her. Occasionally I would overhear things, usually people talking in low whispers about how hard it must be for her, or whether she should somehow find a way to move on. Whenever I heard those comments, I felt a deep ache at the thought that her life remained on permanent hold.
For me, moving on meant five years of residency, long hours, and completing enough clinical practice to finish the program. Though I’d originally thought that my interest would lie almost exclusively in the treatment of PTSD, I quickly came to discover that patients with PTSD often presented with other issues as well. They might be concurrently struggling with drug or alcohol addiction or suffering from depression; still others had bipolar disorder or various personality disorders. I learned that the treatment of every patient was unique, and though I tried, I couldn’t help everyone. While I was in Baltimore, two patients committed suicide, and another was arrested after an argument in a bar led to a charge of second-degree murder. That patient is currently behind bars for a minimum of nine years. Every now and then, he’ll send me a letter complaining that he isn’t receiving the treatment he needs, and I have no doubt that he is correct.
I have found the work deeply interesting, perhaps more than I expected. In its own way, it is more of an intellectual challenge than orthopedic surgery had ever been and I can honestly say that I look forward to my work every day. Unlike some of the other residents, I have little trouble separating myself from my patients at the end of the day; to carry the cumulative psychological burdens of others is too much for anyone to bear. Still, there are times when it isn’t possible to simply walk away; even when some patients can’t afford to pay for treatment, I often make myself available to them.
I have continued my own sessions with Dr. Bowen as well, though over time, the sessions have become more infrequent. Now I speak with him about once a month and only rarely do I experience any physical symptoms associated with PTSD. I sleep well and my hands haven’t trembled since my time in New Bern, but every now and then, I still feel an ache of sadness for Natalie and the life I imagined we would have made together.
As for Callie, there were regular calls in the beginning, but those eventually faded to the occasional text, usually around the holidays. The transplant was successful, her health was as stable as it could be considering her situation, and she had moved back in with her family. She graduated from high school and became a dental hygienist. I have no idea how or when she met Jeff McCorkle—she hinted that it was a story in and of itself—and as I wait in the church for Callie to walk down the aisle, the cynical side of me wonders whether the two of them are too young to be getting married. Both of them are only twenty-one, and the statistics don’t paint an entirely rosy scenario for their marriage in the long run. On the other hand, Callie has always been a person of extraordinary maturity and determination.
Most important, she—like me—fully understands that life’s twists and turns are impossible to predict.
* * *
When I drove through Helen on my way to the church, I was overwhelmed with déjà vu. The town looked exactly the same as it had the last time I’d been here. I passed the police station and the Bodensee restaurant, and despite running late, I idled in front of the hotel where Natalie had asked me to hold her on our last night together.
I like to think that I’ve moved forward since then, and in many ways, I know that I have. My residency and training complete, I have multiple offers in three different states. I have a favorite, but whether I choose that position depends to a degree on what happens later today.
From my seat, I can hear murmuring and whispers from people in the pews all around me; despite myself, I can’t help turning around to scrutinize every new arrival. When Natalie finally arrives, I feel my heart skip a beat. She is wearing a lovely peach-colored sundress and although she’s allowed her hair to grow out, she doesn’t appear to have aged in the five years since I last saw her. I watch as she scans the church, trying to locate an open seat,