Page 14 of The Soul Never Forgets

“You’re a busy lady.”

“With a complicated life.”

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Caroline.” He lowers his voice and whispers, “Most people who come here to see me lead lives that are a bit on the complicated side.”

“I’m sure they do, but I’m not your typical patient.” As he’ll soon find out.

“I have a feeling there’s nothing typical about you.”

Just as there’s nothing typical about him.

“I’m not joking when I say that I take complicated to a whole new level.”

He smiles. “Try me. I’m sure I can keep up.”

This whole thing is deep and complex. There is no easing into the shallow end. “I don’t know where to start.”

“It’s been my experience that the best place to start is usually at the beginning.”

All right, Dr. Wes. Buckle up. This is going to be a bumpy ride.

“I was four years old the first time I heard a voice in my head.” And that’s how I begin to tell my soul mate the tale of Frank Harrison and Augustina Lebeau.

Visons. Voices. Thoughts. I describe the episodes that began happening to me at the age of four. I admit that it isn’t my proudest moment, but I also tell him about the unfortunate use of alcohol that I once used for coping with what I couldn’t possibly understand at the time.

Also, attempted suicide.

Dr. Wes becomes a sponge absorbing every word I have to say, occasionally asking for clarification or requesting that I pause for a moment while he scribbles details on his notepad. His eyes are filled with wonder, but never judgment. Trust me. I know verdict when I see it in a health-care professional’s eyes.

“And then about a year ago, my life was forever changed when––”

The timer goes off, alerting us to the end of our second hour-long session, and I’ve barely begun the epic memoir of our former lives together.

That’s too bad. I was just getting to the good part. “I guess my patient history is to be continued again.”

“My suspicion is that we haven’t even scratched the surface yet.”

He has no idea. “It’s impossible to cram twenty-five years of mental health history into a couple of hour-long sessions.” And then there’s the lifetime I spent in Augustina’s shoes.

“You’re a special case.” Dr. Wes props his elbow on the arm of the sofa and sighs, resting his chin on his cupped hand. “Do you have somewhere you need to be this evening?”

“Only if you consider sitting at home alone somewhere to be.”

He opens his mouth to say something, shuts it, and then opens it again. “I understand that what I’m about to ask you is highly unusual, but would you be open to continuing today’s session a little longer? I believe it would be beneficial in helping me understand how to best treat you in a timelier manner. Today’s session will be no charge, of course. This is more for my benefit than yours.”

I doubt he’s benefitting from this time together more than I am. Being with him is heaven. “You’re a therapist and I’m a patient. I don’t expect anything for free. I’m happy to pay for your time.”

“Today’s session was at my request, and now I’m asking you to extend it longer. There’ll be no charge.” He looks at his watch. “It’s after six o’clock. The least I can do is feed you since you’ve agreed to stay longer. What would you like to eat?”

Dr. Wes feels the connection between us. He must. Why else would he ask me to stay and have dinner after office hours? This absolutely falls outside of the norm for therapist conduct with a patient. Cathy-the-receptionist would not approve.

“Pizza would be quick and easy.”

He nods. “I was thinking the same thing. What kind do you want?”

“Thin and crispy supreme. No olives. Extra pepperoni.”

His head tilts to the side. “That’s exactly how I order my pizza. How could you know that?”

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