Another Love - Aftermath

Another Love - Aftermath

A future imagining of RichardGerald's popular story

RichardGerald has provided me with written permission to use his story and characters. If you haven't read one of LIT's blockbuster stories, here's the link:

https://www.literotica.com/s/another-love-pt-01

The author took a lot of heat for his story and, like other great ones here, many rewrote his tale. Some were quite good, however, in my humble opinion, all of them missed the point of RG's original characters. I get it; I do - a military man who saved lives in battle seemed to have very little manliness when dealing with his wayward wife. For every single book or free story I've ever written, I get comments about how my character(s) SHOULD have behaved and I pretty much ignore those, so you know. I believe that the entire point of RG's story is presented in the first paragraph of chapter one. Both Rob and Karen had other loves. One was a human and one was a thing. Of course, that in no way absolves or grants any leeway to Karen for what she did. The notion that because Rob ends up with both women, it's somehow even is preposterous.

The thing I've always respected about another author, FTDS, was his knack for sticking to the original characters while finishing the story. It's not nearly as easy as it seems. I've done a conclusion for five other stories, and other than GA's "February," I've strictly adhered to the original characters and storyline. The only reason I ever messed with February at all was because George left a few weird sentences, I believe as 'crumbs,' about Linda's high school boyfriend who committed suicide, so I ran with that. I'm convinced you'll let me know how I did with this one.

No explicit sex here, only implied. All previous characters' integrities are maintained and there are a few new ones to enjoy.

Thanks to Strikesandballs for his fine editing.

Relax; it's just a story, people.

Haunted in my dreams and by my memories. It wasn't like I didn't know what to do about it, either. I'm Travis Walker III, Dr. Travis Walker. Besides being third in name, I'm third in a line of mental health professionals. My Grandfather, Travis, published articles that eventually led to the recognition of ADHD and changed the DSM-5. My father wasn't that famous but he had a highly successful practice that afforded his family a comfortable and well-balanced life. I think he endeavored to be like his dad except to enjoy more time with his wife and kids, and he certainly accomplished that in my book.

Me, well, I had a good head start, as you can imagine with all that history. Unlike my Father, I decided to become a psychiatrist instead of a psychologist. I felt having a full suite of options, including medicine and other treatments, would be better to help me manage my patients. So, if I ever wanted to shed the dark obsession, I knew what to do. Instead, though, more recently and at my girlfriends' insistence, I've started this journal for when I finally get some help.

It wasn't like I hadn't had my share of life troubles. I met my wife, Marci, while doing my residency. She was a sonographer in another wing of the hospital. We had a whirlwind romance and married a year later. Classically, I came home early and, obviously, unexpectedly, on a day just before our second anniversary. Her shoes started the trail of clothing that led from the apartment entrance to the bedroom. I picked up the shoes and followed that trail and the moans of passion. Marci was on all fours, being energetically pounded by some gym rat.

She looked up and saw me before he did and simply went rigid. I think Goliath thought he was doing something right as he put just a bit more effort into it.

"Get the fuck out!" I yelled. I wasn't going to fuck around with her new squeeze; he had me both in weight and height and by a lot. I threw her shoes at them. The big boy seemed irritated with my timing. He finally got off her and started dressing, keeping an eye on me.

"I'll be waiting for you outside, babe," he told her softly. His term of endearment further pissed me off.

"And fuck you, you degenerate Quasimodo," I spat. "She's all yours."

Speaking heatedly and quickly, she mouthed all the excuses from the cheater's handbook, but all I heard were noises. She packed slowly as I began trying to move her toward the door. I'll be damned if he wasn't still right outside our front door half an hour later when Marci finally left, still trying to apologize.

"Just get the hell out of my sight! You can arrange to pick up your stuff with my attorney because I never want to see you again...ever!"

Other than the appearances in court, I never saw either of them again.

Since then, I have had no interest in looking for a more suitable mate. I poured myself into my work, and it paid great dividends. My successful practice left almost no room for new patients.

I remember the day I opened their email. It was a plea from two desperate brothers, Kevin, the older, and Oscar, the younger. They had tried to schedule an appointment and had been rightly turned away by my staff.

What struck me most was that they needed my help, not for themselves, but for their mother, Karen. They gave me just some slivers of background, only enough to intrigue me.

Since neither would be my patient, I met them at a local restaurant instead of my office. After the introductions, they seemed eager to get down to business.

"Alright, Kevin, Oscar, how can I be of help?"

"Uh, we aren't sure, exactly," Kevin said. "We've tried almost everything we can think of. All we know is that our mother, Karen McDonald, is in serious trouble. We fear for her life."

"How so?" I asked. The guys were jittery. I wasn't sure if this was some sort of joke.

"We don't know," Oscar said. "It all happened so fast. We couldn't contact our father, mom's husband... or ex-husband." I looked up over my glasses as I continued to write non-verbally, persuading them to elaborate.

"We can't reach anyone from our... second family, either," Kevin added. They both looked uncomfortable. I'd been writing some notes. I was a meticulous notetaker but I stopped cold and looked at the pair.

"You don't know if your Father is married to your Mother?" I asked incredulously.

They both shrugged. Kevin said, "Well, he was before everyone disappeared."

"What do you mean by second family?" I asked. They both turned toward each other, embarrassed and hesitant. I guess it was up to Kevin to spill the beans.

"Our mother," he cringed as he began, "had a long-term affair with a man while my father was overseas in the Navy. Well, it started before then, but the man, Philippe, moved in with us to help Mom. Our Dad found out years later when Philippe's wife, Avril, came to their home while she was visiting Oscar in California. Philippe had died suddenly but had a painting, a risqué painting of our Mother. Avril was delivering it to Mom but accidentally ran into our Father. The whole thing was a mess. Mom left early, wanting to mitigate the damage."

"You say long-term," I asked in earnest. "How long exactly?"

"Twenty years," He replied, looking down at the table. Then, he seemed to regain some confidence.

"That began a strange period in our lives," he explained. "Both of us, well... we had a tumultuous relationship with Dad for a long time before he found out. For months afterward, and during the holidays, all of us, I mean both Oscar and I, Mom, Avril, and even her family, who we knew well, tried to help Dad get through it. We had Canadian Thanksgiving at our Mom's and Dad's home in Albany, and then we all went to Montreal - that's where Philippe, Avril and both their families live - for Christmas.

"We thought Mom and Dad were through the worst of it," he continued. "Both Mom and Avril were in some sort of intimate relationship with Dad, trying to help heal his pain." He looked at his brother. "We don't know any details about that other than what I just said. That's all Mom would say."

He took a nervous drink of water. Oscar decided to carry it from there.

"Anyway," he started, "in February, Dad was summoned to Washington, DC, to the Pentagon, I think about some top-secret project. Mom and Avril were upset with him. They said he'd promised them he was finished with his secret military business. Then, Mom and Avril just disappeared. We couldn't get hold of anyone. Panicked, we flew to Montreal three weeks later only to find their house padlocked."

"When was this?" I asked, thinking they wanted my help to find their Mother.

"Six years ago," Oscar said. I just stared at him.

"I don't understand," I responded. "What exactly do you want from me? You said your Mother was clinically depressed."

"Two months after Mom went missing," Kevin spoke up again, "we received a letter from the Department of Homeland Security saying that our mother was being held at Guantanamo Bay for espionage and other high crimes." Kevin was beginning to break as he relayed the painful story. Oscar put his hand on his brother's shoulder in support.

"Avril, her mother, and the Du Monte family seem to have fallen off the face of the Earth," Oscar took over. "We can't find our Father. We've gotten as far as learning he went overseas on a classified mission six years ago. Honestly, we probably need therapy, too. But mom is in trouble. We've been able to communicate by letter and plenty of what she's tried to tell us has been redacted, so we can't read it. Her latest communications sound very dark and ominous like she's given up. They won't let us see her. After all this time, we both think she isn't getting proper representation or due process."

"I'm not sure what I could do," I said honestly. I couldn't very well drop my practice and everything else for one patient. It sounded like the men needed someone at the State Department or some advocacy group.

"Do you have her letters with you?" I asked, not knowing why. Kevin reached into his backpack and pulled out a stack of papers, handing them to me.

"I'll look at these," I told them. "Afterward, I'll let you know if I can help or who you might be able to get some help from." I had a college buddy at the FBI who I'd worked with once regarding a mentally ill predator in our town. They didn't seem to believe me.

"This is outside my wheelhouse," I added. "I'm just being honest. However, what you've told me is intriguing so let me see what can be done. That's the best I can offer."

They then paid for my lunch. Both gentlemen nodded in acceptance and left. I sat there contemplating what they'd told me. The story itself seemed far-fetched and absurd, enough to ping my limbic. As if by some sixth sense, I'd previously asked my office staff to reschedule my afternoon patients. I called my Dad and asked if I could swing by.

"Trav," he warned after hearing my tale. "I can see how this might appear to be an adventure but I'm cautioning you, if this Karen is in a facility like that, then she did something very bad. Are you sure you want to drop everything and dive in headfirst?"

Dad was always the more cautious of the three Travises but he wasn't wrong. When I told him I thought I did, he suggested I call my Grandfather.

"He worked with some people from the Army," he said, "helped them update manuals or something with regard to ADHD, leading to other conditions like PTSD after tremendous and prolonged stress. He might be able to at least get you in touch with someone who could steer you in the right direction."

Gramps listened intently, then told me he would make some calls. After dinner, I sat down at my laptop and started researching the McDonald clan to see what Google knew. Other than Robert McDonald being credited with a hypersonic jet engine, I found nothing - not very little - nothing. It was as if they'd been scrubbed from existence. I knew then that this was serious, and I realized now why the boys' mother may be held as they described.

The next morning, it was back to the office. Travis the One, as was our family nickname for him, left a message that I listened to at lunch.

"Travis," his message started, "this is your grandad." Technology wasn't his strong point. "I spoke to an old contact of mine at the Pentagon, Admiral Dan Dickerson. He has your cell number and will call you at four this afternoon. You cannot call him. Please be ready to answer your phone." There was a pause and a sigh. "Travis, please listen to him very carefully. He knows this family and that should be a signal to you that this is a big deal. I'm not sure this is something for you. I'm not trying to stifle you but this could be a big pile of shit and I don't know if you have the right boots for it." I respected my grandfather immensely and would heed his warning.

The Admiral was all business, as one would expect. He asked all the questions before providing me with any information I sought. Finally, satisfied, he asked what my interest was.

"I think this woman needs mental care," I said and before I could explain, he talked over me.

"We have people there that handle those things."

"Perhaps," I let the word drag out. "But then again, this woman has been there a very long time. What exactly was she convicted of?"

"That's classified," he barked. I could tell that his goal was to intimidate me.

"Why?" I wasn't going to make it easy. "Isn't a person in prison generally convicted of a crime at trial first? Tell me if I'm wrong but I'm pretty sure I was wide awake in government class."

The line was silent for several moments. "Listen to me, son," he said with more empathy. "This woman's husband isn't only a colleague and fellow officer; he is also a friend. Karen, the woman in question, was... is his wife. She, along with her boyfriend and their families, were involved in a plot to trade military secrets to a hostile government. I cannot say more. However, after all this time, she has not bent or broken from her original story, so I'm inclined to maybe... that's a big maybe, believe some of her story. I'm willing to use you to provide a psyche evaluation."

I didn't think it was going to get any better so I let him continue providing details of how I would be vetted to go down there and gain access to my new patient.

"And Dr. Walker?" he finished with. "If by chance she is in distress, you may tell her that her husband is alive and well, although he cannot contact her."

I spent the rest of my evening wrestling with self-doubt. Why was I doing this? Was I; had I even committed to myself to do it? I had a book of patients who needed me. Some were diagnosed as being clinically depressed, not just assumed to be. But I couldn't stop the relentless tugging at my mind and, to be honest, my heart. I'd been drawn into Karen's issues even with the limited information I had... and hadn't even met her yet.

It was also clear that the Admiral wasn't only this husband, Robert's friend, but also likely one to my grandad as well. It shouldn't have been that easy. I knew I needed to call the brothers and update them but they'd been waiting a long time. I had many things to iron out first.

The next day, after asking my father, I spent the morning with him going over caseloads. I'd asked my partner in the practice to handle most of my less critical patients. He wasn't happy but he owed me. I felt bad about dragging my father out of retirement. He was still licensed, having only left his practice a year and a half earlier. I had to give the tougher patients to someone I could trust. I worked everything out on my hospital schedule and gave the office staff additional responsibilities to schedule and move patients to other doctors in the area.

Two days later, after contacting Oscar and Kevin, I was on a plane to Ft. Lauderdale, where I would board a military plane bound for GTMO in Cuba. I'd become apprehensive about my mission, if that was a thing to call it. Why I felt bound to help Karen still escaped me.

Upon arrival, I was shown to my quarters where I was instructed to 'settle in.' I would be allowed to see Karen the next morning. That evening, I was invited to dine with the surgical and medical staff. All of them were very closed off from anything but general topics, reminding me that I'd soon be in the same boat of silence.

Of course, the next morning, I had another stack of documents to sign. Confidentiality rules, as if psychiatrists weren't already bound to those. I was given a minor security clearance and was sworn under oath that almost nothing that I saw or heard while there would ever be spoken to anyone. It seemed like a lot of pomp and circumstance to me but then again, it was the military.

Finally, I was led to a small room that appeared more designed for interrogation. There were two chairs and a small table and nothing else. After ten minutes, Karen was led in, wearing a grey jumpsuit, her wrists and ankles shackled. Once seated, I asked the guard to remove them but the request was denied. I was told it was for my own safety.

That was a lot of crap. Karen looked squalid and helpless, her eyes nearly lifeless, almost as if she had no idea where she was. I was so taken aback that I couldn't find my voice for several moments after the guards left.

"Karen?" I finally said, my mouth completely dry.

She'd been staring at some nondistinctive spot on the wall over my shoulder. When her eyes moved to meet mine, her mouth opened and, in barely a whisper, she said, "He's dead."

It was a statement, not a question. I'm a professional and consider myself level-headed but seeing her like that, completely broken, almost broke me, too.

Karen took my lack of an answer as confirmation of her statement. She began crying small, dehydrated tears.

"He's alive, Karen," I said, wanting to reach out for her hand but not wanting to break any rules I hadn't memorized or, worse, cause my patient trauma.

It took a moment to register. The rapid eye movement told me she finally got it. A weak smile began to form on frail lips, her cheeks too gaunt to allow the muscles to pull upwards. Her eyes, though, never left mine.

"Are you here to help me?" still a quiet whisper. "Please! Help me!" she said more urgently. The dry tears turned wet. I was worried for her life at that point.

From there, Karen began spewing incoherent mumbo-jumbo, trying desperately to tell me everything from the last six years in a matter of minutes. I maintained eye contact, knowing I'd never understand what she said and slowly reached my hand across the small table, palm up and open. Then I looked at her hand. Sometimes, just physical touch can work wonders for a person in Karen's condition, although I'd never seen someone as bad off as her before.

It took a minute for her to stop and realize. She cautiously put her hand in mine.

"I'm going to help you, Karen," I stated emphatically. "Know that I'm going to do everything in my power to help you."

The guards entered unannounced and declared our time was up. I wasn't expecting that so I calmly told Karen I'd be back tomorrow to see her.

That was my first of many mistakes that day, although, in fairness, I was in completely new territory. I found myself recalling Grandad's warning about the boots.

I headed to Sick Bay and, after finding the doctor responsible for Karen's cellblock, wrote a prescription for Karen so I could get her more lucid. I also inquired about her specific diet before doing so. The doctor questioned me on everything, saying they were perfectly capable of caring for the prisoners and diagnosing them. Everyone I'd met in that place in my first two days seemed like they thrived on conflict and challenge. They definitely didn't like an outsider telling them anything. I had to play it cool if I was ever to keep the promise I'd just made to Karen.