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Chapter 10
His footsteps fell evenly all the way to the door. His voice did not betray the slightest bit of terror as he greeted the receptionist. His ears did not mishear her when she said that he could not enter at the moment. He simply did not care. The knob turned acceptingly under his palm, welcoming back an old friend. The door, too, acknowledged him silently. Even the walls, with their familiar hangings beckoned him to enter. Everything was just as it had been, fifteen years ago.
Except Mills. He looked much older as he jumped to his feet and stared at Don. Don let the traditional smile slip into place, fitting in with all the rest of the familiarity. "Good afternoon, Dr. Mills," he said. But then his smile slipped away. The volcano began to spark, and then to spew images back into his head. Every repressed thought, every remembrance he had been told to forget spilled back, burning like the lava it was. "I think we need to talk," he whispered. He was dimly aware of Mills apologizing to another person in the room and arranging a later phone call, but he did not react. He did not apologize. He simply walked to his familiar chair, sat, leaned back his head, and closed his eyes.
"May this be a warning," he murmured. And a sudden grin broke out on his face. It had all been so clear since the beginning. Why had he forgotten?
* * *
Richard Mills shut the door behind Connie, the depressed soccer mom who took up his Thursday afternoons. He could hear the blood coursing through the vein near his ears, pounding. Slowly, he turned and faced Donald Calder, it had lasted so long. . . he had begun to believe that his hopes had come true. . . that he would never see this boy-- man-- again.
* * *
Don watched Dr. Mills shut the door, then stand, frozen in place like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Mills revolved to look at Don, but he did not speak, he only remained frozen, licking his lips and staring at Don. Don stared back, but his mind now seemed to be clearing. He was no longer focused on grabbing at memories-- now he just had to know. He had to remember completely.
"Dr. Mills, I need to see my file," he said, his voice neither loud and demanding, nor soft and submissive. Mills blinked, as though coming out of a trance, and seemed to regain some of his composure.
"Hello, Donald," he greeted Don, as though one of the sessions of years past had just began. As though Don had said nothing at all. "How have you been?"
Don looked back at the man and sighed, he always had been good at playing the game. "I need to see my file, Dr. Mills."
Mills smiled, as he would have smiled at a child who asked polietly to break the rules, as if to say, "Now, Donny, you know that's out of the question." With that smile pasted on his lips, he slowly shook his head, and said, "I'm sorry, I can't do that Donald. Why don't you ask me what you want to know?"
Don gritted his teeth. So, the games continued, but he did not want to play. "Why can't you do that?"
"Because I do not allow my patients to view their records. It's a simple procedure of mine. Now, would you care to enlighten my as to why you have returned? Is there something I can help you with?" Mills's voice was brisk, but still held all of the psychological calm that enabled him to weed out the thoughts of patient after patient.
Don leaned back his head and strectched his neck, hoping to shift some of the tension that was piling there. When he looked at Mills again, he had taken the seat across of Don and pulled out a notebook. Even with all the thoughts racing through his mind, Don had to work to supress a laugh. . . some things didn't change. "Mills," he said, his voice steady, "if you can't show me my file, then, yes, you can help me with something. I need you to tell me exactly what I told you when I came here the first time. What was my story before you convinced me it was wrong?"
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