Pouring over the knowledge she'd gained in school, her hospital residency and later rotations, she pieced together the objective facts any neurologist would want to know before answering such a question.
"I would first wonder if there was a head trauma of some sort: an accident maybe, some type of impact or fall. If there was none, I would consider medical emergencies, a stroke perhaps, some type of bleeding or swelling in the brain, possibly a tumor. Beyond those causes there could be an illness, dementia, the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s, or maybe even infection."
"And if none of those existed? If the patient were completely healthy and unharmed?"
She laughed, "Then I would defer to your expertise as a psychologist."
He grinned, the low light in the room touching the soft tilted corners of his full mouth. "Why are you here, Alice?"
Her breath caught in her chest, uncertainty creeping along her spine, her nerves tingling cold where it touched. "To talk about the dreams. To save Delilah." She hated that her response sounded more like a question, a query sent out in search of some meaningful confirmation and agreement.
Drawing her legs up onto the cushion of the couch, Alice curled over herself, shrinking into a tight ball that she knew couldn't protect her from wherever the doctor was going with this conversation. Even knowing the position she held wouldn't soften the blow of whatever truth he thought he knew, it comforted her still.
"Can you think of any other possible reason you might be here, Alice? Anything that can explain the memory loss, the fact that you remember nothing outside this office? Is your reality hazy even now?"
She didn't like the soft quality of his voice. He was walking on eggshells while asking the question, attempting to awaken something inside her while being careful not to push her over the edge.
"I remember other things," she argued, indignation a sharp note to her tone.
His pen tapped against his pad, the papers rustling as he flipped through seeking out the bits and pieces he'd recorded of their conversations. "Let's discuss your memory. In a clinical context. Perhaps your past and your education can help clue me in to facets and symptoms - causes - I may have missed."
Shaking her head, she retreated into a haze of emotional numbness. She didn't want to discuss her memory, it had nothing to do with why she was there. "We're wasting time, Doc. We're running out of time." The clock ticked twice before she added, "Delilah is running out of time."
"Time is of the essence, Alice, you have made no truer a statement than that. But I must admit, I don't believe Delilah exists."
Alice looked up, her eyes locking on the doctor, narrowing with the vehemence running through her blood in response to his statement. How dare he question the existence of the one person he was supposed to help her find?
"And if she does exist, I don't believe she has anything to do with these dreams."
Anger became her strength, wrenching her from a comfortable, numbing haze and focusing her on the object of her outrage. The doctor had no right to question whether her sister ever lived. Alice knew she'd lived. She’d been held by Delilah. She'd laughed with her. She'd shared Delilah's elation during their highs in life, and during their lows, she’d shared her tears.
"You haven't let me finish," she argued, her muscles shaking as she straightened her posture on the couch. Swinging her legs down so that her feet slapped against the floor, she bent forward, her eyes locked to the doctor's face, her finger pointing at his chest. "You haven't heard all the dreams. How can you make such ridiculous accusations when you haven't heard the entire story?"
Satisfaction was in the subtle rise of the doctor's brow, amusement playing at the corners of his lips as he leaned forward to accept Alice's challenge.
"I was wondering what it would take to breath some life into you." His posture mimicked hers, his body settling back against his chair as she relaxed against the couch.
The faucet dripped. The clock ticked.
His voice distracted her from both when he finally said, "Prove to me she's real, Alice. Tell me how Delilah has anything to do with these dreams."
"Come back to me, my beautiful girl. Come back."
A low voice, silk over grit, broke into the blackness, the warmth of a single finger slid down the skin of Alice's cheek to run along the line of her jaw.
Blinking open her eyes, she brought her vision into focus, the scuffed, rounded tips of worn leather boots the first thing she saw.
Hands pressed against her shoulders, her body pushed against the uncomfortable wooden backrest of a chair.
"What happened?" she managed to ask, her tongue thick and her mouth parched dry. "Where am I?"
A deep toned laughed answered her, not boisterous and loud, but quiet and cruel. "You're home," the man said, his name slowly returning to her thoughts. "You hyperventilated and passed out."
Her eyes shot up to lock with his.