“I’m sorry for running away and not calling,” she said in a broken whisper. “I missed all of you so much. I love you.”
“I missed you, too, sweetheart,” he said, his words choked with emotion. “And I love you, too.”
* * *
I stayed with Callie, remaining quiet as she told her story and answered their unending stream of questions. Some were big (Why did you run away?) and some were mundane (What did you eat for lunch every day?). Curtis asked more than once why she’d never tried to contact them, if only to let them know she was still alive. Though Callie was honest, it wasn’t always an easy conversation. Their pain, and Callie’s, was tangible and still fresh, even amid the joy of reunion. I could see that the real work of their healing as a family lay ahead of them, assuming Callie was even able to recover fully from her illness. She wasn’t the girl she was when she ran away a year ago, yet their lives remained bound up in a tragedy that none of them had really come to terms with—least of all, Callie.
As I left the room to allow them to continue their conversation in privacy, I sent up a silent prayer that they would have the courage to navigate the months and years ahead. Walking down the hallway of this now-familiar hospital, I couldn’t help thinking how strange it was that I had become so deeply enmeshed in the life of a girl I had never heard of until two months ago.
And yet, the oddest part of the entire experience was hearing her family use the name Karen over and over, which didn’t seem to fit the girl I’d come to know.
To me, after all, she would always be Callie.
* * *
The next day, Dr. Nobles told me that she spent nearly an hour with the family after I left, trying to explain Callie’s condition to them in a way they could easily understand. Both parents, as well as Callie’s sisters, agreed to have their bone marrow tested. Because of the seriousness of Callie’s condition, the lab had already promised to rush the results; they would likely know within a day or two whether any of them had a close enough HLA match, which would set the stage for additional testing. If a match was found, Callie would have to be transported to Greenville for the remainder of her treatment. Nobles also connected them with Dr. Felicia Watkins, the oncologist at Vidant, and assured them that the hospital there would be ready for her arrival. To that end, after speaking with Nobles, I reserved and paid for rooms in New Bern for the family for the week, as well as an additional two weeks for a hotel in Greenville. It was the least I could do in light of their all-consuming worries about Callie, and the challenges of being so far from home.
Having heard my name mentioned often in the course of their talk with Callie, Curtis and Louise were naturally curious to know more about me. When I stopped by Callie’s room after meeting with Dr. Nobles, I was happy to give them a brief rundown of how I’d ended up living in New Bern these past few months, while omitting the more complicated aspects of my military service and ongoing recovery. I was also able to share what I’d learned about Callie’s friendship with my grandfather and the kind of man he was. It made me sad that he was not there to finally meet Callie’s parents, but in some way, I felt that he was watching over this reunion, pleased that I had seen his efforts through to the end.
Natalie had responded to my text the night before, and when she later came by the hospital, I introduced her to Callie and the family. She conferred with them privately for twenty minutes, ensuring that she had all the details right for the report she would eventually have to file. On the way out, she sought me out in the waiting area, asking if I had time for a cup of coffee.
In the cafeteria, she sat across from me at the table, looking official in her uniform and as beautiful as ever. As we nursed our cups of weak coffee, I described the long hours I had spent with Callie, piecing together the shape of her story and witnessing her fraught reunion with her family.
“All in all, I guess it was a happy ending,” she said.
“So far. Now it depends on the testing.”
“It would be tragic for the parents to find her, only to lose her again.”
“Yes,” I said. “But I have faith that it will work out.”
Natalie smiled. “I can understand why you were so intent on helping her. She’s…compelling. It’s hard to believe she’s only sixteen. She’s more mature than a lot of the adults I know. I wonder how she’ll adapt to living with her family again and going to high school and doing things normal teenagers do.”
“It’ll be an adjustment for sure. It might take some getting used to, but I have a feeling she’s going to be okay.”
“I think so, too. Oh, on another note, your grandfather was a very clever man.”
“In what way?”
“Had he said the name Callie in the hospital room, we might never have found out who she really was. We never would have tried to find a Karen.”
I considered that, realizing she was right. My grandfather never ceased to amaze me.
“Robertson was right, too,” she went on. “When he told us that we could have found the information ourselves. I visited the website for the GBI, and it took all of five minutes to find her once I had her real first name and knew what she looked like. We didn’t have to travel to Georgia.”
“I’m still glad we went,” I said. “Otherwise, I might not have seen you again.”
She stared down at her coffee cup. “I’m going to miss you.”
Me too. More than you’ll ever know. “I think I’m going to harvest some of the honey before I go. Do you want to come over and help? I’ll show you how to spin and filter the combs, and if you’re lucky, I might let you take a few jars home.”
She hesitated, then said, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Knowing that you’re leaving is already hard enough.”
“So this is it? Our last goodbye?”
“I don’t want to think of it like that.”
“How do you want to think about it?”
She paused, reflecting. “I want to remember our time together as if it were a beautiful dream,” she finally said. “In the moment, it was powerful and real and completely transporting.”
But then you have to wake up, I thought. “I’ll probably have to come back to New Bern from time to time to check on the house and the hives. Would you like me to let you know when I’m in town? Maybe we could meet for the occasional lunch or dinner?”
“Maybe…” But even as she said it, I had the sense that she would prefer that I didn’t. Still, I played along.
“I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks. When do you think you’ll be leaving?”
“In a couple of weeks, probably. I want to have time to get settled in before the program starts.”
“Of course,” she said.
“And you? Any summer plans?”
“The usual,” she said. “I’ll probably spend a few weekends here and there with my parents at the beach.”
It pained me to hear how stilted our conversation was and I wondered why talking had seemed so much easier only days earlier. This wasn’t the way I imagined saying goodbye, but like her, I didn’t know how to change it.
“If you ever make it up to Baltimore or DC, let me know. I’ll be happy to show you around. We could visit the Smithsonian.”
“I’ll do that,” she promised, even though both of us knew she wouldn’t. As she said it, her lips trembled.
“Natalie…”
“I should probably go,” she said, suddenly standing. “I have to get back to work.”
“I know.”
“I’ll swing by your grandfather’s house while you’re away. Make sure no vagrants break in.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
We left the cafeteria and I walked her to the main entrance, even though I wasn’t sure she wanted me to.
Reaching the doors, I followed her outside, thinking that all of this was happening too fast. Unable to stop myself, I suddenly took her hand in mine. She paused, turning toward me, and the sight of the tears beginning to sp
ill over her lashes brought a hard knot to my throat. Though I knew I shouldn’t, I leaned in, my lips gently touching hers, before wrapping my arms around her. I kissed the top of her head and pulled her close.
“I understand, Natalie,” I murmured into her hair. “I do.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered back, her body trembling against mine.
“I love you, and I’ll never forget you.”
“I love you, too.”
The sun was high and bright, the air sultry with humidity and heat. I was vaguely aware of a man strolling past us holding a bouquet of flowers; an elderly woman in a wheelchair was rolled outside a few seconds later. Inside the hospital, women were giving birth to children who had their whole lives ahead of them while other patients were reaching the ends of theirs. It was an ordinary day but nothing was ordinary for me, and as tears pricked my eyes, I wanted nothing more than to make this moment last forever.
* * *
Within a couple of days, Dr. Nobles informed me that Heather’s bone marrow was a six-out-of-six HLA match for Callie; Tammy’s was five out of six. Additional screening and testing were already underway, but Dr. Nobles was confident that the match was a successful one.
Later in the week, Nobles confirmed it, and that both the transfer and the transplant were scheduled for a date the following week, when I would already be in Baltimore. Though there were certainly risks on the horizon and Callie would remain on medication for years, Dr. Nobles was optimistic that in the long run, she would be able to lead a normal life.
I continued to spend time with Callie and her family at the hospital right up until my departure; when I wasn’t there, I was packing and getting the house ready for its impending vacancy. On my last full day there, a cleaning crew scoured the house from top to bottom and linens were stored in plastic bags to prevent mold and dust from forming. I met again with the property manager and the contractor, supervising the delivery of the roofing and flooring materials and their storage in the barn.
I also harvested the honey. I kept several jars for myself, sold much of the remainder to Claude, and also left some on Natalie’s doorstep. However, I didn’t knock at the door nor did I call.
I thought about her constantly; I awakened to memories of her scent and her smile; she was the last image I saw before closing my eyes at night. Throughout my remaining days in New Bern, I wondered what she was doing at any given moment and where she was. I no longer felt complete, as if part of me had been hollowed out, leaving only an aching void. Before Natalie, I used to believe that with love, anything was possible. Now I understand that sometimes love isn’t enough.
* * *
It wasn’t until I’d been living in Baltimore for three days that I found the letter Natalie had left for me, tucked into one of the boxes of books that had been in the back of my SUV. At first, I couldn’t identify the envelope and considered throwing it away. When I realized that it was sealed, however, curiosity won out. Recognizing her signature at the bottom of the letter, I suddenly couldn’t catch my breath.
I walked like a zombie to the living room and sat on the couch. It was still daylight, with light pouring through the French doors, and in the silence of my new apartment, I finally began to read.
Dear Trevor,
I’m writing this letter because I’m not sure what else to do. I don’t know when you’ll find it, since I had to sneak it into one of the boxes you’d packed. On the other hand, since you’ve now left jars of honey on my doorstep twice without letting me know you were at my house, I figured you might even appreciate the idea that you’d had a secret visitor.
I wanted to tell you that for the first time in my life, I truly understand what people mean when they say, “I fell in love.” Because when I fell in love with you, I didn’t drift into it, it didn’t happen over time, it wasn’t anything that I even thought I wanted. In hindsight it’s like I had spent the last fourteen months standing on a building ledge. I was balanced precariously and doing everything I could to stay rooted in place. If I didn’t move, if I was somehow able to remain perfectly focused, then I’d somehow be okay. But then out of the blue, you showed up. You called to me from the ground and I stepped from the ledge…and then I was falling, right up until the moment you caught me in your arms.
Trevor, falling in love with you has been one of the most exalted experiences of my life. As hard as it is for me now—and I torment myself constantly over whether I made the right decision—I wouldn’t have traded it for anything. You made me feel more fully alive than I have in what seems like forever. Until you came along, I wasn’t sure I would ever feel that way—and more—again.
My desire for you feels unquenchable, unbounded. But the truth is that desire comes at a terrible price. I can’t allow myself to wish that my husband was dead, nor could I live with myself if I divorced him, if only because he isn’t capable of trying to change my mind. If I did either of those things, I wouldn’t be the same woman you fell in love with; to do either of those things would change me forever. It would transform me into a villain, a person I couldn’t recognize and have no desire to be. And of course, I couldn’t do that to you, either.
This was the reason I couldn’t see you again after saying goodbye at the hospital; this is the reason it would be best if we didn’t meet when you come back to town. I know how much I love you, and if you asked me again to come with you, I don’t think I would be able to resist. If you ask again, I’ll come to you; if you as much as hint toward that end, I’ll show up at your door. But please—please, please, please—don’t ever let me become the villain of my own story. I’m begging you to never put me in that position. Instead, let me be the woman you came to know and love, the same woman who fell deeply in love with you.
While I don’t know what the future holds for either of us, I want you to know that I’ll always treasure our time together, however brief. In a way, I want you to know that I’ll always believe that you saved me. Had you not come along, I think a vital, precious part of myself would have simply dried up and withered away; now, with our memories to sustain me—with my memories of you—I finally feel as if I can go on. Thank you for that. Thank you for everything.
I already miss you. I miss your teasing and your terrible jokes, and your slightly crooked smile, even your silly attempts to get me to roll my eyes. Most of all, I miss your friendship, and the way you always made me feel as though I were the most desirable woman in the world. I do love you, and if I were living a different life, I would follow you anywhere.
I love you,
Natalie
When I finished reading the letter, I rose from my spot on the couch and wandered to the kitchen on unsteady legs. Opening the refrigerator, I found a beer and twisted off the cap before taking a long pull. Then, returning to the living room, I stared out the French doors, imagining where Natalie might be in this very moment—perhaps visiting her parents at the beach and taking a long and quiet stroll on the shore. Every now and then, she would examine a seashell, or maybe stop to follow the flight of some pelicans as they skimmed low over the breakers. Perhaps, I wanted to believe, she was remembering me in that very same instant, holding our love close like a comforting secret in her otherwise merciless world.
I was glad she’d written me the letter and wondered whether she wanted a letter in return. Maybe I’d write one, or because it might make things even more difficult for her, maybe I wouldn’t. I didn’t have the energy to make that decision.
Instead, returning to the couch, I set the beer on the table. And with a sigh, I began to read the letter again.
Epilogue
Though I began many letters to Natalie, in the end I never sent them. Nor, during my regular but infrequent visits to New Bern, did I seek out or call her. Occasionally I would overhear things, usually people talking in low whispers about how hard it must be for her, or whether she should somehow find a way to move on. Whenever I heard those comments, I felt a deep ache at the thought that her life remained
on permanent hold.
For me, moving on meant five years of residency, long hours, and completing enough clinical practice to finish the program. Though I’d originally thought that my interest would lie almost exclusively in the treatment of PTSD, I quickly came to discover that patients with PTSD often presented with other issues as well. They might be concurrently struggling with drug or alcohol addiction or suffering from depression; still others had bipolar disorder or various personality disorders. I learned that the treatment of every patient was unique, and though I tried, I couldn’t help everyone. While I was in Baltimore, two patients committed suicide, and another was arrested after an argument in a bar led to a charge of second-degree murder. That patient is currently behind bars for a minimum of nine years. Every now and then, he’ll send me a letter complaining that he isn’t receiving the treatment he needs, and I have no doubt that he is correct.
I have found the work deeply interesting, perhaps more than I expected. In its own way, it is more of an intellectual challenge than orthopedic surgery had ever been and I can honestly say that I look forward to my work every day. Unlike some of the other residents, I have little trouble separating myself from my patients at the end of the day; to carry the cumulative psychological burdens of others is too much for anyone to bear. Still, there are times when it isn’t possible to simply walk away; even when some patients can’t afford to pay for treatment, I often make myself available to them.
I have continued my own sessions with Dr. Bowen as well, though over time, the sessions have become more infrequent. Now I speak with him about once a month and only rarely do I experience any physical symptoms associated with PTSD. I sleep well and my hands haven’t trembled since my time in New Bern, but every now and then, I still feel an ache of sadness for Natalie and the life I imagined we would have made together.
As for Callie, there were regular calls in the beginning, but those eventually faded to the occasional text, usually around the holidays. The transplant was successful, her health was as stable as it could be considering her situation, and she had moved back in with her family. She graduated from high school and became a dental hygienist. I have no idea how or when she met Jeff McCorkle—she hinted that it was a story in and of itself—and as I wait in the church for Callie to walk down the aisle, the cynical side of me wonders whether the two of them are too young to be getting married. Both of them are only twenty-one, and the statistics don’t paint an entirely rosy scenario for their marriage in the long run. On the other hand, Callie has always been a person of extraordinary maturity and determination.
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