Chapter Fifty
Amber
RING!
I sit with the phone pressed to my ear.
RING!
Still no answer.
Ri–
A suctioning crackle splashes through the phone, followed by a fast click, violent pangs of electronic distortion, and then a dial tone.
I know they didn’t just hang up on me.
Livid, I dial the number again.
RING!
The line picks up immediately.
“Wrong number!” a wretched woman shouts through the receiver in a coarse tone, and again the line goes dead.
RING!
I have all day.
RING!
Again, there’s answer.
“Stop call–”
“Please don’t hang up,” I beg the woman not to ignore my call.
“Oh,” she says, obviously expecting someone else. “Who is this?”
“My name’s Amber,” I say bashfully. “I’m trying to reach Doctor Emmanuel Campos. I’m hoping he can help me with something.”
“I see,” the woman says with an old smoker’s rasp. “My apologies. I thought you were that persistent man from yesterday who keeps trying to sell me a timeshare. What did you say you want?”
I wait a moment, surprised by the gruff woman’s tone, uncertain if I’ve called the right place.
“I’m looking for Dr. Campos,” I say, raising my voice thinking maybe she’s older and hard of hearing. “Have I called the right number?”
“Well yes, you have,” the surly woman responds. “But I don’t think he can help you miss.”
“Please ma’am,” I say, expecting the line to go dead again. “It’s really important. My boyfriend, Declan is, or was, one of his patients.”
“Declan, you say,” the elderly woman retorts. She heard me correctly. Yet, she seems hesitant to admit she knows who I’m talking about. “Declan who?” she presses with what I interpret as feigned ignorance.
“Declan Roberts, ma’am,” I insist, still uncertain. “Dr. Campos helped him, or so I’m told. Is this his number?”
Sensing something isn’t right, my stomach churns. This curt woman is clearly hiding something.
“Missster Roberts?” the surly woman asks with a wavering tone. “This is the correct number. But, the doctor is” —she hesitates, rolling her eyes in search of the right words— “unable to help you. Perhaps someone else can be of greater service.”
“No!” I yell into the phone, my patience gone.
I’ve had enough of this crap. All the polite approaches have gotten me nowhere, and I’m not about to tolerate any more of it.
“I will not look anywhere else. Someone is going to help me, and by God, if Dr. Campos has any information about my Declan, then I need to know. Got it? Now, please let me speak to the doctor.” The surge of energy from my outburst is oddly liberating, despite the desperate circumstances causing me to call.
“The doctor is not able to speak with you, miss,” the grouchy woman retorts with harsh finality.
“Better yet, let me make this crystal clear: Dr. Campos no longer has the ability to speak. Therefore, he cannot help you with whatever nonsense you’re referencing.
Do you ‘got it’?” With that, she slams the phone down.
Son of a bitch!
In my fury, I huck my phone across the living room, where it collides with a vase of flowers above my faux fireplace, shattering it into hundreds of tiny fragments. Water and vegetation splatter every which way.
The sight of glass particles exploding onto the floor sends me off the deep end.
Every emotion I know a name for bursts out on my face in a chaotic display.
Seeing red, I fling my couch cushions and pillows down the hall like a baker’s sack of flour.
Bitterness tears the pad of paper I’ve been using for notes into shredded pieces.
Suspicion shatters the picture frame holding my favorite photo of Declan as it slams onto the end table.
Then, finally, sorrow-filled frustration pours from my eyes as I stare at the devastation in my once-intact home.
Stumbling into the adjacent guestroom, I grab a spare cordless phone, and with trembling hands, I pound ten digits and scream in agonizing disgust when Declan’s voicemail greets me once again.
FUCK!