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Claude, Debussy’s, Claire de Lune.
It is one of my all-time favorite songs.
I’m not a music snob. I appreciate every type, whether it’s rock and roll, jazz, even Motown, but there’s something truly beautiful about classical music. It’s almost haunting the way the melody can work its way inside of your soul because there’s no one crooning words to distract you from the roots of the song.
Sometimes, when Daddy wasn’t around, I’d sneak and listen to the radio. And I always find my fingers twisting the knob to the classical station.
Closing my eyes, I listen attentively, allowing the sound of the piano to fill up every part of me. I’m calm, relaxed, and I breathe in deep, catching a whiff of Dr. Watson’s cologne that permeates the air. It smells exotic yet musky. Like the damp earth in the early morning mixed in with a tropical rainforest.
I exhale and open my eyes. Dr. Watson is facing at me, staring, as a soft smile curls on his full lips. “Do you like this song?”
I sit down in the folding chair in front of him. “I do.”
This is the seventh time I’ve seen him for treatments since he’s arrived here and I’m starting to grow more comfortable around him. Beneath the gorgeous hard face and cool stares, I think there is good person lying dormant. He’s just not the warm type and that’s okay. Not every person on the planet is supposed to be the same.
Sometimes I find it difficult to not admire him in an adoring kind of way and I wind up comparing him to Damien. I know
that in a way, that is wrong, because Damien has my heart and soul, but for some strange reason I have this attraction to Dr. Watson.
Maybe it’s because despite what everyone else says about him, I get the genuine feeling that he really does want to help me. That he really does want to see me get out of here someday. As unrealistic as that sounds.
Dr. Watson cuts into my thoughts when he says, “I thoroughly enjoy classical music.”
“As do I.”
He smiles brightly and I find myself smiling in return. I love Dr. Watson’s smile because every time he flashes me one it’s like his face lights up and every feature on his face shines. It also reminds me that he is capable of warmth. It’s just a side of him he doesn’t show too often.
On the edge of his desk is something new, a silver rimmed picture frame. I trace the back of it with my fingertip, “May I?”
“Go ahead.”
Picking up the frame and the flipping it over my mouth falls open at what I see, a child. A beautiful child. A girl who can’t be more than two years old. “You have a daughter?” I gasp, still taking in the sight of the little girl in the picture with round rosy cherub cheeks, a flawless ivory complexion, and the most stunning violet eyes. “She’s very beautiful,” I comment as I place the frame back on his desk. I find it odd that the photo is in color. I’ve never seen a photo in color. I didn’t even know one could be made. I shrug and banish the thought. I decide it must be some new advancement in technology that I haven’t heard about.
“Thank you.” His eyes center on the photo. “I’m afraid she gets most of her beauty from her mother though.”
“You’re married?”
“Does that surprise you? Aren’t most people who have children married?”
“It’s not that,” I say. “It’s just that you look too young to be a doctor let alone be married with a child.”
“I’m not that young,” he chuckles. “I’ll be thirty in two years.” He shifts in his chair, making himself more comfortable. “Now, enough about me. Let’s go on to you. After all, this is your treatment session.”
“What about me?” I always get nervous before my treatment sessions with him. Mainly because sometimes if there is a topic I don’t feel comfortable talking about he’ll push me until he can pry the words out of me.
“Why don’t you tell me about your mother?” His voice has an adamant ring to it and I know there will be no way I’ll be able to change the topic of conversation.
“I already told you about my mother,” I retort. “She left when I was ten.”
Now begins the prying. “And you remember nothing else about her?”
“Not much.”
Dr. Watson hits the button on the tape recorder. “Why don’t you think about it for a second?”
I take my time and rack my brain over the memories I have of my mother. I don’t remember her ever laughing. I don’t remember her ever being happy. But there is one thing that comes to mind. “Lavender.”
Dr. Watson lifts an eyebrow. “Lavender?”
