Николас Спаркс - The Return

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…”

She took a sip of wine before going on. “He stayed in the hospital for another month, but after that, it was pretty clear he was in a vegetative state. We eventually found a really good place for him—where we just were—and he’s been there ever since.”

“That’s terrible,” I said, grasping for words. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been—must still be.”

“It was worse last year,” she said. “Because I still had hope. But these days, I don’t have a lot of hope.”

With my stomach in knots, I couldn’t fathom taking a drink. “Was he the one you met in college?”