The Return(89)

“At least he was honest,” I said with a smile.

“Yeah,” she said. “He was. But I don’t know what any of it really means anymore. There’s a part of me that says I should spend as much time with Mark as I can, that I should quit my job and visit him every day. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do when someone is sick, right? But the truth is that’s the last thing I want to do. Because every time I go, a little part of me dies inside. But then I feel guilty about feeling that way, so I steel myself and do what I’m supposed to do. Even though I know he wouldn’t have wanted that for me.”

She seemed to be studying the pavement in front of us.

“It’s so hard not knowing when, or even if, any of this will ever end. People in vegetative states can live decades. What do I do, knowing that? I know I still have time to have children, but do I have to give that up? And what about all the other little things that make life worthwhile? Like being held by someone who loves you, or even being kissed. Do I give those things up forever, too? Do I have to live in New Bern until either he or I die? Don’t get me wrong—I love New Bern. But there’s a part of me that sometimes imagines a different life—living in New York or Miami or Chicago or Los Angeles. I’ve lived in small North Carolina towns my entire life. Don’t I deserve the chance to make that choice for myself?”

By then, we’d reached the hotel, but she paused outside the entrance.

“You want to know what the worst part is? There’s no one I can talk to about this. No one really gets it. My parents are heartsick about all of it, so when I’m with them, I’m constantly reassuring them that I’m okay. His parents and I are on different wavelengths. My friends talk about work or their spouses or their kids, and I don’t even know what to do. It’s just…lonely. I know people sympathize and care about me, but I don’t think they can truly empathize since this is so entirely foreign to the way anyone imagines that their life will turn out. And…”

I waited.

“Do you know when people ask you what your dreams or goals are? Like in a year or three years or five years? I think about that sometimes, and I realize that not only do I not know, I don’t even know how to go about trying to find the answer. Because so much of it is out of my control and there’s nothing I can do.”

I reached out, taking her hand. “I wish there was something I could say to make things easier for you.”

“I know you do,” she said, squeezing my hand. “Just like I know that tomorrow will be just another day.”

*



A few minutes later, we were each in our separate rooms. Natalie’s confession had left me feeling both sad for her and disappointed in myself. As empathetic as I imagined myself to be, it was—as she’d said—difficult for me to put myself in exactly her position or to fully imagine what her life was like on a daily basis. I understood it, I sympathized with it, I felt terrible for her, but when I was honest with myself, I knew that I couldn’t fully empathize. Everyone has inner lives to which no one else can be privy.

Turning on the television, I settled on ESPN, not because I cared who won the latest baseball game or golf tournament, but because I was too tired to concentrate on anything that might have any kind of story or plot. I kicked off my shoes, took off my shirt, and lay back on the bed, alternately listening to the announcers and puzzling over Callie, while simultaneously reliving the last couple of days I’d spent with Natalie.

I wondered whether I would ever meet anyone like her again. Even if I were to fall in love again, wouldn’t I consciously and subconsciously compare the new woman to the woman I loved right now?

Here, in this moment, we were together, except that we weren’t. She was in the room next door, with a wall and an entire world between us. Could it be that she, like me, was dwelling on the impossible and wishing there were some world made just for the two of us?

I didn’t know. All I knew for sure was that as exhausted as I felt, I wouldn’t have traded the last two days for anything.

*



I woke to the sound of someone knocking on my door.

Squinting at the clock, I saw it was coming up on midnight; both the lamp and the television were on and I fumbled for the remote control, only half-aware of my surroundings.

I turned off the television, wondering if I’d imagined it, when I heard a tentative knock. It was coupled with a voice I recognized.

“Trevor? Are you awake?”

I crawled out of bed and did a sleepy stagger across the room, thankful I had my pants on. Opening the door, I saw Natalie, still dressed in her dinner attire, her expression one of wary desperation, her eyes rimmed in red.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“No,” she said, “I’m not okay. Can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course,” I said, making room for Natalie as she entered. She paused in the middle of the room as though looking for a place to sit. I pulled out the desk chair for her and took a seat on the bed facing her.

“I heard the television, so I figured you were still awake,” she said, taking in my still sleep-ridden state for the first time.

“I am now,” I said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

For a moment, she twisted her hands in her lap, her eyes framed in anguish. “I don’t want to be alone right now.”