Dr. Davies, Delaney and Death

contains adult language

Author's note: Read, "Della and Dr. Davies" for perspective.

“You see, I don’t process death, at all. Honestly, I can’t comprehend any reason to do so, it’s inevitable, unstoppable and no matter how hard anyone tries, it cannot be defeated. Not even my second degree blackbelt can stop it with a palm-heel strike to the face, or a sidekick behind the knees. It can’t be knocked to the ground without the potential of getting back up again. It isn’t a worthy adversary, it’s a fucking ringer, strategically placed to win, no matter how hard we train, no matter how many ranks we achieve, belts we earn, or techniques we perfectly execute; death is the fucking Grand Master. 

We treat it as a construct, when in reality, it is anything but. People, humans, absolutely everyone either knows or will learn that we spend our lives attempting to outrun death. Drink more water, eat more green vegetables, avoid sugar and trans fats; don’t smoke, drink or do drugs. Oh, and exercise, by all means jump on the fucking treadmill and spend hours walking to nowhere, and the faster you walk, the longer you stay on that forsaken machine, still doesn’t give you any advantages; it’s always right behind you. And when it overtakes your stride, it turns and faces you, mocking you, daring you to try and get by. We fake left, then right, but even running backwards, death wins, and we are still running in place as death crosses the finish line, holding hands and skipping with your loved one. It taunts us as it raises the tin and plastic trophy over its ugly head, claiming its prize, as if taking Millie from me wasn’t debilitating enough. Yes, death, I am defeated. 

Then, yes, then there is grief, mind numbing, nauseating, convulsive, sleep depriving, ugly crying, catatonic grief. Someone we love is pushed, possibly tricked into busting through the red ribbon, and we plan a fucking luncheon. Don't forget to call the caterer, buy new clothes, take a week off from work, reconcile with the cousin who stole your favorite necklace during the last celebration of death, you remember, when old Aunt Blanche died? She didn’t even ask to borrow it, just took it, wore it and conveniently failed to return it to the rightful owner; yes, she stole it and now when you see her, you’ll have to hug her and pray she isn’t wearing your necklace; that bitch.

It’s not even about getting older, because death does not discriminate’ it’s not ageist, not at all. I fail to understand when people say, “they lived a full life.” So, what? That’s supposed to be consoling somehow? Oh, and lest we forget the thoughtless, colloquial platitude; “At least they are no longer suffering, or the equally formidable, less dramatic, at least they are no longer in pain.” Well, what about the pain they leave in their wake? Is that why they call a viewing a wake, so the people they leave in their wake can get together and share memories through customary tears? So, they can eat stale pastries, drink weak coffee or cheap wine from a box and show off their new black dress that happens to go perfectly with the pumps they bought for little Sophia’s wedding last year? 

Then, then, then, when everyone slinks back to their own homes, their routine lives, kids, dogs, cats, stupid meaningless jobs, we are left to clean up the mess; both literal and proverbial. We rummage through the dirty paper and plastic discards strewn around the house, as if it were too much an effort for all the little black dresses to pick up their shit and find the trash can. However, what comes next is worse than trash detail, so much fucking worse. Who will get the house, the clothing, the jewelry, the less than five grand stashed in an old savings account still recorded in a passbook in the top drawer of the antique dresser, well now, who will get that? What do you mean there weren’t any definitive last wishes, are you telling us there’s no will? I refuse to ask for, never mind fight over the little silver St. Francis medal hanging from the vanity mirror; ridiculous, don’t you agree? What I want, truly, I cannot have, and you know why? Let me tell you why; death was faster to the finish, death won the prize I so covet, it always does. So, please don’t ask me how I’m coping with losing Millie, I haven’t lost her, death absconded with her, and I know exactly where she is, on the other side of that fucking red ribbon, and I haven’t even completed my first lap.” 

Lara wept openly as if she were seated centerstage at the theater, listening to the spotlighted monologue delivered by the main character, the very one all the critics wrote about, raving, recommending and reveling in its genius. She wanted to jump to her feet and shout, “Brava” as she applauded with overwhelming vehemence. Instead, of course, she took a moment to regain her composure; how very unprofessional of her to be asked for grief counselling and becoming emotional during the session. Surely, she will be dismissed after tonight, but then again, this wasn’t what she signed on for. This woman seated in front of her was not the young, disturbed, drug-addled, debutante Della Korbin she was hired to help. This woman was a fucking superhero; a highly trained operative who had to be urgently extracted from a perilous undercover assignment to contend with the death of her beloved great-grandmother; the person she adored more than any other. Lara recognized the irony of Delaney preferring the threat of danger to the devastation of Millie’s death. “I won’t ask how you’re coping.” she offered meekly. “Would you mind if I just stayed here with you for a while, you know, just in case you need a friend.” 

Delaney widened her tear-filled eyes, “So, we’re friends now?”

“We can be, if you want.” 

“Doc, I think you’re great, but…”

“Lara, please.” Dr. Davies interrupted, feeling as though she and Delaney were somehow coequal, now that Della was no longer her focus. 

“Fine, Lara then. My father briefed me before I came home. He told me that he and Uncle Brandon dragged you from your home in the middle of the night to tell you what you likely never wanted to hear; you’ve been used, duped, fooled, deceived, shall I go on? Why in God’s name would you want to be my friend?” 

“Because I think you need one.” 

Delaney smiled weakly, “Very perceptive, Doc.”

“So, tell me Agent Keenan, what do you need right now?” 

Delaney rolled her eyes upward and sighed deeply. “I need a time machine.” she began. “I need to travel back and set things in a different direction.” 

“Delaney, nothing you would be able to do would make today any different.” 

“Lara, I’m not delusional.”

“Noted. If you were to travel back in time, right now, where would your DeLorean take you?” 

“You may find this alarming, disturbing, or maybe just curious, but I can answer that with great conviction. I was seven, sitting at the kitchen table, listening to my sleep deprived mother cry and whine about my new baby sister, Hallie. Mille was making lunch for my mother and me when my dad came in. He was early to pick me up for the weekend but wanted to speak with my mother and Millie before we left. He was carrying three shopping bags filled with diapers, formula and other baby necessities for Hallie. Oh, before you ask for clarification Lara, no, Hallie is not my father’s child, but my dad knew Millie was shouldering the financial burden as well as the physical, so I suppose he was showing kindness for Millie. They were close, even before my parents married. Millie and her late husband, Jack loved my dad as if he were their own. Jack and my dad's grandfather were friends; he knew all about FAE, as did our Millie. That day, my father asked my mom for full custody which required me to move from New Jersey to Maryland and he suspected she’d protest vehemently, but she did not.

I overheard Millie give her blessing, as long as my father promised to enroll me into a private preparatory school. You see, I may have only been seven, but I was already in sixth grade. There wasn’t much my public education could offer in regard to academic challenges, I was bored, floundering, and in need of a personally tailored curriculum. Of course, Dad agreed, knowing I would also begin my training with FAE by way of a private tutor, clubs and activities. Millie and Dad hugged for a long time, and she wiped tears from her eyes several times during their conversation. My father offered to take her as well, to live with us, and Uncle Brandon. He promised her an easy life of luxury and told her she more than deserved every spoil he could offer, but she chose to stay, for Hallie’s sake. I’ll admit, for a few brief moments I felt as though Millie chose Hallie over me, but even at seven years old, I had the emotional wherewithal to realize she was the only hope Hallie had at a somewhat normal childhood.

I knew then my mother had problems and Hallie needed Millie more than me. Dad promised frequent visits, family outings, vacations and the like, all including Millie, Hallie and my mother as well, if she was up to it. He never let me down; we had a wonderful upbringing and I never for one second felt unloved or alone. But I would drive my DeLorean back to that day and stay with Millie. I’d choose to help with my mother and sister, relieving her burden as much as I possibly could. I would gladly endure the monotony of public education, community college and a series of demeaning minimum wage jobs before settling on middle management, riding the commuter train between home and the city if it meant things would be easier for Millie.

She could never relax, and without Jack, she felt alone and unsupported. I could have alleviated her worry, her stress, her sense of complete responsibility. You know, ninety-three is a more than respectable age to cross the finish line, it’s damn impressive if you ask me. But it’s also a long time to constantly care for others. Millie was a true hero, selfless and giving. She kept the Keenan family secret, even from her own granddaughter, my mother. Her burden was great, and she bore it with class, decorum, and unconditional love. I should have stayed for her, just as she stayed for Hallie and my mom.” 

Lara waited before responding. The last thing she wanted was to interrupt Delaney’s catharsis. The silence between them grew into minutes, leading to an awkward segue if Lara waited any longer to speak. “I’m in awe, not curious or alarmed, but truly in awe of your tenet.”

“But?”

“I wouldn’t dare be as presumptuous as to speak for Millie, but I can venture to guess, she’d have not stood for you staying in New Jersey. She was your champion; she fought for you to ensure your future. For Millie, staying behind was not as sacrificial as you see it, but a necessity in the grander scheme of things. Forgive me if I have overstepped here.” 

“You haven’t. She would have liked you Doc. Millie’s worst fear was that I’d never have a good friend; an intellectual equal, someone who wouldn’t regard me as weird, call me a freak, diminish my confidence as harsh words often do. Millie would tell me to trust you and I would be inclined to agree.” 

“Would you still go back if you could?”

“Yes, but maybe only a few years, to spend more time with Millie, make a few more memories, do more to help her and pay closer attention to her health. However, I am ready to appreciate the future she made certain I had; the future you reminded me will make her proud. For now, the DeLorean can stay in the barn.” 

“Delaney, I will miss you; your wit, our banter during our sessions; there was a lot of Delaney in Della. I hope we can keep in touch, and you have my word, your secret is safe.”

“What are you going on about, Doc? You’re FAE now; please tell me you’re staying with the agency. Recruiting you was part of the plan all along.” 

“I suppose I’d consider it if I’m not on your father and uncle’s blacklist already.”

“Ha, they don’t have a blacklist. That shit only happens in bad spy movies. We are not spies, well, not technically.” 

“Delaney, what exactly is FAE?”

“Well, Doc, that is a conversation for another time, somewhere in the near future.”