The Return

by Nicholas Sparks

“If you don’t know her that well, how do you know she had a bone marrow biopsy? And why did she give you permission to speak with me in the first place?”

  “I blackmailed her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I threatened to call the police. It’s a long story, but hopefully, she’ll stick around until she’s better. And for now, you’re free to speak with me.”

  “Blackmailing her might have invalidated the form.”

  “Or it might not. I’m not a lawyer. However, the form is on file, so you’re technically in the clear.”

  She still didn’t look persuaded but finally shook her head. “Frankly, it might make things easier to be able to speak with you. She’s been a difficult patient so far and I’m uncertain what to make of all of it.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t get the feeling that anything she’s told me is true.”

  Likewise, I thought. “I can’t help you there. I was more interested in her medical condition.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Can you give me a quick run-through about her case? Just the highlights.”

  “For some of this, you might want to speak with the neurologist or the orthopedist.”

  “I will if I need to,” I said.

  She nodded. “As you know, she was admitted with a head injury and compound fractures to her arm. The head CT indicated a subdural hematoma. She drifted in and out of consciousness, and we kept her under close evaluation while we waited for the storm to break. The hospital here doesn’t normally operate on heads, so we transfer those out. But the helicopters were grounded, roads were still flooded, and there was concern that the transport would further increase her risk. Meanwhile, the fluid continued to build, and her condition grew steadily worse. We finally made the decision to perform the craniotomy at our hospital, and fortunately, a neurosurgeon from Vidant was able to make it down here despite the storm. The operation went well. Callie’s confusion and dizziness almost immediately subsided and she’s been conscious ever since. She’s no longer slurring her words and has full motor function, too.”

  “She seemed okay when I spoke to her.”

  “I thought the same thing yesterday. But you should speak to the neurologist if you need more information on those issues. My impression is that he’s pretty confident about her recovery.”

  “How about her arm?”

  “The ortho was finally able to get to that on Sunday and it ended up being rather complex and it took longer than he’d anticipated. Again, though, he said it went well and he’s confident. You’d have to ask him more about that, though.”

  When she didn’t add more, I asked, “And?”

  “As you can imagine, there’ve been a lot of physicians and specialties involved in her care. Emergency, neurology, orthopedics, and now oncology.”

  “When were you brought in?”

  “Sunday evening,” she said. “Prior to undergoing treatment for her injuries, she had the usual battery of tests and there were some problems with her blood work. She had low red blood cell, low white blood cell, and low platelet counts, and she needed a transfusion. Because we couldn’t find any internal bleeding, there were worries she might have leukemia, so here I am.”

  “Which explains the bone marrow biopsy.”

  “It’s been a very hectic few days with all the doctors and procedures, and we’ve all spent some time with her. And that’s the other problem.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because she told us different stories,” Nobles said, “and no one knows the truth. For starters, she said she was nineteen, but I don’t believe that for a minute. She looks like she’s fifteen or sixteen. She also told me that her parents had died in an automobile accident last year, that she doesn’t have any other family, and has been on her own ever since. On the other hand, she told the orthopedist that they’d died in a house fire. It didn’t add up.”

  “Maybe she was confused.”

  “Maybe early on, but not by Sunday. She was fine—she could add, knew who the president was, knew the day of the week, and everything else. During that round of questioning, she also mentioned that she was from Tallahassee.”

  “She told me she was from Florida, too.”

  “I’m from Tallahassee,” Nobles emphasized. “I grew up there, went to Florida State, and lived most of my life there. When I asked her what high school she attended—just chatting, you know—she said George Washington High. I’d never heard of it, so I checked my phone and realized it doesn’t exist. I asked about a couple of other places—the Alfred Maclay Gardens Park or St. Marks Wildlife Refuge—and though she acted like she’d heard of them, I could tell she hadn’t. So I asked if she really was from Tallahassee and after that, she stopped answering my questions. I need to know whether she has family, though, and she won’t tell me anything. But she’s going to need a bone marrow transplant sooner rather than later, or there’s not going to be anything we can do for her. We need to find her family.”

  “How bad is the leukemia?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, quickly shaking her head. “I wasn’t clear. Callie doesn’t have leukemia. The biopsy shows that she has aplastic anemia.”

  “Is that better or worse than leukemia?”

  “Six of one, half dozen of the other. Basically, aplastic anemia means she’s not producing enough new blood cells, and in her case, the disease is very advanced, so it’s a crisis situation. But let’s back up a second. How much do you know about bone marrow transplants?”

  “Not as much as you do, I’m sure.”

  She smiled. “It can be an arduous process to find an appropriate donor, but basically, in the first step, we try to find donors with matching human leukocyte antigens, or HLAs. There are six major antigens, and with the best donors, all six of the antigens match. Five is less good, four is a possibility but riskier, et cetera. Anyway, after I got the results of the biopsy, I ran Callie’s HLAs through the marrow registry, and the best matches we have now are a couple of threes. She needs a better match, which usually means family.”

  “Does Callie know yet?”

  “No,” she said. “The results came in earlier this afternoon. She knows that a transplant is a possibility, though. After I leave here, I’m going to share the results with her and hopefully, she’ll tell me something about her family. I mean…how can she not have any family? She’s too young not to have anyone, right?”

  Though I agreed with her, I remembered my earlier experience with Callie. “What if she doesn’t tell you anything about them? Or denies their existence again?”

  “Then all we can do is pray that another donor shows up in the registry.”

  “How long does she have?”

  “Hard to know for sure. There’s medication and we can keep her alive with the transfusions, but she’ll have to remain in treatment and be consistent with it. She doesn’t have insurance for that kind of long-term care. She needs a transplant. She needs to be honest, too, so she can be transferred to Vidant in Greenville. They won’t take her if she keeps playing games.”

  “Why does she need to be transferred?”

  “We don’t do irradiation at this hospital,” she said, “but it’s not a big deal. I’m already in touch with Felicia Watkins, an oncologist at Vidant, and she’s reviewing Callie’s files now. I’ve worked with her before and she’s terrific. If we do find a donor, Callie will be in excellent hands.”

  “Good to know. Let me know what Callie says.”

  “Will you be around?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be here.”

  * * *

  Nobles took down my number and said she’d be in touch shortly. I decided to wait in the cafeteria, where I ordered a cup of coffee, preoccupied with Callie.

  How old was she? Where was she from? What exactly was her relationship with my grandfather, and why had he taken her in? More importantly, were her parents alive and did she have siblings? And why was she alternately lying or sto
newalling, when her family might be the only way to possibly save her life?

  Of course, she hadn’t known the results of the biopsy yet, nor did she know that there were no good matches in the registry. To this point, she might have been stubborn because she’d believed she’d recover, but if she remained silent, then what?

  What could be worse than dying?

  When the answer didn’t come, I reframed the question from Callie’s perspective, with a slight variation. I’d rather die than live with…

  There were more possibilities with that option. My father, or my parents. My abusive uncle, and the list could go on from there, any of which would explain her reticence.

  But…would it really?

  Even if she wasn’t nineteen and still a minor in an abusive situation, did she realize she could go to a judge and make a request to become emancipated? She’d already been on her own for almost a year, had a job, had a place to live, paid her bills. She was more functional than many actual adults. She didn’t have to live with anyone, I reasoned.

  Unable to wrap my mind around an answer, I finished my coffee, then went back to the counter to buy an apple. As I munched, I took a break from thinking and watched people in the cafeteria come and go. Eventually, I received a text from Dr. Nobles, asking if I was still at the hospital. When I texted that I was in the cafeteria, she told me to wait, and that she’d be there in a few minutes.

  In the silence, I suddenly realized I knew some of the answer to my earlier, rephrased question. I didn’t know all of it, however—or the why—and it left me feeling like I was caught in a powerful current, bearing me to an unknown destination.

  * * *

  Nobles joined me at the table a few minutes later.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I explained the results and the reality of the situation, and all the medical options to her,” she said, sounding tired. “All of it—the risks, what the procedure required, outcomes. Everything. I also asked her where and when her parents died, so I could possibly search for relatives, and again, she got very agitated, like she knew she’d been caught in a lie. She insisted again that she was old enough to make her own decisions and the more I pressed, the more adamant she became about waiting for a better donor in the registry. I’m hoping you’ll have better luck.”

  “If she wouldn’t tell you, why do you think she’d tell me?”

  “I don’t know,” Nobles answered, massaging her temples. “Maybe you can blackmail her again.”

  * * *

  Visiting hours were nearly over by the time I reached Callie’s room. This time, the door was open, the television still blaring, and Callie pointedly kept her eyes focused on the screen. She was a predictable thing.

  I sat in the chair again and leaned forward, bringing my hands together. I decided to go all in, guns blazing, with a gamble.

  “So,” I said, “you’re a liar. Your parents are alive.”

  She flinched before turning toward me and I knew I was right.

  “Go away.”

  “I should have guessed,” I said, ignoring her. “Anyone who breaks the law like you have isn’t generally an honest person in the first place. But why lie about your parents being dead? Why lie when you told me that there was no one I could contact?”

  Knowing she wouldn’t answer, I went on. “I got to thinking about the possible reasons for telling your doctor that they were dead, none of which make a lot of sense to me. Even if my dad had been the most awful man in the world, I’d want him to be tested if he could save me. Just so I could make sure I’d be alive and well and able to spit in his face afterward. But if he wasn’t an awful guy, how do you think he’ll feel if you die and he finds out that he could have helped you?”

  She said nothing.

  “And what about your mom? Is she a monster, too? If so, why sacrifice yourself? Isn’t that giving her exactly what she wants? But if she’s not all bad, then don’t you think she’ll care if you live or die?”

  She blinked and I took my hunch a step further.

  “And let’s talk about your brothers and sisters. How about them? Don’t you think they might feel guilty? If any of them could have saved you?”

  “They won’t care,” she insisted, her voice a hoarse growl.

  Bingo. She had siblings, which made her response that much more interesting. “How about you? Do you care if you live or die?”

  “I won’t die.”

  “You need a bone marrow transplant.”

  “I know. Dr. Nobles told me.”

  “Do you have any questions about it?”

  “No.”

  “So you understand that unless they find a matching donor quickly, there might not be anything they can do to save you.”

  “They’ll find a donor.”

  “What if they don’t? What then?”

  This time, she didn’t answer.

  “I know you’re scared,” I said, softening. “But no matter what happened with your family, it’s not worth dying over. But that’s what’s going on, isn’t it? You’d rather die than live with…yourself. For something you did.”

  I clocked her sharp inhale, before I went on. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. I’m sure they don’t want you to die.”

  Her eyes started to glisten.

  “Or how about this? If you don’t want to see them, I’m sure the hospital can make arrangements so that you don’t have to. We just need to get them tested, and they don’t have to come here to do that. All you have to do is tell me how I can contact them.”

  She remained silent, her knees drawn up to her body, and in that moment, I caught sight of the lonely stray that my grandfather must have noticed when he’d found her in the barn.

  “I’m not going to let you die,” I said.

  Strangely, I realized that I meant it. But Callie simply turned away.

  * * *

  As far as I could tell, I only had two options to help Callie: I could get the police involved, or I could try to find her family myself. But could the police do anything if she refused to answer their questions? Unless her fingerprints were on file somewhere, she wouldn’t necessarily be in any of the databases; if she insisted to them that she was an adult, they might not be interested at all. What, after all, was the crime she was committing? I supposed I could tell them about the social security number and the break-in, but I didn’t want to get her into any trouble if I didn’t have to. Like her doctors, I simply wanted her to get better. If it came to that, I’d make the call, but by the time I woke the following morning, I wanted to try something else first.

  Not long after the sun had risen, I hopped in the SUV. No one was on the roads, and thankfully the sky had finally cleared. As I rolled past the trailer park, I studied the trailers. Six were in livable condition and of those, four had vehicles parked in front of them. Because Callie walked everywhere, I assumed she lived in one of the other two. Thankfully, the evil, angry dog with teeth the size of bacon was nowhere to be seen.

  I went back to the house, waited until midmorning, then drove past the trailer park again. Of the four vehicles that were there earlier, three of them had left, which I took as a good sign that I might be able to poke around without being noticed. If questioned by anyone who lived there, I’d tell them that Callie had asked me to bring some of her things to the hospital.

  I inched the car onto an old logging track up the road and started walking back toward the trailer park. It was already getting warm, the crazy late-spring weather suddenly acting like summer. The humidity was oppressive and I could feel the sweat beginning to tack the shirt to my back. At the trailer park, I made my way toward the first of the two trailers I’d noticed earlier, trying to avoid the occasional chicken. It sat toward the back, close to the charred remains of Callie’s former residence, and I saw no lights blazing from inside. When I got closer, I spotted a grill out front, a pair of roller skates on the porch, and a child’s wagon filled with plastic toys. Unless Callie had children�
�which I doubted—this one wasn’t hers.

  I changed direction, heading to the other one. As I reversed course, I saw a figure emerge from one of the other trailers, the one with the car parked out front. He was an older man wearing overalls and I could feel his eyes on me as I walked past him. I raised a hand in greeting, trying to make it seem like I belonged. Instead of waving back, he scowled.

  As I approached what I thought to be Callie’s trailer, I began to get a good feeling. There were no curtains in the windows, no toys in the yard, no flowerpots or wind chimes or engine parts, which were typical of the others. It looked like the kind of place a girl would live who had barely enough money to pay her bills and hadn’t accumulated much of anything.

  Peeking over my shoulder, I noticed the man who’d stepped outside earlier was gone, probably back inside. I hoped he wasn’t watching as I sidled toward one of the windows and peered inside, taking in a small, functional, and exceedingly clean kitchen. There were no dishes or silverware in the sink or on the counters, nor any spills on the floor. In one of the corners, I saw jars of peanut butter and jelly lined up neatly next to a loaf of bread.

  I scooted to another window and peered in, noting a couch futon and a pair of small mismatching tables, maybe the ones that Claude had given her. There was a lamp, too, but otherwise it was about as spartan as a place could get.

  I paced around the trailer, searching for more windows, but there weren’t any. On a whim, I tried the doorknob and was surprised when it turned in my hand. When she’d left for work, Callie hadn’t locked the door. Then again, there didn’t seem to be much worth stealing.

  I hesitated. It was one thing to peek in her windows; it was another thing to enter her home. I reminded myself that Callie had broken into my grandfather’s house and that I still needed answers, so I pushed open the door and entered.

  It didn’t take long to go through the trailer. There was no chest of drawers; instead, she had stacked her folded clothes against a wall. In the closet, I found a few blouses and pants on hangers, and two pairs of shoes. A worn University of Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt sat on the top shelf, but most everything else looked like thrift store finds.