Николас Спаркс - The Return

After finishing my coffee, I tossed the empty in a nearby garbage can and wandered to the railing. Leaning over, I admitted that small-town life had its charms. I especially thought so a couple of minutes later, when I saw Natalie meandering in my direction, the basket trailing at her side. She seemed to be watching the paddleboarders as they worked their way toward deeper water.

I suppose I could have waved or called out, but considering our recent encounter in the farmers’ market, I restrained myself. Instead, I continued to study the slow-moving current until I heard a voice behind me.

“You again.”

I peeked over my shoulder. Natalie’s stance and expression telegraphed that she hadn’t expected to find me here.

“Are you talking to me?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m enjoying my Saturday morning.”

“Did you know I would be coming here?”

“How would I have known where you were going?”

“I don’t know,” she said, suspicion seeping into her voice.

“It’s a beautiful morning and a great view. Why wouldn’t I come here?”

She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again before speaking. “I guess it’s none of my business, anyway. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“You’re not bothering me,” I assured her. Then, nodding toward her basket: “Did you find everything you needed at the market?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Just making conversation. Since you’re following me, I mean.”

“I’m not following you!”

I laughed. “ Kidding. If anything, I have the impression that you’re trying to avoid me.”

“I’m not avoiding you. I barely know you.”

“Exactly,” I agreed, and feeling like I was suddenly back in the batter’s box, I decided to take another swing. “And that’s a shame.” I gave her a mischievous smile before turning back toward the river.

Natalie studied me, as though uncertain whether to stay or go. Though I thought she would opt to leave, I eventually sensed her presence beside me. Hearing her sigh as she set her basket on the ground, I knew that my third swing at bat had somehow connected.

Finally, she spoke. “I have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you always this forward?”

“Never,” I said. “By nature I’m quiet and reserved. A wallflower, really.”

“I doubt that.”

In the river, the paddleboarders upstream were now hovering in place.

In the silence, I saw her clasp her hands together at the railing. “About what happened earlier,” she said. “In the market, when I walked away. If that seemed brusque, I apologize.”

“No apology necessary.”

“Still, I felt bad afterward. But it’s just that in small towns, people talk. And Julie…”

When she trailed off, I finished for her. “Talks more than most?”

“I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.”

“I understand,” I said. “Gossip is the bane of small-town life. Let’s just hope she went home to the kids instead of coming to the park, or she might really have something to talk about.”

Though I said it as a joke, Natalie immediately scanned the vicinity and my eyes followed hers. As far as I could tell, no one was paying us any attention at all. Still, it made me wonder what was so terrible about the thought of being seen with someone like me. If she had any idea that she knew what I was thinking, she gave no indication, but I thought I noted an expression of relief.

“How do you make sweet potato pie?”

“Are you asking for the recipe?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had sweet potato pie. I’m trying to figure out what it tastes like.”

“It’s a bit like pumpkin pie. In addition to the potatoes, there’s butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, evaporated milk, and a little bit of salt. But the key is really the crust.”

“Do you make a good crust?”

“I make a great crust. The secret is using butter, not shortening. There are strong feelings on both sides of that debate, by the way. But I’ve experimented with my mom and we both agree.”

“Does she live in town?”

“No. She’s still in La Grange, where I grew up.”

“I’m not sure I know where that is.”

“It’s between Kinston and Goldsboro, on the way to Raleigh. My dad was a pharmacist. Still is, in fact. My dad started the business before I was born. There’s a store, too, of course. My mom manages that and works the register.”

“When we first met, you said it was a small town.”

“It’s only about 2,500 people.”

“And the pharmacy does okay?”

“You’d be surprised. People need their medicines, even in small towns. But you already know that. Since you’re a doctor, I mean.”

“Was a doctor. And hope to be a doctor again one day.”

She was quiet for a moment. I studied her profile, but again had no idea what was going through her mind.

Finally, she sighed. “I was thinking about what you said the other night. About you becoming a psychiatrist to help people with PTSD. I think that’s a great thing.”

“I appreciate that.”

“How do people even know they have it? How did you know?”

Strangely, I had the impression that she wasn’t asking for conversation’s sake, or even because she was particularly interested in me. Rather, I had the sense she was asking because she was curious for her own reasons, whatever those might be. In the past, I likely would have tried to change the subject, but regular sessions with Dr. Bowen made talking about my issues easier, no matter who was asking.

“Everyone’s different, so the symptoms can vary, but I was pretty much a textbook example of the condition. I alternated between insomnia and nightmares at night, and during the day, I felt on edge almost all the time. Loud noises bothered me, my hands sometimes trembled, I got in ridiculous arguments. I spent almost a year feeling angry at the world, drinking more than I should, and playing way too much Grand Theft Auto .”

“And now?”

“I’m managing,” I said. “Or, at least, I like to think I am. My doctor thinks so, too. We still talk every Monday.”

“So you’re cured?”

“It’s not something that can really be cured. It’s more about managing the condition. Which isn’t always easy. Stress tends to make things worse.”

“Isn’t stress part of life?”

“No question,” I admitted. “That’s what makes it impossible to cure.”

She was silent for a moment before glancing at me with a wry smile. “ Grand Theft Auto , huh? For whatever reason, I can’t picture you sitting on a couch playing video games all day.”

“I got really good at it. Which wasn’t easy, since I’m missing fingers, by the way.”

“Do you still play?”

“No. That was one of the changes I made. Long story short, my therapy is all about changing negative behaviors into positive ones.”

“My brother loves that game. Maybe I should get him to stop.”

“You have a brother?”

“And a sister. Sam is five years older than me, Kristen is three years older. And before you ask, they both live in the Raleigh area. They’re married with kids.”

“How did you end up here, then?”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as though debating how best to answer before finally offering a shrug. “Oh, you know. I met a boy in college. He was from here, and I made the move after I graduated. And here I am.”

“I take it that it didn’t work out.”

She closed her eyes before opening them again. “Not the way I wanted.”

The words came out quietly, but it was hard to read the emotion behind them. Regret? Resentment? Sadness? Figuring it wasn’t the time or place to ask, I let the subject drop. Instead, I shifted gears. “What was it like growing up in a small town? I mean, I thought New Bern was small, but 2,500 is tiny.”