Николас Спаркс - The Return

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.