Chapter Sixty
Amber
Ipark my rental in front of Dr. Emmanuel Campos’ home—a man who, in my opinion, holds the key to explaining everything happening with my future husband.
Dr. Campos’ house looks to have seen better days.
The remnants of broken columns that likely held a gate adorn either side of the driveway.
There are no signs or even a mailbox that I can see.
If the property ever looked like the others on this block, those days are long gone.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
I tap my knuckles against the off-cream-colored front door.
I better get some damn answers.
Waiting for someone to greet me, I twirl the end of my brown hair, filled with both anger and fear. But nobody responds.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
I pound my hands harder against the door this time.
Stepping back from the door, I look up to a second-story window, where someone’s closing a set of blinds.
Someone’s home.
I wait another moment, assuming whoever I saw will be opening the door. But I’m wrong. Nobody comes.
“I know someone’s in there,” I call out to the house, now pressing the doorbell. “Hello!” I continue, pressing the button and shouting, my irritation growing by the second.
Then, I hear the pitter-patter of dainty footsteps getting closer. They’re faint, but certain. After a beat there’s a series of clicks, and a small release of air as the storm seal relents.
“Hello,” a little boy says shyly, looking up at me.
“Oh, hi there,” I reply with surprise. Stepping back a bit more for a moment, I cock my head to the side, awestruck by the dapper young kid before me.
Staring and blinking without expression, the boy doesn’t respond.
I’m reminded of a picture I recently saw in Marion Roberts’ basement—of a nine-year-old. The resemblance is uncanny. This kid—whatever his name might be—is the spitting image of Declan at that age.
“Who are you?” I ask him, my face as white as a ghost.
“What do you want young lady?” a woman calls out, scurrying to protect the boy.
“Sorry, ma’am,” I say sincerely. “I’m looking for Dr. Campos. I called. I’m not sure if it’s you I spoke to.”
“Let us step outside,” the woman, probably in her mid to late fifties, says.
“It might be easier if we take a seat inside,” I protest, but I can see she’s not so easily swayed.
“No!” she snaps. “You may not enter the house. It’s not safe.” As she speaks, she pulls the door closed behind her, and we move out to the front steps.
“What do you mean it’s not safe? Is something wrong inside?” I ask, my skepticism rising as I worry I’m about to be sent away empty-handed again.
“The master of the house is not well,” she explains in a coarse voice.
“He hasn’t been the same since his accident many years ago.
He’s frail and incoherent most days. I don’t want anyone to see him like that.
It’s not the Manny I want anyone to remember.
But you can speak to me. I was his assistant once upon a time.
But that was a lifetime ago. I’m Martha.
What brings you here?” With that, she guides me over to a small bench by the front yard, where we both sit.
She’s a short woman, and there’s not much left of her at that.
She has a head full of white hair, with eyes of a color I can’t quite identify.
For a moment they had a flare of red, when she was heated, but now they’re virtually clear.
The teeth that show in her mouth are riddled with cavities, and her tan-skin is dust worn and uncared for.
“My name’s Amber,” I reply. “I called here recently—”
“But I hung up on you,” Martha interjects with softened words. “I do apologize for that. The master of the house was ill that day, and those damn telemarketers act as if they have no souls at all.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me,” I say, a tad stunned by her words.
“So, Amber, remind me,” she says, “what brings you here?”
I recount my story from the day Declan left.
I explain the endless attempts I made to reach out to friends and family.
The persistent weird feeling that has haunted me.
The bizarre hallucination in my bedroom.
And I shake when I finally admit Declan is missing yet again.
Just speaking about it dredges up a flood of emotions from so many days of turmoil.
“What d—did you say y—your fiancé’s name is again?” Martha asks, stumbling over her words.
“His name is Declan,” I reply. “Declan Roberts. I’ve been told he’s a patient of Dr. Campos.”
At the sound of his name, Martha’s red eyes widen. “Oh boy,” she murmurs. “So you believe Mr. Roberts is a patient of Dr. Campos now?” Her voice crackles with tension at the implication of my words.
“Well, I did,” I say honestly. “Though now, I’m not so sure what’s going on at all.
” I go on to share every detail of my frantic internet search for articles about Declan, which led me to the library, where I pored over several pieces of microfiche.
Eventually I realized every story suggested Declan had disappeared a decade ago.
“I’m completely at a loss, and I’m just hoping someone can explain what’s happening. ”
“I see,” says Martha with an air of defeat. “Manny always said someone would come looking for him—Declan, that is. Wait here, missss. I’m going to get something that might be of use to you.”
I nod in agreement as she rises from the bench, then heads back into the house, where she closes and locks the door behind her.
Finally, some answers.
I keep an eye to the house, hoping she didn’t make up an excuse to leave me out here. I see the blinds ruffle beside the door, and there’s a small set of eyes peeking out at me—young Declan’s eyes.
Five or so minutes pass, and I hear the door unlock before it reopens. Martha returns with a small yellow envelope, approximately six inches by six inches, in her other hand.
"Dr. Campos would like you to have this," she says, reaching the parcel out to me.
"I—I don't get it. What is this?" I struggle to find the words.
“I knew him. Your Declan,” she says, holding my hands between hers. “Sort of, anyway. Just as I knew the one before. Daphne was her name. They always come ten years apart. I can’t explain it. But here you are, which means this is for you.” She finally relinquishes the envelope.
“Is that boy your son?” I ask bluntly, unable to let it go.
“It is,” Martha replies. “Isn’t he adorable?”
“He looks so much like—” I can’t say it. I want to, but I can’t.
“Manny and I couldn’t have kids of our own,” she says with a subtle squint in her gaze. “But an opportunity came. A perfectly timed donor fell into our laps. Too focused on his work, Manny told me to do whatever would make me happy. So, I did. And now I have Robbie.”
“And, your donor,” I start, but I can’t convince myself to ask this woman if that is Declan’s child, though my heart knows the truth my eyes see.
"It’s hard,” Martha says. “I get it. But the rest isn’t my story to tell.”
“That doesn’t make any sense!” I spit, all out of patience.
“I know,” she replies. “But if the man you are to marry is who you say he is, the contents of that envelope will tell you all you need to know.
" Then, the disheveled older woman returns to the house, closing and locking the door again, leaving me sitting in the front yard, alone, more confused than ever.