scar running down the middle of his chest. “I had to be revived by paramedics. I was literally deceased—a massive heart attack brought on by the stress of Ms. Brooks’ disappearance, no doubt.
” Adjusting his shirt and wiping his face with a puke-stained sleeve, he adds, “So don’t you sit there and make accusations as though I didn’t do everything I possibly could.
” Sadness drags down his face—undeniable regret and sorry.
“Ms. Brooks is the client who ended my professional career.”
I hesitate, feeling a small ounce of guilt, a sensation that doesn’t balance with all the doctor has done to me.
“I, uh…” I stammer, “I don’t know what to say, Doc. This is all too bizarre for me.” I try to sound confident, though it’s hard to stand my ground when I can’t even grasp the point I’m trying to make. “I still don’t get why you’re struggling with the existence of our relationship.”
“She disappeared on her twenty-eighth birthday,” he adds, ignoring me in the moment.
“But,” I respond, half expecting to wake from a bad dream. “She was only twenty-two when…”
Wasn’t she?
“You have maintained the same facts throughout these interactions. It’s what lead me to reevaluate everything.”
“Meaning what, Doc?” I ask with both piqued frustration and curiosity. “Why do you care so much, anyway?”
“Because of Francis,” he randomly blurts out.
“Who the fuck is Francis?” I demand suspiciously.
“A dear friend of mine,” he offers with a hint of shame. A friend who I arrogantly treated professionally. Who I misdiagnosed. Who I misjudged.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Doc. What does he have to do with any of this?”
“I think Daphne dated him.” He drops another seemingly erroneous nugget of information. “Only she called him Frankie. Only his brother and closest friend called him Frankie.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I shout, filled with maybe the last notion of anger I can handle. “So what? That doesn’t tell me anything about—”
“He was haunted by—something—too.” The doctor’s shoulders sag as he states it. “It’s the dream,” the doctor explains. “You all were marred by that damn dream. The one with the crazy ghost?”
“It’s no ghost, Doc. I don’t know what It is, but a ghost it’s not.”
“Nevertheless,” the doctor presses on, ignoring my protest. “Both you and Ms. Brooks had the same dream. You both wrote it out, word for word. And Francis, well, he rarely made sense. The line between reality and fantasy was heavily blurred for him. But when I went through his file again, a lot of the details are similar.”
“And?” I throw my hands up.
“I don’t understand. Not yet.” He admits. “But I can feel it. We’re so close.”
“I give up, Doc,” I say, exasperated. “I’m never going to get where you’re going. So, if you’re going to make a point, please get to it.”
“Think about it, Declan,” the doctor urges, jabbing his forefinger to the side of his head.
“Ms. Brooks tells me about her dream days before she turns twenty-eight. Then she disappears. A decade later, you come to me, suffering from the same delusion, with your twenty-eighth birthday when? Days from now, yes?”
“Is that it, Doc?” I ask. “Is that your big reveal?”
“Francis went missing on his twenty-eighth birthday as well.” He blinks at me slowly, as though he expects me to finish the thought. But I’ve got nothing for him.
“I want to go home, Doc,” I blab with no more fucks to give. “And this feels like I’m getting further from leaving.”
“Francis has been gone for twenty-one years, Declan.”
His words pummel me like a sledgehammer. Twenty-one years? The walls seem to collapse in on me. I'm choking on air.
"That's not possible." My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from someone else.
Doc leans forward, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Daphne disappeared when she was twenty-eight, just like Francis. And now you’re here with me, same as them, days before your birthday.
I don’t believe in coincidences, Declan.
” He stops for a second to take a sip of whatever’s in the mug on his desk.
“I tell you what, Declan.” His tone changes to one of compromise.
“I will stop pressing you about the differences in our timelines, as it pertains to Ms. Brooks. And all I ask is that you continue sharing. Your dream. Your memories. Anything that may have changed. Anything recent that was odd.”
“I doubt it makes any difference. But, there was one instance, about a week before I came to see you where Daphne appeared in my dream.”
“I wish you’d told me this before,” he replies.
“Well doc,” I say, “I haven’t told anyone.
When I first started having this awful recurring dream,” I say.
“I read every book I could find about dream interpretations. Later, when Daphne disappeared, I worried about what doctors and head-shrinkers would say about the small piece of information I’m now unveiling for you, and I consciously chose to deny that it ever happened.
“Okay, Declan,” says the doctor, “you need to tell me the entire story of you and Ms. Brooks. Beginning, middle and end. And you need to tell me now.”