He’s walking along the sidewalk. Liam stands on the other side of the road, curiously gazing at him with green eyes, the same green eyes he possesses.
He doesn’t see Liam. But he hears Liam’s laughter, echoing through the air, ringing like churchbells he heard a long, long time ago.
“Mark Coleman?” the lady from the front desk was watching him intently, and seeing as he looked up, smiled kindly at him. He stared at her blankly, trying to register her words. As she repeated his name, he nodded quietly as a response.
The lady gestured for him to follow, leading the way to the doctor’s office. The hallway was quite neat; everything was of plain color, beige everywhere he looked. It was quiet, except for the lady’s and his own footsteps echoing through the halls.
The therapist’s office was simple enough – wooden floors, a couch on the left, some chairs on the right, the desk sitting in the back of the room, facing the door. The therapist was seated right behind the desk. Dr. Simmons, the name he learned from his sister earlier this day. She smiled at him, too, but it was the same smile as the lady at the front desk.
It was a sympathetic, soft smile, he recognized. As if she were comforting him. They all think he’s here because he’s suffering from psychotic problems. But no, he didn’t. He was irritated at the smiles they kept flashing him as if he was something delicate that would break any second. No, he was fine, he was good, he shouldn’t be here.
“Hello, Mark,” Dr. Simmons greeted him, standing up to shake his hand, “would you like to take a seat?”
–
The first thing I noticed about him was that he was tall. Probably a head and a half taller than me. He had a gloomy look about him; long, dark hair hanging flatly on his forehead; eyes half-open, but they had a sharp glare; he had his hands in the pockets of his jeans, back hunched over slightly, and he walked quickly into the waiting room.
I flipped open his file, which read “Mark Coleman, 37 years old”. He apparently works in marketing. That was all I had – it’s his first appointment. I finished up with my last client as I watched him come in – he looked stern, and a little uncomfortable as he looked around the room.
I greeted him and asked him to take a seat. He complied, seating himself on the corner of the couch with his legs crossed, cocking his head slightly. He seemed to be waiting for me to speak again. So I do.
“So, would you like to tell me a little about yourself?”
He hesitated, then nodded slightly. He told me about his childhood home in Arlington, Texas; about his father, mother, sister, ex-wife, and son. He was extremely excited as the subject of his son came up – his face lit up immediately, eyes sparkling with joy, telling me about his son’s recent, in his words, “majestic piece of art”, and showed me pictures of him and his two-year-old son. I could see the pride in his eyes.
Liam, he kept repeating the name. Liam. His son was the most precious boy he ever laid eyes on, he said. I nodded and smiled, listening intently as his enthusiasm kept him going. Liam seemed more special to him than anyone ever was, and I’d be glad to hear that story – even though it’s my job, his enthusiasm about his son certainly cheered me up as well.
When he finally fell silent again, I decided to pitch the question: I waited a couple of seconds, then leaned slightly forward, and asked.
“So why are you here, Mark?”
In an instant, his face seemed colder, holding back the emotion he had just let spill. Defiance flashed in his eyes instead of joy. His silence was deafening. I waited and waited until he finally spoke; a quiet yet forceful sentence.
“There’s nothing wrong with me.”
–
He spent the next day with Liam. He took Liam to the mall, to get him some more stationery; and as he picked out crayons, he told Liam not to move. He grabbed the crayons from the top shelf and told Liam he could draw as much as he wanted with the crayons.
He took Liam to the park. He bought him ice cream, and Liam grinned at him, happy and content. He smiled back, ruffling Liam’s hair. All he needed was for his son to be happy.
He received a call from his sister during the time. The sister who had introduced him to Dr. Simmons, the sister who had suggested he go visit a psychiatrist. He wasn’t exactly happy when she asked to join him for dinner, but agreed anyway – since Liam begged him to let him see his aunt. Only for Liam.
He took Liam back home and watched him draw little stick figures with chalk on the ground.
He cooked Liam dinner, watching Liam laugh with joy as he brought out dessert.
Ruth didn’t speak a word to Liam the whole time. He quietly asked her to at least greet Liam, with basic manners. But Ruth just stared at him, her gaze drenched in sadness, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Mark, oh Mark,” she said, her voice trembling, “come back to me.”
He didn’t understand what she meant.
–
I couldn’t place a diagnosis for him yet. He did seem quite normal, only talking about his son a bit more than others – but who am I to comment on a loving parent?
I had arranged another meeting with him, but it ended up pretty much the same. He was controlled as he answered questions about anything other than his son. He talked little of his work, little of his parents and sister, yet so much of Liam. It was as if his son triggered a switch inside of him – making him able to share, able to talk about whatever concerned his son.
But an excited parent was not a diagnosis.
I decided to chat with his sister. Apparently, she was the one who had insisted that he come to me; maybe she can give me more information that I’m clearly not digging out.
I invited Ruth into my office. She sat down, hesitantly, across from me, anxiousness clearly imprinted on her face. I tried to calm her down by engaging in some side conversation, things unrelated to her brother – the weather, for one example. But it didn’t seem to have any effect. She only squeezed out a tiny, strained smile, so I decided to cut straight in.
“Ruth, I think you know why you’re here.” I started, “I wanted to ask you about some of the things you put on the form you sent to my office.”
She stiffened.
“You said that your brother was -” I squinted at the tiny font on the paper, “- imagining things?”
She nodded in affirmation, sighing deeply. I continued, “What has he been imagining?”
“Liam,” Ruth said.
I blinked. The name rang inside my head. Liam, Liam. The son he talked so passionately about. The one most precious thing in his life.
“That can’t be,” my eyebrows furrowed as I felt puzzled once more. “I’ve seen pictures of them together, how could his son be-”
“Liam-” Ruth started, then cut herself off, breathing in deeply. As though she didn’t want to talk about this. Not at all. Her eyes were full of sorrow.
“Liam has been dead for six months.”
–
He held Liam in his arms as he tried putting him to sleep. He hummed a lullaby he had heard long ago, and Liam giggled when he didn’t manage to hit the high note. Bad, Liam laughed. Bad. They argued about his singing.
He kissed Liam’s forehead as the kid yawned, quickly falling asleep against his chest. He knew this was what bliss felt like – simple, content. He kept humming, slowly swaying back and forth, holding Liam in his arms even as they started to feel sore.
“I love you,” he whispered to Liam, “I will never let anything bad happen to you.”
When you wish upon a star,
Makes no difference who you are,
Anything your heart desires,
Will come to you.
He sang, and Liam fell very quiet as he slept.
–
Liam Coleman, deceased. Has been for six months.
I’ve had many sessions with him since I learned the news. I’ve been dropping hints here and there, but I don’t really get responses. I did get to learn much more about him. But he didn’t snap clear out of his visions – he was so preoccupied with the scenes that were going on inside his head. He believes them too much. It pains me to think that he’s going through that.
And I think, subconsciously, he knew if he came out, it would hurt too much.
My efforts did make little progress, though. He’s told me that Liam has suddenly disappeared a few times, then showed up out of nowhere. The part of his brain that still acknowledges the real world has been trying to take over. Yet even as I do this, a part of me hurts as well.
No one knows the pain of losing a child as I do.
The feeling of your world crashing down, the feeling of having nothing, like your perfect dream being crushed and burned into ash. I’ve been through it. But it didn’t consume me.
Maybe it was enough to consume him.
Although I doubt it; he didn’t seem like the patients I’ve witnessed who had been burnt out under pressure. I thought there was another reason behind all this, and I was determined to find out. Not only because it was my job – he seemed to be what I could’ve become. I wanted to pull him out of the mess.
–
He sat in Dr. Simmons’ car, staring out the window as she drove, fingers brushing over the cool glass.
“Liam likes to have the window open,” he smiled fondly, “he wants to stick his head out, but that’s too dangerous.”
“It certainly is.”
He glanced over to Dr. Simmons and noted the fact that she seemed more stressed than usual. But he doubted she’d share anyway, so he stayed silent.
Silent all the way up until Orchard Road. A tiny road beside a tiny hill, few cars passing here at all. It was peaceful, a few birds chirping here and there, singing their own song.
But he didn’t think so. His breath hitched and he stared with horror, his whole body paralyzed with fear. So many things rushed to him at once, he couldn’t even distinguish one after the other. Thoughts, pieces, words. Orchard Road. Orchard. Apples. Red. Red. Red.
Blood.
He doesn’t know why no one was watching Liam. The little mischief somehow manages to escape his mother’s watch and has run over to find his father. Liam runs along the sidewalk with his short legs, babbling some nonsense, then spots him.
He doesn’t see Liam. He walks along the other side of Orchard Road, trying to get to the vending machine for a drink. Such a stupid decision.
He hears Liam’s laughter, sweet like a bird’s song. He hears Liam’s footsteps. He hears Liam call out “Dada!”.
He hears the scream. He hears the car’s sharp screech. He hears his own heart stop for a split second.
Then he hears it shatter as he turns around.
He sees his precious, his gem of a boy, his own flesh and blood, lying in the middle of the road. Quiet. Still. Lifeless.
He couldn’t hear a thing.
Red, red, red. Blood.
“Mark. Mark,” Dr. Simmons repeated his name over and over, “it’s okay. It’s all okay.”
He didn’t realize tears were streaming down his face. He wasn’t in control of his body anymore – he felt numb, then burning, his body rigid and frozen while he didn’t have the slightest grasp of his vocal cords. He didn’t realize he was screaming. His throat felt hoarse. His eyes felt sore. He could feel everything and nothing at the same time. He wasn’t sure of what was real anymore – except for what had to be a tear in his heart. What else could hurt that bad?
He remembers where he hears the church bells.
At a funeral. At the funeral.
The funeral where they put Liam in a coffin. Where he weeps and crumples to the ground like a child. Where everyone glances at him with sympathy, or maybe it was pity. Or disgust. He couldn’t tell.
All he knows is that it’s his son’s funeral. His Liam’s.
“Mark. It’s not your fault. I know you feel like it is. It’s not your fault. None of it. You could never have known. I know it hurts, believe me, I know it well. It always hurts. But it was never your fault. Don’t blame yourself anymore. And your family needs you, Mark. They need you. And you can pull through. It will be okay. It will all be okay. I know it.”
Dr. Simmons spoke, calmly, with determination. He slowly, unsteadily, raised his head to look up at her. She extended her hand to him, and he grabbed it, squeezing it – it seemed like the last thing he could cling on to for reality. He was still trembling, curling himself into the corner of his seat, but he had stopped screaming. Dr. Simmons smiled at him, and squeezed back, the reassuring pressure easing his pain in the slightest. But it was better. He is still terrified, he is still in pain, but he knows she’s right. She’s always been right, since the first day he came into her office – he did need that sympathetic smile.
So he spoke, shakily, “I believe you.”
She smiled at him.
One step at a time, she said.
Featured photo credit: Artyom Kulakov https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-broken-windshield-of-a-car-2265634/
