Merciless Vows by Faith Summers

24

Aria

Marylin reaches over to tap my hand.

I was so lost in my thoughts I almost forgot she was here and where we are—in the waiting room of Dr. Belmont’s office.

“You’ll be okay, dear, don’t be nervous,” she says with a kind smile.

“Thank you. I guess I am nervous,” I admit, and she gives my hand a gentle squeeze.

I’m not sure what to expect from this visit with Dr. Belmont. The odd décor of the place doesn’t exactly reassure me either.

For the most part, it looks like the standard clinic, but there are posters of Rock legends and famous bands on the walls. I almost feel like I’m waiting to audition for a band as opposed to waiting to be seen for a psychiatric consultation.

“He was in a band, dear,” Marylin explains when she catches me looking at a poster of Jimi Hendrix.

“Oh, I see.”

“Most of the people Lucca knows have done a few significant things in their lifetime. Dr. Belmont is one of them, and I suppose useful for his down-to-earth qualities. You’ll see what I mean once you meet him.”

“He already sounds different from my last doctor.”

“He’s going to be different from any doctor you’ve seen, but he’s good at what he does, and that’s the part we want.”

“Yeah. It would be great if he can help me.”

“My dear, I’d be surprised if he couldn’t.”

“Well, that sounds hopeful.”

Marylin gives me a little smile, and I’m surprised when I feel more at ease.

She’s made me feel like that quite a bit over the last few days.

I thought it would have been more appropriate for Sienna to come with me today, but I can see why Marylin came instead. I’m sure the primary reason for her presence is to keep a kinder eye on me. Or it would have been the guards waiting in the car.

There are two of them, and neither are particularly friendly. Both look like they’ve never smiled a day in their lives.

The other reason she’s here is clearly to offer her support. There are some things in life where you need people like her who are more mature and have the life experience to keep you calm.

God knows she’s definitely helped calm me after my encounter with Damien.

Needless to say, I stayed in the room for the whole day yesterday, and I barely ate anything.

I didn’t want to make the mistake of sitting at the table and Damien coming by to shoo me away like a dog begging for scraps.

Fuck him, and I’m not going to think about that asshole now.

I want my head clear so I can focus on my appointment. This is the only thing I’ve done so far for me, my benefit.

The receptionist walks over to us with a smile on her face. She looks to be in her early sixties, like Marylin, and has the same warm presence too.

“He’s ready to see you now,” she says.

“Thank you.” I stand and instinctively look back at Marylin.

“You’ll be fine.” She nods.

“Thanks.”

I follow the receptionist down a passageway where there are more Rock legend posters on either side of the walls.

There are more of Jimi Hendrix and bands like Van Halen, Bon Jovi, and Gun’s N Roses. Actually, there are heaps more of Gun’s N Roses.

At the end of the corridor is a white door with a gold plaque on it. Embossed in gold in the center are the words: Dr. Bernard Belmont, Consultant Psychiatrist.

“Here you go,” the receptionist announces.

“Thank you.”

She dips her head for a curt nod and walks back the way we came.

I knock on the door, and he calls out for me to come in.

When I push the door open, I expect to see someone who looks like either Jimi Hendrix or Axl Rose, the lead singer of Gun’s N Roses. Instead, Dr. Belmont could be a dead ringer for Ian McShane, especially when he was in the John Wick films.

The only difference is his lily-white hair. I peg him to be in his mid to late seventies—a massive difference to Dr. Pelchant, who was in his early fifties.

Dr. Belmont smiles when he sees me looking at him, and I forget my manners or that I’m supposed to go in.

“Good morning,” I say, walking in and closing the door behind me.

“Good morning, Miss De Marchi. Not exactly what you expected?” he asks with a wide toothy grin, motioning to himself.

“I was just fascinated with the posters. They’re very cool.”

“Do sit.”

“Thank you.”

When I lower into the soft leatherback chair in front of him, he points over to the wall across from us. There’s a black and white poster of a rocker on his knees playing an electric guitar. He’s dressed in a tank top and leather pants, and his long black hair hangs over his face, almost touching the ground.

“That’s me,” Dr. Belmont states, and I find myself smiling.

I can see the resemblance when I look back at him, and he gives me near enough the same expression he has on the picture as he makes a show of wiggling his fingers like he’s playing the guitar.

I laugh at the gesture, and he smiles wider.

“And, that’s her,” he adds, pointing over to the other side of the room where a guitar hangs on the wall. “My Jessie Jane.”

“You named your guitar?”

“I did. It’s not uncommon among musicians. Instruments are like humans. They have their own personalities. That one was good to me. Way, way back in the day when my hair was a natural onyx color, like yours, I was the lead guitarist for a band. We were the Rough Cuts.”

“I’ve heard of them.”

“Well, that means you and I will get on really well then. There were five of us. We all met at Harvard and played for twenty years, promising ourselves we’d live the dream for that period of time, only if we could hack it. Then we’d go in whatever direction life took us. I became what you see before you. The others are surgeons.”

“That’s really cool. It’s an honor to meet a Rock star legend.”

“And it’s an honor to meet a fellow musician.” He dips his head.

My smile tightens on hearing that, and once again, I feel like a fake in someone else's body.

“I don’t really feel much like a musician these days,” I confess.

He nods understanding and temples his fingers. “I’ll help you with that. We’re going to start out meeting once a week at first. Then I’ll tell you when we’ll increase or decrease the visits. Ideally, I’d like to increase if and when you start getting your memories back, even at the slightest hint of it. So it’s important you tell me everything that happens on a week-by-week basis. You’ll have my phone number to call me anytime.”

“I appreciate that.” I do because Dr. Pelchant only ever spoke to Dad. Fuck knows what he could have been telling him, and only God knows what Dad said.

Although we seemed to be having what could be classed as standard sessions, they seemed to go nowhere, but I blamed myself for that.

“The techniques I use are all things you’ll be comfortable with, and you will only see me or one of my cognitive behavioral therapists if I think it’s necessary. Lucca has also instructed that our sessions are to be private, so only between you and me. However, I’m to share anything I think is relevant with him.”

That shocks me because it’s a little piece of freedom. It’s small, but there, and something I haven’t had since I woke from my coma.

“So we can talk, and it’s just between us?” I clarify.

“Yes, we have complete doctor/patient confidentiality as we would under normal circumstances.”

Normal circumstances. So he knows this isn’t a normal situation. It would make sense, given the control Lucca has over my life.

“It’s so you can tell me everything and whatever you need to. My job is to help you get your memories back and find yourself.”

That sounds like a dream. One my poor heart desperately wants above everything else.

“I want that so badly. It’s been hard,” I open up.

“I can imagine, and it’s going to take more hard work to get you to where you want to be. With that said, expect me to be blatant and real with you. I will hold your hand as much as I can but not when it won’t help you. Do you understand that?”

He almost sounds like Lucca then, and I’m reminded he could only be one of Lucca’s resources for a reason. I feel like he can help me, though. He’s sold me on wanting to find myself.

“I understand.”

“Good. So today, we’ll start with the very basics. I have all your records from Dr. Pelchant, and I’ve gone over the treatment program he previously set for you.”

“Is what we’ll be doing similar to what I did with him?”

“No, because it didn’t work,” he answers, being as blatant and honest with me as he promised to be.

“Oh.”

“From the results I’ve read, I just don’t think it was effective enough, which is no offense to him. As doctors, we all employ our own techniques, but I do question his last recommendation to continue with what you previously did. Especially when you weren’t responding to that treatment plan at all.”

That gives me pause, and I wonder if that was done on purpose. It’s a weird thought, and I don’t know why Dad would do that.

Maybe he would if he had a reason to.

Like… the business.

The sudden thought churns my stomach. If I wasn’t responding to treatment, then he could always have control over me, and he would have the same control Lucca now has. When I turn twenty-five, the ownership of the business would easily pass to him if he continued to have legal guardianship over me because I lacked mental capacity.

Would he do that, though?

God, what if he would?

That just makes me ask myself again, why the hell Mom gave me the business.

I have no interest in a mining company. I know it brings in a fortune, but there are better people in the family who already work at Cervantes who would have been more qualified to own it.

“Are you okay?” Dr. Belmont asks, and I return my focus to him.

“Yes, I’m sorry. I zoned out there. I was just thinking about what you said.”

“Any thoughts you want to share?”

“No. Please continue. I apologize for not focusing.”

“No apologies necessary. Let’s begin, shall we?”

“Yes, sure.”

“How about we start with what you do remember or have managed to remember since waking up from the coma. I need you to tell me everything. Your records state you experience flashes of memories but don’t really go into what sort of memories or who you remember.”

I draw in a breath. “The flashes are more like glimmers of blurs. I pick them apart, but I can’t see faces. It’s like being permanently confused where I know the memory is there, I can almost see it, but it never comes.” He takes out a notepad and begins taking notes. I’m sure what I’m about to say next will surprise him. “The only person I remember with perfect clarity is Lucca.”

He stops writing and looks up at me with narrowed eyes. There’s a flicker of something deep in his eyes that catches my attention, but it’s there for a fleeting second, then gone the next.

“You remember Lucca? From when?”

“It was when I was at Berklee. I was playing at a concert. I remember seeing him in the crowd, and then I remember… us kissing.”

“Is that all you remember?”

“I think we were intimate, but I don’t know how much. I remember being hurt and him taking care of me. That’s it.” We stare at each other, and I know all I’ve said sounds weird even to me. “Dr. Belmont. Why would I remember him when I can’t even remember who I am? I don’t remember being me, or my parents, nor my cousin I speak to so freely and trust with all my heart. I remember the music I used to play, but I remember this man I don’t think I was supposed to know.”

He presses his lips together in a hardline. “I’m not privy to the circumstances you met Lucca, so we won’t focus on that. However, I think it’s significant we focus on the reasons why you remember him.”

I hang on to every word like he can offer me some magical way of fixing me.

“It’s going to be because of something important, right?”

“Perhaps, but I think it’s more emotional-based like the rest of the problem. Other than what your scans show, we can never fully know the true extent of the damage to your brain from the accident. The effects of brain damage are going to be different from one individual to the next, so we have to factor that in. What I suspect, though, is that your brain is suppressing your memories. The length of time between the accident and all I’ve read and what you’re saying to me suggests exactly that.”

“Why would that happen?”

Now he looks uneasy. “It often happens where the brain receives some sort of shock. Most often than not from bad memories. It can be one bad memory or more.”

“Bad… memories?” A cold, sinking feeling washes over me when I think of the dreams I’ve been having.

“Yes. Bad memories. The brain is a very intricate and powerful organ. It seems to me that your mind might be protecting you from remembering bad experiences you previously encountered and is allowing you to home in on other experiences where you probably felt safest. Like when you met Lucca.”

I was with him until he said that last part. Not even he seems to believe it either, which tells me he’s obviously fully clued in on what Lucca does for a living.

So how can I feel safe with a man like that?

But it makes sense. The other night I had that juxtapose of emotion where I felt exactly that. Safe, but confused.

“What we need to work on is fleshing out those bad memories. You’ll find at first, you might not want to remember them, but it’s essential that you do, and you mustn’t do anything to prevent them from coming back.”

“Do you really think it could be bad memories?”

“That’s what we need to figure out. And yes, I do think it’s that. Has anything else happened?”

“I’ve been having weird dreams that feel real. Um… most are quite awful,” I decide to tell him.

“What happens in the dream?”

“A mixture of different things. Recently they’ve become more distorted and strange.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I take a moment to think about the question and realize I’m afraid to say anything else, especially when I factor in the bad feelings I get when I’ve thought of how I lost my virginity. I’m afraid if I talk to someone like him, he’ll confirm what I don’t want to believe happened to me is true.

“Can we talk about it next time? I don’t think I can talk about it now.”

“Of course we can. That’s absolutely fine.”

“Thank you.”

“I want you to bear in mind that sometimes our brain tries to work through problems in our dreams. Sometimes it’s things we can’t bear to face in real life. What helps to counter that is talking about what you do remember, especially whatever helps make you feel more at ease.”

“Okay, I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Good. Let’s spend the rest of the time talking about the last eighteen months. Is that okay with you, Aria? I haven’t asked you yet if I may call you by your first name.”

“Yes, and yes, it’s fine to call me Aria.” My voice shakes.

“Great.”

I zone out again as soon as we start talking. Although I can hear the questions he’s asking, and I answer, I feel like I’m on autopilot. Like I’m programmed to give simple yes or no responses and explain with the bare minimum information.

Truthfully, I’m stuck in my thoughts, cemented in my fears as I worry about what really happened to me.

I don’t just mean the accident.

I think he’s right about the bad memories.

I think more than just the accident happened to me.