“Maybe you misunderstood.”
Bowen had suggested this before. As I had in the past, I dismissed it.
“I’m sure he said it.”
“But he also said that he loved you, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you indicated that he’d had a major stroke? And was on a lot of medication and was quite possibly confused?”
“Yes.”
“And that it took nearly a day for him to be able to speak any words at all?”
“Yes.”
When I said nothing else, he finished with the same question that continued to plague me.
“Yet you still feel he was trying to communicate something important.”
On the monitor, Bowen was watching me. I nodded but said nothing.
“You do realize,” he offered, “that you may never understand what that might be?”
“He meant the world to me.”
“He sounds like a profoundly decent man.”
I looked away. Through the open door, the creek was black and ancient in the soft Southern light.
“I should have been there,” I muttered. “I should have gone with him. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t have had the stroke. Maybe the drive was too much for him.”
“Maybe,” Bowen said. “Or maybe not. There’s no way to know for sure. And while it may be normal to feel guilty, it’s also important to remember that guilt is simply an emotion, and like all emotions, it will eventually pass. Unless you choose to hold on to it.”
“I know,” I said. He’d said this to me before. While I accepted the truth of it, it sometimes struck me that my emotions didn’t care. “Anyway…Natalie said that I might find some answers in his truck. As to the reason he was in South Carolina, I mean. So I’ve begun the process of trying to find out where the truck is.”
“Natalie?” he asked.
“She’s a deputy sheriff here in town,” I began, then went on to tell him how we’d met, and a little about our conversations at the park, at the house, and then finally at dinner.
“You’ve spent quite a bit of time together since we last spoke,” he responded.
“She wanted to see the beehives.”
“Ah,” he said, and because we’d spoken so frequently, I knew exactly what he was thinking.
“Yes,” I said, “she’s attractive. And intelligent. And yes, I enjoyed our time together. However, I’m not sure how Natalie feels about me, which means there’s not much else to add.”
“All right,” he said.
“I’m serious,” I insisted. “And besides, I suspect Natalie might be dating someone else. I’m not sure about that, but there are signs.”
“I understand,” he said.
“Then why does it sound like you don’t believe me?”
“I believe you,” he said. “I simply find it interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
“Natalie is the first woman you’ve spoken to me about since you broke up with Sandra.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “I told you about Yoga Girl.”
She was a woman I’d gone out with twice the previous fall, right around the time I’d been accepted into the residency program. We’d had a couple of pleasant evenings, but both of us knew by the end of the second date that it wasn’t going to work between us.
I watched as he pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I remember,” he finally said, his voice coming out with a sigh. “And do you know what you called her? When you first mentioned her to me?”
“I can’t say that I do,” I admitted. I also tried to remember her name. Lisa? Elisa? Elise? Something like that.
“You called her Yoga Girl,” he said. “You didn’t use her name.”
“I’m sure I told you her name,” I protested.
“Actually, you didn’t,” he said. “At the time, I found that interesting, too.”
“What are you trying to say? That you think I might be falling for someone in local law enforcement?”
The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as we both noted the fact I’d suddenly avoided her name. “I have no idea,” he went on. “And that’s not really for me to say one way or the other.”
“I don’t even know if I’ll see her again.”
The time on my computer showed, amazingly, that nearly an hour had already passed and that our session was about to come to an end.
“Speaking of seeing each other,” he added, “I wanted to let you know that it’s possible we could meet in person next week. Unless you’d prefer to continue communicating electronically.”
“You think I need to travel to Pensacola?”
“No, not at all. Perhaps I should have been clearer. There’s a conference at Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville concerning PTSD. One of the speakers, unfortunately, had to cancel and I was asked to fill in. It’s on Tuesday, but I have to fly up Monday. If you’d like, we could meet in Jacksonville, or I could come to New Bern, if that’s easier.”
“That would be great,” I said. “What time?”
“Same time?” he asked. “I can catch a morning flight and rent a car.”
“Are you sure it’s not too far out of the way?”
“Not at all. I’m looking forward to visiting your grandfather’s place. You’ve painted quite a picture for me.”
I smiled, thinking that even if I had, I still hadn’t done it justice.
“I’ll see you next week, Doc. Do you need directions?”
“I’m sure I’ll be able find it. Take care.”
* * *
Two hours later, my cell phone rang. Though I didn’t recognize the number, the area code was from upstate South Carolina. The hospital administrator?
“Trevor Benson,” I answered.
“Hi. This is Thomas King from Baptist Easley Hospital. I received your message, but I wasn’t exactly sure what information you needed.”
Unlike the receptionist, his accent wasn’t nearly as thick or hard to understand.
“Thank you for returning my call,” I started, before laying out the situation. When I finished, he asked me to hold for a moment.
It was way longer than a moment. I listened to Muzak for at least five minutes before I heard the phone click through to him.
“I apologize that it took so long, but I had to find out who to ask, and then find the information you needed. We generally use two ambulance services,” he explained before giving me their names. As I wrote them down, he went on.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have the particulars regarding your grandfather. I suppose your best bet is to call the ambulance services. Perhaps they’ll have the information you need. I’m sure they’re required to keep records.”
It was just as Natalie had suggested. “I appreciate your help,” I said. “This is more than helpful.”
“You’re welcome. And my condolences for the passing of your grandfather.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I hung up, thinking that I’d call the ambulance companies in the morning. I wished I had thought about it when my grandfather had been in the hospital; after nearly half a year, who knew how long it might take them to find the answers I needed.
My thoughts turned to Natalie. Since my call with Bowen, images of her kept resurfacing in my mind; I saw her expression of wonder as she watched the bee crawl over her finger, the sensuous swirling of her dress outlining her long legs and the graceful lines of her body as she stepped out of her car in Beaufort. I recalled both our heartfelt discussion and the easy banter between us, and I puzzled over the flash of sadness I thought I’d sensed toward the end of our dinner. I thought about the energy between us and knew exactly why I’d called her by her name when speaking with Bowen.
As much as I’d tried to downplay it with Dr. Bowen, I knew with certainty that I wanted to see her again, sooner rather than later.
* * *
After I’d had dinner, I resolved to finally get some reading done on the back porch. But figuring that Natalie
would have finished her shift some time ago, I found myself reaching for my cell phone. I debated calling but decided against it. Instead, I typed out a quick text.
I was just thinking about you and hope you had a good day.
Are you free for dinner this weekend?
Though I should have set my phone aside, I waited to see if she was near enough to her phone to read the text right away. Sure enough, I saw the indication that she’d read the text and assumed she would write something back. Instead, there was no response at all.
For the rest of the evening, I continued to check my phone. Childish. Compulsive. Maybe immature. At times, I can be all those things. Like Bowen says, we’re all works in progress.
Finally, just as I was getting ready to turn in for the night, I heard the telltale ding of my cell phone.
Thanks. Typical day. Nothing special.
I stared at the screen, thinking it didn’t exactly proclaim an undeniable passion and attraction toward me, especially since she hadn’t addressed my invitation at all.
I put the phone on the bedside table, feeling…confused? hurt?—before reaching for the lamp. I shook those feelings aside, knowing it was way too early to feel either of those things. Besides, if she hadn’t wanted to speak with me again, she wouldn’t have answered at all. Right?
I turned out the light, then adjusted the covers, when I heard my cell phone suddenly ding again. I reached for the phone.
I’ll think about it.
Not a yes, but not a no, either. I continued to stare at the screen until it vibrated again with another message from her.
:-)
I smiled. Clasping my hands behind my head, I stared at the ceiling, more curious about her than ever.
Chapter 8
I didn’t hear from Natalie on Tuesday, which disappointed me, but my offer was out there. I knew she was working and busy, and I had things to do as well. Well, sort of. But I didn’t text her. It wasn’t as though I was thinking about her all the time. Just…too much for my own good.
I also spoke to both ambulance companies. As with the hospital, it took a couple of transfers before I was able to reach someone who could help. Yes, I was told, there were records of pickup locations for patients who had been transported to the hospital; no, I was told, they didn’t have that information readily available. It would take them a few days to find it, maybe until the end of the week, and if I didn’t hear from them to call again.
Hurry up and wait.
Just like so many other things in life.
* * *
Hoping for a chance to speak with Claude’s father, I decided to visit the Trading Post for lunch. Pulling up, I spotted a bin offering bags of ice, firewood for sale, propane tank refills, an air compressor to fill tires, and an old-fashioned vending machine, which seemed redundant since people could purchase sodas inside. Unfortunately, there was no one out front in the rockers.
Inside, Claude was back at his usual spot behind the register and he raised a hand in greeting as I headed toward the grill. As usual, all the tables were occupied, so I found myself at the counter. A massive man—at least a head taller than me and twice as wide—nodded toward me before handing me a small bowl of boiled peanuts. I assumed this was Frank, the regular grill man. Unlike Claude, he said nothing. Not much of a chatter, which was fine with me.
In honor of my grandfather, I ordered a BLT with fries and a pickle. Behind me, I overheard two guys at one of the tables talking about their fishing trip the weekend before, lamenting their lack of luck, and debating better places to try the following weekend. I peeked over my shoulder. Both were wearing baseball caps; one had the sinewy arms associated with construction, while the other wore a uniform of one of the propane distributors. When one of them mentioned that he’d spotted an alligator recently, my ears perked up.
“Four of ’em actually,” he went on. “Sunnin’ right there on the bank between the trees.”
“Big ones?” his friend asked.
“Nah. Juveniles, probably.”
“Where?”
“You know where the boat launch is? A couple of bends in the river after that, on your right. You remember the bald eagle’s nest in the cypress tree? Right around there.”
“What eagle’s nest?”
“Same nest as last year.”
“I didn’t see it last year.”
“That’s because you never take the time to look around.”
“I’m fishing,” he answered, “not sightseeing.”
“You try the quarry? I’ve had some luck with bass there lately…”
The conversation returned to fishing again and I found myself tuning out. I was, however, interested in the alligators and the bald eagles and wondered if Natalie might want to join me.
By then, my meal was ready, and Frank placed the plate in front of me. I took a bite, confirming that it never tasted as good anywhere else. I finished the sandwich and the pickle, but had only a few of the fries. I could feel my arteries hardening as I sampled them, but my taste buds were happy.
As I was finishing up, I glanced through the windows toward the front of the store and saw a pair of elderly gentlemen sitting in the rockers on the porch. Just what I’d been hoping for. Rising from my seat, I approached the register. Claude, without the apron and shiny face, seemed far more content than he was the last time I’d been here.
“Hey, Claude,” I greeted him. “Is that your father out front?”
He leaned forward to peek over my shoulder. “Yeah, that’s him. The one with the overalls. The other guy is Jerrold.”
“Do you think your dad would mind if I spoke with him about my grandfather?”
“Feel free. Can’t guarantee he’ll know anything. Assuming he even hears what you’re asking.”
“Of course.”
“Word of advice? Watch out for Jerrold. Half the time, I have no idea what he’s talking about or what he finds so funny.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant exactly but I nodded. “How long do you think your father will be here?”
“They haven’t eaten yet, so I reckon he’ll be here at least another hour.”
“What does he usually have for lunch?”
“The barbecue sandwich with slaw. And hush puppies.”
“How about I buy that for him?”
“Why? It’s not like I can charge him. He still owns a portion of the store.”
“I figure if I’m going to try to get some information from him, it’s the least I can do.”
“It’s your money.” He shrugged.
I pulled some cash from my wallet and handed it over, watching as he added it to the drawer. He cupped a hand at the corner of his mouth and called across the store. “Hey, Frank. Get Daddy the usual, okay? And hand it to Trevor here. He’ll bring it out.”
The meal didn’t take long to prepare and when it was ready, I ferried the plate to the front door. As I passed the register, Claude loosened the cap on a Yoo-hoo, then tightened it slightly before holding it out to me. “You’ll need this, too.”
“Yoo-hoo?”
“It’s his favorite. He’s been drinking it as long as I can remember.”
I took the bottle and with my hands full, I used my hips to push open the door. As I approached, Jim looked up, his face as gnarled and wrinkled as his hands, all bone and skin and liver spots. He wore glasses and a few of his teeth were missing, but I thought I saw a spark of curiosity in his expression that made me believe he was sharper, and more aware, than Claude’s description of him might indicate. Then again, maybe I was just being optimistic.
“Hi, Jim. I thought I’d bring out your lunch,” I started. “I was hoping to talk to you for a few minutes.”
Jim squinted up at me. “Huh?”
Jerrold leaned toward Jim. “Boy here wants to talk to you,” Jerrold shouted.
“Talk about what?” Jim asked.
“How the hell should I know? He just walked out here.”
“Who is he?” Jim asked.
Jerrold swiveled his gaze toward me. He was younger than Jim, but still well past retirement age. I noticed a hearing aid, which might—or might not—make things easier.
He leaned toward Jim again. “I’m figurin’ he’s a salesman,” Jerrold shouted. “Maybe selling them women’s panties.”
I blinked, unsure whether to be offended, and suddenly remembered what Claude had told me.
“Tell him to talk to Claude,” Jim said with a wave. “I’m retired. I don’t need nothing from any salesman.”
“The hell you don’t,” Jerrold said to him. “You need a woman and one of them winning lotto tickets, if you ask me.”
“Huh?”
Jerrold leaned back in his seat with mirth in his eyes. “Women’s panties.” He cackled, clearly pleased with himself. “You sellin’ women’s panties?”
“No,” I said, “I’m not a salesman. I just wanted to speak with Jim.”
“About what?”
“About my grandfather,” I said. “And I brought Jim his lunch.”
“Then don’t just stand there.” He waved a bony hand at me. “Give it to him. Don’t be slow, now.”
I leaned down and handed Jim his lunch. As I did, Jerrold frowned, the grooves in his forehead so deep they could hold a pencil.
“Where’s my lunch?” Jerrold demanded.
I hadn’t expected the question but realized that I probably should have considered the idea they’d want to eat together. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. What would you like? I’d be happy to get you something.”
“Hmmmm,” Jerrold said, bringing a hand to his chin. “How about filet mignon with a lobster tail and lots of butter, with some of that rice pilaf?”
He’d pronounced it pea-laff.
“Do they serve that here?” I asked.
“Of course they don’t. You need to order it special, from one of them fancy places.”
I assumed he meant a different restaurant—a real restaurant—and I was caught off guard.
“Where would I order that?” I asked.
“What’s he saying?” Jim asked.
Jerrold leaned toward Jim again. “He’s saying he won’t buy me lunch,” Jerrold shouted. “And he says he’ll buy you a Cadillac if you’ll talk to him.”
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