Daniel Davis has no clue as to what kind of person he really is and all he knows is that he's inexplicably miserable despite having a loving wife, wonderful young daughter, and a good job. But all that begins to change when a psychologist gives him an explanation for the huge gaps in his memory.

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Chapter 1

“How would I describe my life now? That’s a good question. If it were a drink, just like water it’d be tasteless and unremarkable. If it were a smell, it would be a smell like the stale air-conditioned air that blows out of the vent of my car. And if it were a sound, it would be…it would be…I guess it would be like the static sound from a useless old television set, you know, that reassuring sound that fills a room when you’re dozing off, the kind that you can easily tune out, just like me. I’m easily tuned out and my life is stale. I’m just sort of there all the time, just breathing stale air and taking up space, like a zombie. Actually, I think a zombie would feel more than me at this point.”

“Hmmm,” mused my psychologist, brushing a few strands of long sandy blonde hair away from her eyes. “You do seem a bit…sedated.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I said.

“Are you currently taking any medications Mr. Davis…prescribed or otherwise?”

I shook my head. But there was no need to brush any strands of beautiful silky hair away from my forehead. My full head of dark hair was close cropped as usual.

“Well,” began my therapist, “You told me how your life is, how numb and detached you feel. But let me ask you this: how would you like your life to be?”

“I don’t know,” I began. “Just not like this. Just not the way things are. I just…I just…”

I could feel the tears stinging my eyes and I had no choice but to succumb to the wave of sadness welling up from deep within some dark and hidden place.

“Oh God!” I exclaimed before I started weeping. “I just want to die. I feel so miserable all of the time that I just want to die. And the worst part is all of the pretending. You know, having to pretend to my wife and our child and my coworkers and all of my friends that I’m fine, that I’m happy with my life and everything I’ve accomplished. I should be. I know I should be. I’ve been blessed with quite a lot in my life, which makes me feel guilty about feeling the way I do…all the time. I mean, why am I not happy? I should be, right? I just don’t know anymore. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“First of all,” said my therapist, “There’s nothing wrong with you. Clearly, there’s something buried within you…possibly from the past that’s interfering with your ability to appreciate and enjoy the present. Now, let me ask you something, when was the last time you remember being happy…or at the very least, content a good deal of the time.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I dunno. It seems like I’ve been feeling this way for a very long time…so long that I can’t remember what it was like to ever feel happy.”

“Just try. Think back to your childhood and focus. You must have some happy memories from then.”

“Ummm…I don’t know…I really can’t remember that far back.”

“Are you sure about that? Do you remember anything from middle school?”

I furrowed my brow and concentrated, but then shook my head when, once more, I drew a complete blank.

“What about High School? Surely you must have some memories from such relatively recent events.”

“Not really. I remember a fragment here and there, but not much else. It’s probably for the best anyway. I was a loner. That much I do remember.”

“Why were you a loner?” wondered my therapist.

I sighed before saying, “Dunno. I’ve always been a bit on the shy side. I guess I just felt that I never fit in…with anyone. That’s my life story. There’s something about me that’s just…well just different. I knew it then and I know it now and I just can’t seem to shake it, this sense of wrongness that I feel with every fiber of my being.”

“Please tell me more about this sense of wrongness. Can you be more specific?”

“It’s hard to explain. I know it sounds crazy, but all of my life, the parts I remember I mean, it almost feels like I’ve been living someone else’s life, like I’m always looking at the world through someone else’s eyes.” After dabbing some remnant wetness from my face with some tissues sitting on the table next to my plush chair, I met the inquisitive eyes of my therapist with dry and weary ones of my own. “So what’s the prognosis? Have I completely lost it? Am I going insane?”

“First of all, insane is a legal term and has no place in this room. Secondly, there’s nothing abnormal about you. You’re certainly not the first nor will you be the last person who I’ve seen in this office with repressed memories.”

“You think they’re repressed? Are you sure I haven’t just forgotten most of my life?”

“I’m pretty sure. That sort of thing doesn’t just happen, unless a person has suffered some kind of brain trauma or suffers from organic brain disease. And since, according to your medical records, you’re suffering from neither, I can assert with a good deal of confidence that you’re repressing a good deal of your long term memory?”

“Why?”

“It’s the brain’s defense mechanism, a way to protect itself from emotional and physical trauma.”

“But I don’t remember ever suffering any kind of trauma or abuse?”

“Exactly,” asserted my therapist.

“So here’s the million dollar question: how do I remember something I can’t remember? Where do I even start?”

“You can start by going back to familiar places from your youth.”

“A lot has changed since then. A lot of the familiar is unfamiliar now.”

“Before our next session, find something, anything, a person, place or thing to trigger a memory from your childhood. Any memory will do. We just need a place to start. After the first memory, there will be many more. Trust me. I’ve been doing this for a very long time?”

“And If I come back next week with nothing? Then what?”

“Trust me,” assured my therapist with a calm smile. “Like I said, I’ve been doing this for quite some time now.”

“Okay,” I said softly.

“Our time’s up. Would you like to schedule another session at the same day and time two weeks from now?”

“Sure,” I quietly assented. “It’s the only time I can do. My wife still thinks I play racquetball with one of the guys after work every Friday. I guess a little white lie is no big deal. I’m doing this for her…for the kids.”

Showing me down the hall, she said, “See you next Friday Mr. Davis.”

“Yeah, thanks Ms. Meisner. I’ll see you then.”

~o~O~o~

It was late evening the following Thursday as I turned onto the street of my childhood home, and inexplicably, I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. And I wondered if it had something to do with fear. And I was afraid. I was afraid of finding something in my old house which I wasn’t even searching for.

I slowed the rental car I was driving to a crawl when I was a couple of blocks away. But the slower I went, the faster my heart beat, until it was pounding in my chest when I parked along the curb across the street from my parents’ modest home.

I got out of my car and leaned against the door in the chilly air of early spring. Just as expected, the downstairs windows were lit and the porch light on. I pulled my jacket closer to my body as I traversed the short distance across the street and over the stepping stones of the front yard which led to the small wooden porch.

My finger hesitated over the doorbell while I mulled things over in my mind.

What are you doing showing up at your mom’s house this time of the evening? This is stupid. Just hop the next flight back and forget the whole thing. Just go back and call the therapist and tell her it didn’t work and cancel your next appointment.

But another part of me was quietly imploring to go through with it. But it was different than the voice in my head just over a week ago before I made my first appointment, the voice which kept telling me to pull the trigger of the loaded gun I had pressed against my temple. No, this voice was calm and soothing, like that of my therapist. In fact, strangely enough, it sounded feminine like my therapist’s voice.

The calm and soothing voice won out.

Ding dong!

The door opened to the sight of a woman with short graying hair.

“Daniel?” she said, with searching eyes.

“Hi mom,” I said sheepishly.

“You’re the last person I expected to show up on my doorstep this evening. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong mom. I just wanted to surprise you. I was in the area on business and we put to bed a project faster than expected. So, I just figured I’d swing by before my flight leaves.”

“Daniel,” she began. “Are you sure you’re okay.”

“Yeah mom. Never better.”

She invited me in after giving me a hug and a kiss.

Then she said, “Sorry, but I don’t have much in the way of food to offer you. I just finished the leftovers, but there’s some ice cream in the fridge if you want some.”

“Thanks, but I already ate.”

“Then why don’t you have a seat so we can catch up.”

“Sure,” I said, taking a seat in the recliner next to my mother.

“So, how’s Michelle and little Katie?” wondered my mom while rocking in her easy chair.

“Katie isn’t so little anymore. She starts first grade this fall. And Michelle…well, Michelle is Michelle, always on the move, always staying busy. Sometimes it’s just exhausting trying to keep up with her.”

“I’ve always wondered if and when she sleeps,” teased my mother.

“I don’t know what I’d do without her…and Katie. Without them, I’m not even sure if I’d be able to drag myself out of bed.”

My mother smiled and then said, “Now I’ve got this little guy to get me up in the morning.”

She clicked her tongue a couple of times, calling an orange tabby cat onto her lap. She stroked its fur and it began to purr.

“There’s nothing like family,” she said.

I smiled a warm smile of my own. “And speaking of family,” I said, “I was wondering if you still had all of the genealogical documents and stuff somewhere.”

“Of course. Since when have I ever been able to throw anything out? But why the sudden interest?”

“I guess I’m getting sentimental in my old age,” I joked.

“And if you’re old, what does that make me?” she teased.

“A wonderful and caring mother, as always” I said.

“And the neighborhood cat lady,” she said.

She continued stroking her tabby cat’s head.

“So,” I began, “Where are you keeping all of the documents?”

She yawned before saying, “In the attic. I’d move them, but there just isn’t enough room in the spare bedroom. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“I’ll know it when I see it,” I said. Rising to my feet and stretching, I said, “I’ll go ahead and head up there now and have a quick look.”

“I’m going to put the kettle on in a while. Would you like some tea?”

“Sure. That sounds nice.”

“Still drinking the chai spice?”

“Ahhh,” I said. “You know me all too well.”

But heading up the stairs, I started frowning, for I had told another white lie, and I’m not talking about becoming sentimental in my old age. No. It was when I commented that my mother knew me very well. At that moment, I felt she didn’t know me, and I felt I didn’t even know myself.

When I got to the landing, I pulled the cord and then slid the steps down. I slowly climbed up, flashlight in hand and waded into a familiar musty smell, a smell that triggered a wave of anxiety. But when I turned on the light, my anxiety didn’t ease; instead, it damn near turned into a panic attack. I retreated to a corner, knelt down, and caught my breath, all the while fighting back tears.

I looked around, inventorying everything, but I had no more idea why I was so upset than I had knowledge of what was inside all of the boxes. But curiously enough, none of the rows of stacked boxes interested me in the slightest. What did interest me was an old carved chest in the far corner, partially concealed by the shadows.

I walked over and knelt down in front of it. I slowly opened it, revealing assorted memorabilia mixed together with some worthless old yellowed dime novels. But it wasn’t the memorabilia that triggered a memory. The pungent scent of dusty old wood and books along with a subtle undercurrent of cedar and lavender took me beyond that vague feeling of panic and fear. The smell took me right back to when I was six or seven.

In my mind’s eye, I saw myself standing in front of a mirror in the attic, but it didn’t look like me. It looked like my sister gazing back at me. But it had to be me. Her hair was never that short. Then I just stopped questioning everything, and gave into the happiness and contentment I was feeling while preening in front of the mirror in my sister’s old Easter dress.

In the memory of the moment, I had never been so elated. I had never felt so free. And things had never felt so right. And seeing a pretty little girl staring back at me felt so right.

Now, in the present, I found myself crying because I felt so happy. But tears of joy were soon replaced with tears of sorrow because the memory just kept playing on like an old movie. There was no remote control to press pause.

The young me heard footsteps coming up the ladder and my heart raced. I fumbled for the zipper of my cute little dress with shaky hands to do the quickest change of my life, but wouldn’t you know it, it was stuck! I darted into the corner and hid in the shadows behind some boxes, hoping against hope that I’d remain concealed. And as if my heart wasn’t racing fast enough and my palms weren’t sweaty enough, my father’s baritone voice elevated my panic level another notch.

Daniel! Daniel? I know you’re up here son. It’s time for dinner…Daniel, did you hear me? I said dinner, now!

But I was too petrified to speak.

Godamnit Daniel! I’m in no mood to play games this evening. You’ve got until the count of three to come on over here, otherwise I’m climbing all the way up…One….two…three! Alright. Fine. If you want to do it the hard way, we’ll do it the hard way. Daniel, why are you hiding behind that box?

Please just give me another minute daddy. I promise I’ll be right down. I promise.

I’ve heard that before. Then one minute turns into ten minutes and the dinner your mother went to all that trouble to cook gets cold.

He stomped on over in his black work boots and grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the shadows.

I swear to God son, you are without a doubt, the most…

His voice trailed off and his mouth gaped open when he saw my sister’s new twin.

Daniel, why the hell are you wearing your sister’s dress?

I don’t know. I just felt like being pretty I guess.

Daniel, boys don’t wear dresses and they certainly don’t get to be pretty.

But I don’t feel like a boy daddy.

Well that’s what you are.

No it’s not. I feel like a girl.

Godamnit Daniel! I told you, you’re a boy, not a girl!

But I am a girl! I cried.

We’ll just see about that!

My father yanked the zipper down and practically tore the dress off of my body. After tossing it in the corner, he dragged me over to the mirror.

Jesus Daniel! You’re wearing her pink panties too? Take ‘em off!

No! I said defiantly.

However, my dad raised his hand and my defiance was short lived.

Boy, if you know what’s good for ya, you’ll take those ridiculous looking things off now.

Whimpering in my greatest indignity, I slowly slid them down, but the whole while I hid the ugly mistake between my legs with the palm of my left hand. But my dad gripped my hand and moved it away, leading me to wince and turn my head at the sight of such an ugly truth.

Take a look in the mirror, he ordered. Do you still see a little girl? Don't you dare turn away. I said look at yourself Daniel! Take a good look at how God made you.

I cringed as the wrong body came into full view, and I couldn’t stop the tears from coursing their way down my face.

Good. Now, you see that? said my father, pointing to my crotch. It’s your penis Daniel. Girls don’t have them, only boys do. So, you still think you’re a girl?

I…I…

I couldn’t finish another word, for I started sobbing just like a little girl, further proof that my father chose to ignore at that moment.

My father, realizing he had sufficiently and brutally driven his point home, released me from his grip and began heading for the stairs, but the bastard looked back over his shoulder to address me one last time.

Now get your clothes on…you know the ones I mean. And make sure you wash up before coming down for supper. And Daniel, don’t tell your mother about what you did. You’ll just make her upset. You hear me? This stays between us.

Now in the place of the little boy sobbing in front of the mirror, I was literally curled up into a ball on the floor and sobbing uncontrollably. And at that moment, I was glad my mother’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be.

When I finally cried myself out and regained my composure, I walked over to the ancient mirror and studied myself. As I did, I wondered if deep down I had buried within me a frightened little girl.

Although I felt confused and shocked, what I was sure about was that I was going to keep my appointment with my therapist. She and I had a lot of ground to cover.

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To Be Continued...