Instead of speaking, I scanned the maps again, making sure there were no other clues, no other possible destinations. I ran the timeline in my head—just as I’d done before—and felt again that my grandfather must have known the trip might be risky for him because of the distance, as well as his age. Whatever the reason, it had been important, and I could think of only a single possible reason.
When I glanced at Natalie, I suspected I was further along in my suspicion than she was. Which made sense, because it was my mystery, not hers. As she continued to ponder, her brow was furrowed slightly, and as always, I thought she was beautiful.
“Helen, Georgia?” Natalie finally asked.
“So it seems.”
“Did he know anyone there?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? I tried to remember whether I’d ever heard him mention the town, or even whether he’d mentioned a friend from anywhere in Georgia. Someone from the war, or a work buddy who’d moved away, perhaps, or maybe even a fellow beekeeper. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that my grandfather’s life had always been about New Bern, while Callie had both a sweatshirt and a calendar from Georgia.
“I doubt it,” I finally said. “But I think he knew someone from there.”
It took her a few moments to intuit what I was thinking. “You mean Callie?”
I nodded. “I think he went to find her family.”
“Why? She didn’t get sick until last week.”
“I don’t know. But if we assume Callie was from Georgia and he was traveling to Helen, Georgia, it makes sense.”
“That’s a little thin, don’t you think? And if she’s so secretive, how would he have even known she was from Helen?”
“I don’t have all the answers yet. But they did know each other. He cared about her enough to help her get a job. He was going to Helen for a reason. Like me, maybe he thought she was a runaway and wanted to help her.”
“Are you going to ask Callie about it?”
I didn’t answer right away, another recovered memory suddenly leaping to mind. When I’d approached Callie during her lunch, she hadn’t become upset until I’d asked specifically whether my grandfather had ever mentioned Helen. At which point, she’d panicked.
I said as much to Natalie, though she still looked doubtful.
“I know I’m right,” I added. “Can’t you see how it all fits?”
Natalie exhaled. “Gimme a few minutes, okay? I need to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”
Without further explanation, Natalie walked out the front door. I watched through the window as she tapped some numbers into her phone, then a couple more. It was more than a few minutes—closer to ten—before she finally came back inside.
“I called the police department in Helen.”
“And?”
“I asked them to check on any runaways named Callie. No one with that name is missing.”
“Are they sure?”
“It’s a small town,” she explained. “Super small. Like six hundred people. He would know. There are only a few runaways in the books at all in the last five years.”
Despite her findings, I still knew I was right. I could feel it and knew I had to check it out. Though I could drive, flying would be easier. I took a seat at the kitchen table and booted up my computer.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m checking on flights to Atlanta.”
“You’re going to Helen after what I just told you? To do what? Knock on doors? Ask people on street corners?”
“If I have to,” I said.
“What if she lived in the country somewhere? Or in the next town over?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said.
“You’re doing all this for a girl you barely know?”
“I told her that I wasn’t going to let her die.”
“And you mean that?” Her tone verged on disbelief.
“Yes.”
She was quiet for a moment and when she spoke again, her voice was softer.
“Assuming you’re right and she ran away from home…why would she rather die than contact them?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, and it’s the reason I’m going. I’d like to ask a favor, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Call the police department again. Maybe the sheriff, too, while you’re at it, to let them know I’m coming. I’m sure I’ll need to speak with them. Maybe you can help make that part a little easier.”
“When do you think you’ll be there?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “There’s a flight leaving around eleven. If I rent a car, I should be in Helen by early afternoon.”
“How long are you planning to stay there?”
“A day or two. If I can’t find any answers there, I’ll have to try to convince Callie to speak to me again.”
She considered my request. “I can make the calls, but I don’t know if it will do any good. You’re not in law enforcement and you’re not her family.”
“Any recommendations?”
“How about if I come with you?” she said.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I’d heard her correctly. “You’d like to come?”
“If she’s technically a missing person, law enforcement does have a bit of responsibility.”
I tried not to smile. “I’ll need your date of birth so I can book the tickets.”
“I can take care of it.”
“It’ll be easier to do both reservations at once.”
She gave me the information and as I began to type, she suddenly interrupted me.
“Wait.” Her expression was serious. “Before I go, I have one condition.”
I already knew that she was going to tell me to book separate hotel rooms, and that she was only accompanying me in a law enforcement capacity. In other words, I wasn’t to attempt to rekindle things between us.
“I want you to do something tonight. I can pick you up after work.”
“Yes?”
Her exhale was one of surrender.
“I want you to meet my husband.”
Chapter 18
I was too stunned to respond. Suddenly, everything fell into place: why she’d been so uncomfortable at the farmers’ market when the dentist had seen us together, why she preferred to meet at out-of-the-way locations. Why she’d suddenly ended our relationship…
But not everything added up…
Before I could summon anything to say, she hurriedly moved to the front door and opened it, pausing on the threshold.
“I know you have questions,” she said without turning to face me, “but you’ll understand everything later. I’ll pick you up at six.”
I finished booking the tickets, made hotel reservations, read the reviews for some restaurants in Helen, then spent the rest of the day trying to figure out the nature of Natalie’s marriage. Were they separated but now trying to work things out? Did they have an open marriage? I even flirted with the idea that the husband had passed away and we’d be making a trip to the cemetery, but none of those answers seemed to fit with the woman I’d come to know. And why did she want me to meet him?
Was that what married people did these days when another person was interested in their spouse? Hey, let’s all meet so we can talk this through?
What was I supposed to say to him? Should I avow my ignorance at the fact that she’d been married? Admit that I’d begged her to start a new life with me but that she’d nonetheless chosen him?
I spent the rest of the afternoon spinning through questions and possible answers. In the meantime, I packed a duffel bag for my trip to Helen and went through my grandfather’s box again, searching for more clues without luck.
When Natalie pulled into my drive, I stepped out of the house before she’d even had a chance to turn off the engine. As I got in, she offered a mysterious, unreadable look at me before directing the car back onto the road. Because she remained quiet, I did too.
My
first surprise was that instead of driving to her house, we took the highway heading east, toward the coast. No longer in uniform, she was wearing jeans and a cream-colored blouse, more casual than dressy. Around her neck hung the gold chain she was never without. “Do you and your husband live together?” I finally asked.
She adjusted her hands on the wheel. “Not anymore,” she responded without elaborating further.
My mind flashed to the idea that he’d passed away and again, we settled into silence. After ten or fifteen minutes, Natalie slowed the car and left the highway, turning onto a commercial road I’d passed countless times but had never really seen. There was a shopping center to the right; on the left, fronted by a cheerful, tree-shaded parking lot, was a single-story brick building that looked as though it had been constructed sometime in the last five years. As soon as I saw the name of the place, I felt my heart sink.
It wasn’t the cemetery.
It was worse.
We parked out front near the entrance, in the near-empty visitors’ lot. After exiting the car, Natalie pulled a small bag from the back seat, and we headed toward the double glass doors of the entrance. At the sign-in desk, a woman in a uniform smiled as we approached.
“Hi, Mrs. Masterson. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Sophia,” Natalie said. She signed her name into the visitors’ log, chatting with the woman like an old friend. “How are you? How’s Brian?”
“The usual. He’s driving me crazy. The way he reacts, you’d think that cleaning your room is worse than scrubbing septic tanks.”
“He’s still a teenager. How’s he doing in school?”
“No complaints there, thank goodness. It’s just me he seems to hate.”
“He doesn’t hate you, I’m sure,” Natalie said with a sympathetic smile.
“Easy for you to say.”
Natalie turned to me. “This is Trevor Benson. He’s a friend of mine and he’ll be visiting, too.”
Sophia directed her attention to me. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Benson. Would you mind signing in, too?”
“Of course.”
As I signed in, Sophia asked, “Do you want me to walk with you?”
“No,” Natalie answered. “I know the way.”
We left the desk and proceeded down the corridor. It was well-lit and clean, with wood-laminate flooring and wrought iron benches between the doors. Here and there were artificial ficus trees in large pots, no doubt intended to provide a soothing environment for visitors.
Eventually we reached our destination, and Natalie paused before pushing open the door. My heart contracted as I watched her steel herself before walking into the room.
“Hi, Mark,” she said. “It’s me again. Surprise.”
Mark lay in the bed with his eyes closed, hooked up to what I knew to be feeding tubes. He was thin, his face partially sunken, but it was still possible to glimpse the handsome man he once had been. I guessed that he was a few years younger than I was, which made everything even worse. Natalie went on, her tone almost conversational. “Trevor, this is Mark, my husband. Mark, I’d like you to meet Trevor.”
When she gestured at me, I cleared my throat. “Hi, Mark,” I said.
Mark could not answer. As I stared at him, Natalie’s voice seemed to float toward me from afar. “He’s been in a persistent vegetative state for almost fourteen months now,” she offered. “He had a resistant strain of bacterial meningitis.”
I nodded, my stomach in knots as Natalie approached the bed. After setting her bag beside him, she used her fingers to part his hair, and spoke to him as though I wasn’t in the room. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “I know it’s been a few days since I’ve visited, but I’ve been super busy at work. I saw on the sign-in sheet that your mom came by earlier. I’m sure she was happy to see you. You know how much she worries about you.”
I stood in place, feeling like an intruder. When she realized I hadn’t moved, she motioned toward the chair. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said to me before turning her attention back to Mark.
“The research isn’t clear on how much patients really experience when in a vegetative state.” Even though she remained focused on Mark, I knew the words were meant for me. “Some patients wake up and remember certain things, others wake up and don’t remember anything at all, so I try to visit a few times a week just in case.”
I nearly collapsed in the seat and leaned forward, propping my forearms on my thighs, watching.
“Trevor’s an orthopedist,” she said to Mark, “so he might not know exactly what a persistent vegetative state is or how it differs from a coma.” She continued in a gentle yet matter-of-fact tone. “I know we’ve talked about all this before, but humor me, okay, sweetheart? You know your lower brain stem is still working so you can breathe on your own, and sometimes, you even open your eyes and blink. Your reflexes still work, too. Of course, you still can’t eat on your own yet, but you have the hospital for that, right, honey? You also get physical therapy so your muscles don’t atrophy. That way, when you wake up, you’ll be able to walk or use a fork or go fishing like you used to.”
There was none of the excruciating sadness in her demeanor that I felt in witnessing the scene play out before me. Maybe she was used to the experience, as numb to it all as I was heartsick about it. Natalie went on.
“I know they shave you here at the hospital, but you know how much I still like to do that for you when I visit. And it looks like your hair needs a bit of a trim, too. Do you remember when I used to cut your hair in the kitchen? I don’t know how you ever talked me into that. It’s not like I was any good, but you always insisted. I think you just liked me standing so close to you.”
She pulled out a washcloth and can of shaving cream, as well as a razor. To me, she asked, “Would you mind putting some warm water on the washcloth? The sink is in the bathroom.”
I did as she asked, making sure it was the right temperature before bringing it back to her. She smiled with an expression of gratitude, then gently dabbed the washcloth to his cheeks.
“Trevor is moving to Baltimore soon,” she said, beginning to lather his face. “He’s going to become a psychiatrist. I’m not sure if I mentioned that to you before. He told me that he struggled with PTSD after he was injured and he’s hoping to help veterans who have the same issue. He’s the one with the beehives, remember? And the one who brought me to see the alligators? I told you about that. Like I mentioned, he’s been a good friend to me. I’m sure the two of you would get along well.”
When ready, she began to shave him, the movements graceful. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I saw your father last week at the dealership. He seems to be doing okay. He stopped losing weight, at least. I know he doesn’t visit as much as your mom does, but it’s hard for him since the two of you worked together, too. I hope you always knew how much he loved you. I know he wasn’t great at saying it when you were little, but he does. Did I tell you that your parents invited me on their boat for the Fourth of July? The problem is, my family’s going to be at the beach, and they want me there. I hate when that happens…I guess I could split the time, but I haven’t decided yet. And all of that’s even assuming I’ll get the day off, which I probably won’t. It’s no fun being the low man on the totem pole.”
When she was finished with the shave, she wiped his face with the washcloth again, then ran her finger over his cheeks.
“Feels better, I’ll bet. You never were the scruffy type. But let me trim some of your hair, too, while I’m here.”
She took out a pair of scissors and went to work; because Mark was prone, she was careful to put the trimmings in the bag. “I used to make such a mess when I did this, so be patient with me, okay? I don’t want you to get itchy. Oh, I heard from your sister Isabelle this week. She’s expecting her first child in August. Can you believe that? She used to swear that she never wanted kids, and now she’s singing an entirely different song. I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it up there for the
birth, but I’m sure I’ll get there before the end of the year. I want to give her a chance to settle in first.”
Her patter continued while she finished cutting his hair. Afterward, she gently lifted his head and slid out the pillow. She removed the pillowcase, shook it a couple of times, and examined it to make sure it was clean before reversing the process, putting the pillow back in place. She adjusted the sheet and kissed his lips with a tenderness that nearly brought a tear to my eye.
“I miss you, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Please try to get better soon, okay? I love you.”
She reached for her bag, then stood from the bed and motioned toward the door. I led the way out into the corridor, and we retraced our footsteps to the car. When we arrived, she pulled out the keys. “I could use a glass of wine,” she said. “Are you up for that?”
“Without a doubt.”
* * *
We went to a bar in Havelock called Everly’s. It wasn’t too far from the hospital and I had the sense when we walked in that it wasn’t Natalie’s first visit to the place. After ordering our drinks, we found a quiet booth, partially sheltered from the noise.
“Now you know,” she said.
“I’m very sorry for what you’re going through. It must be awful.”
“It is,” she admitted. “It’s like nothing I ever imagined.”
“What do the physicians say?”
“After three months, the chances for recovery are very slight.”
“What happened? If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll understand.”
“It’s all right. You’re not the first to ask. A year ago last April, for our third anniversary, we spent a long weekend in Charleston. As crazy as it sounds, neither of us had ever been there before and we’d heard so much about it. We left Thursday night. He told me that he felt tired and he had a headache, but who doesn’t toward the end of a workweek? Anyway, we had a nice day on Friday despite his headache, and then on Saturday, he got a fever. It got worse as the day went on, so we went to the emergency room and he was diagnosed with the flu. We were supposed to be heading home on Sunday anyway, so neither of us was too worried about it. But in the car the next day, his fever kept getting higher and higher. I wanted to stop in Wilmington, but he told me to just keep going. By the time we got back to New Bern, his temperature was a hundred and four. We went straight to the hospital, but they didn’t figure out what was wrong with him until the next day. By then, his fever was over a hundred and six, and even with all the antibiotics, the fever just didn’t break. It was a nasty virulent strain. After the seventh day of sky-high fevers, he went into a coma. After that, once the fever finally broke, he was able to open his eyes. I thought that meant we were past the worst, but he didn’t seem to know who I was and…”
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