to Baltimore this summer. I’m starting a new residency in psychiatry.”
“Really?” she asked.
“Is there something wrong with psychiatry?”
“Not at all. It’s just not what I expected you to say.”
“I can be a good listener.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “I’m sure you are. But why psychiatry?”
“I want to work with veterans with PTSD,” I said. “I think there’s a need for it these days, especially with soldiers and marines doing four or five rotations. As I mentioned, it can stay with a person after they’re back.”
She seemed to be attempting to read me. “Is that what happened with you?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated and I had the sense she continued to really see me. “Was it bad?”
“No question,” I said. “Terrible. And it still is, every now and then. But that’s probably a story for another time.”
“Fair enough,” she offered. “But now that I know, I’ll admit that I was wrong. It sounds like it’s exactly what you should do. How long is a psychiatric residency?”
“Five years.”
“I’ve heard residencies are hard.”
“It’s no worse than being dragged by a car down the highway.”
For the first time, she laughed. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. But I do hope you find some time to enjoy our town while you’re here. It’s a beautiful place to live, and there are a lot of good people here.”
“Did you grow up in New Bern?”
“No,” she answered. “I grew up in a small town.”
“That’s funny.”
“But true,” she said. “Can I ask what you intend to do with the place? When you leave?”
“Why? Are you interested in buying?”
“No,” she said. “And I doubt I could afford it.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Where are you from, by the way? Give me a quick sketch of who you are.”
Pleased that she was interested, I gave her a brief history: my youth in Alexandria, my parents, my regular summertime visits to New Bern when I was younger. High school, college, medical school and residency. My time with the Navy. All with a touch of the modest hyperbole men use when trying to impress an attractive woman. As she listened, her eyebrows twitched more than once, but I couldn’t tell whether she was fascinated or amused.
“So you’re a city boy.”
“I beg to differ,” I protested. “I’m from the suburbs.”
Her lips turned up slightly at the corners, but I couldn’t read the intent behind it.
“What I don’t understand is why you went to the Naval Academy. If you were such a brilliant student, I mean, and were accepted at Yale and Georgetown?”
Brilliant? Did I actually use that word earlier?
“I wanted to prove to myself that I could make it without my parents’ help. Financially, I mean.”
“But didn’t you say they were rich?”
Oh, yeah. I vaguely remember saying that, too.
“Well-to-do, I should have said.”
“So it was a pride thing?”
“And service to our country.”
She nodded slightly, her eyes never leaving mine. “Good.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “There are a lot of active duty military in the area, as you probably know. Cherry Point, Camp Lejeune…many of them have spent time in Afghanistan and Iraq.”
I nodded. “When I was posted overseas, I worked with doctors and nurses from every region of the country, in all sorts of specialties, and I learned a ton from them. While it lasted, anyway. And we did a lot of good, too. Most of our work was with locals—many of them had never been seen by a doctor before the hospital opened.”
She seemed to consider my words. A chorus of crickets sounded in the silence before I heard her voice again.
“I don’t know that I could have done what you did.”
I tilted my head. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Experiencing the horrors of war every single day. And knowing there are some people who are beyond your power to help. I don’t think I would be able to handle something like that. Not in the long run, anyway.”
As she spoke, I had the impression she was sharing something personal, though I’d heard the same thing from others before, in regard to both the military and medicine in general. “I’m sure you’ve seen some terrible things as a deputy.”
“I have.”
“And yet you still do it.”
“Yes,” she said. “And sometimes I wonder how long I’ll be able to continue. There are times when I fantasize about opening a flower shop or something like that.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Who knows? Maybe one day I will.”
Again, she grew quiet. Sensing her distraction, I broke her reverie with a lighthearted prompt.