Eyeing the clock, I saw it was almost time for our weekly call, so after rinsing my dishes in the sink, I propped open the back door for some fresh air and put the computer on the kitchen table. Dr. Bowen liked to see my eyes when we spoke, so he could tell whether I was lying or hiding something important. On my end, it was a lot easier than meeting him in person, and I had easy access to the bathroom if I had to go. No reason to put the session on hold, no matter what. I could just carry the computer with me while I did my business.

Kidding.

At the top of the hour, I logged into Skype and it automatically dialed the number. When the connection was made, Dr. Bowen popped into view. As usual, he was at his desk in the office, a place I’d visited more times than I could count. Slightly balding with round, wire-rim glasses that made him look more like a professor of mathematics than a psychiatrist, he was, I guessed, about a decade and a half older than I was.

“What’s up, Doc?”

“Hello, Trevor.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

When I asked, it was simply part of a greeting. When he asked, he actually meant it.

“I think I’m doing well,” I answered. “No nightmares, no insomnia, sleeping well. I had one or two beers on four different days last week. I worked out five times. No episodes of anger or anxiety or depression in the last week. Still working the CBT and DBT skills whenever I feel like I need them.”

“Great.” He nodded. “Sounds very healthy.”

He paused. Bowen did that a lot. Pause, I mean.

“Should we keep talking?” I finally asked.

“Would you like to keep speaking?”

“Are you going to charge me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I’ve got a new joke,” I said. “How many psychiatrists does it take to change a lightbulb?”

“I don’t know.”

“Only one. But the lightbulb has to really want to change.”

He laughed, just as I knew he would. Bowen laughs at all my jokes, but then he gets quiet again. He’s told me that jokes might be my way of keeping people at a distance.

“Anyway,” I began, and proceeded to catch him up on the basic goings-on in my life in the past week. When I’d first started therapy, I wondered how any of this could possibly be useful; I’d learned over time that it allowed Bowen to have a better idea about the stress I was under at any given time, which was important in my management of PTSD. Add too much stress, remove the skills and healthy behaviors, and it’s either kaboom, like I felt toward the Home Depot guy, or way too much drinking and Grand Theft Auto.

So I talked. I told him that I’d been missing my grandfather and my parents more than usual since I’d last spoken to him. He responded that my feelings were entirely understandable—that checking the hives and fixing the engine on the boat would likely have triggered a mix of nostalgia and feelings of loss for just about anyone. I mentioned that I was nearly certain that someone had broken into the house and had lived there. When he asked if I felt violated or bothered by that, I said that it was more curious than bothersome, since aside from the back door, there’d been no damage and nothing had been stolen. I also mentioned the things Claude had said about my grandfather, and—as we had so often of late—we spoke about my grandfather’s last words and my ongoing confusion about them.

“It still troubles you,” he observed.

“Yes,” I admitted. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Because he told you to go to hell?”

Dr. Bowen, like Natalie, seemed to remember everything.

“It wasn’t like him to say something like that,” I insisted.

“Maybe you misunderstood.”

Bowen had suggested this before. As I had in the past, I dismissed it.

“I’m sure he said it.”

“But he also said that he loved you, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you indicated that he’d had a major stroke? And was on a lot of medication and was quite possibly confused?”

“Yes.”

“And that it took nearly a day for him to be able to speak any words at all?”

“Yes.”

When I said nothing else, he finished with the same question that continued to plague me.

“Yet you still feel he was trying to communicate something important.”

On the monitor, Bowen was watching me. I nodded but said nothing.

“You do realize,” he offered, “that you may never understand what that might be?”

“He meant the world to me.”

“He sounds like a profoundly decent man.”

I looked away. Through the open door, the creek was black and ancient in the soft Southern light.

“I should have been there,” I muttered. “I should have gone with him. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t have had the stroke. Maybe the drive was too much for him.”

“Maybe,” Bowen said. “Or maybe not. There’s no way to know for sure. And while it may be normal to feel guilty, it’s also important to remember that guilt is simply an emotion, and like all emotions, it will eventually pass. Unless you choose to hold on to it.”

“I know,” I said. He’d said this to me before. While I accepted the truth of it, it sometimes struck me that my emotions didn’t care. “Anyway…Natalie said that I might find some answers in his truck. As to the reason he was in South Carolina, I mean. So I’ve begun the process of trying to find out where the truck is.”

“Natalie?” he asked.

“She’s a deputy sheriff here in town,” I began, then went on to tell him how we’d met, and a little about our conversations at the park, at the house, and then finally at dinner.

“You’ve spent quite a bit of time together since we last spoke,” he responded.

“She wanted to see the beehives.”

“Ah,” he said, and because we’d spoken so frequently, I knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Yes,” I said, “she’s attractive. And intelligent. And yes, I enjoyed our time together. However, I’m not sure how Natalie feels about me, which means there’s not much else to add.”

“All right,” he said.

“I’m serious,” I insisted. “And besides, I suspect Natalie might be dating someone else. I’m not sure about that, but there are signs.”

“I understand,” he said.

“Then why does it sound like you don’t believe me?”

“I believe you,” he said. “I simply find it interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

“Natalie is the first woman you’ve spoken to me about since you broke up with Sandra.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “I told you about Yoga Girl.”

She was a woman I’d gone out with twice the previous fall, right around the time I’d been accepted into the residency program. We’d had a couple of pleasant evenings, but both of us knew by the end of the second date that it wasn’t going to work between us.

I watched as he pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I remember,” he finally said, his voice coming out with a sigh. “And do you know what you called her? When you first mentioned her to me?”

“I can’t say that I do,” I admitted. I also tried to remember her name. Lisa? Elisa? Elise? Something like that.

“You called her Yoga Girl,” he said. “You didn’t use her name.”

“I’m sure I told you her name,” I protested.

“Actually, you didn’t,” he said. “At the time, I found that interesting, too.”

“What are you trying to say? That you think I might be falling for someone in local law enforcement?”

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as we both noted the fact I’d suddenly avoided her name. “I have no idea,” he went on. “And that’s not really for me to say one way or the other.”

“I don’t even know if I’ll see her again.”

The time on my computer showed, amazingly, that nearly an hour had already passed and that our session was about to come to an end.

“Speaking of seeing each other,” he added, “I wanted to let you know that it’s possible we could meet in person next week. Unless you’d prefer to continue communicating electronically.”

“You think I need to travel to Pensacola?”

“No, not at all. Perhaps I should have been clearer. There’s a conference at Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville concerning PTSD. One of the speakers, unfortunately, had to cancel and I was asked to fill in. It’s on Tuesday, but I have to fly up Monday. If you’d like, we could meet in Jacksonville, or I could come to New Bern, if that’s easier.”

“That would be great,” I said. “What time?”

“Same time?” he asked. “I can catch a morning flight and rent a car.”

“Are you sure it’s not too far out of the way?”

“Not at all. I’m looking forward to visiting your grandfather’s place. You’ve painted quite a picture for me.”

I smiled, thinking that even if I had, I still hadn’t done it justice.

“I’ll see you next week, Doc. Do you need directions?”

“I’m sure I’ll be able find it. Take care.”

Two hours later, my cell phone rang. Though I didn’t recognize the number, the area code was from upstate South Carolina. The hospital administrator?

“Trevor Benson,” I answered.

“Hi. This is Thomas King from Baptist Easley Hospital. I received your message, but I wasn’t exactly sure what information you needed.”

Unlike the receptionist, his accent wasn’t nearly as thick or hard to understand.

“Thank you for returning my call,” I started, before laying out the situation. When I finished, he asked me to hold for a moment.

It was way longer than a moment. I listened to Muzak for at least five minutes before I heard the phone click through to him.

“I apologize that it took so long, but I had to find out who to ask, and then find the information you needed. We generally use two ambulance services,” he explained before giving me their names. As I wrote them down, he went on.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have the particulars regarding your grandfather. I suppose your best bet is to call the ambulance services. Perhaps they’ll have the information you need. I’m sure they’re required to keep records.”

It was just as Natalie had suggested. “I appreciate your help,” I said. “This is more than helpful.”

“You’re welcome. And my condolences for the passing of your grandfather.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I hung up, thinking that I’d call the ambulance companies in the morning. I wished I had thought about it when my grandfather had been in the hospital; after nearly half a year, who knew how long it might take them to find the answers I needed.

My thoughts turned to Natalie. Since my call with Bowen, images of her kept resurfacing in my mind; I saw her expression of wonder as she watched the bee crawl over her finger, the sensuous swirling of her dress outlining her long legs and the graceful lines of her body as she stepped out of her car in Beaufort. I recalled both our heartfelt discussion and the easy banter between us, and I puzzled over the flash of sadness I thought I’d sensed toward the end of our dinner. I thought about the energy between us and knew exactly why I’d called her by her name when speaking with Bowen.

As much as I’d tried to downplay it with Dr. Bowen, I knew with certainty that I wanted to see her again, sooner rather than later.

After I’d had dinner, I resolved to finally get some reading done on the back porch. But figuring that Natalie would have finished her shift some time ago, I found myself reaching for my cell phone. I debated calling but decided against it. Instead, I typed out a quick text.

Though I should have set my phone aside, I waited to see if she was near enough to her phone to read the text right away. Sure enough, I saw the indication that she’d read the text and assumed she would write something back. Instead, there was no response at all.

For the rest of the evening, I continued to check my phone. Childish. Compulsive. Maybe immature. At times, I can be all those things. Like Bowen says, we’re all works in progress.

Finally, just as I was getting ready to turn in for the night, I heard the telltale ding of my cell phone.

I stared at the screen, thinking it didn’t exactly proclaim an undeniable passion and attraction toward me, especially since she hadn’t addressed my invitation at all.

I put the phone on the bedside table, feeling…confused? hurt?—before reaching for the lamp. I shook those feelings aside, knowing it was way too early to feel either of those things. Besides, if she hadn’t wanted to speak with me again, she wouldn’t have answered at all. Right?

I turned out the light, then adjusted the covers, when I heard my cell phone suddenly ding again. I reached for the phone.

Not a yes, but not a no, either. I continued to stare at the screen until it vibrated again with another message from her.

I smiled. Clasping my hands behind my head, I stared at the ceiling, more curious about her than ever.