Page 5 of The Choices I've Made
At least, not right away.
As much as I wanted to ignore it, to forget about every person who could be affected by his death, I knew I couldn’t.
Do no harm.
That was the oath I had taken when I became a doctor.
I had to go.
I had to help.
And he’d known it all-too well. Even in his death, my old man was pulling the strings, navigating my life from the grave, as he tormented my conscience. So, here I was, about to leave the airport to drive three hours through North Carolina to go back to my hometown.
Back to everything I’d left behind. Everything I’d tried to forget.
The chief of surgery at MacNeal Hospital had been oddly gracious over my plight. Giving me an extended leave had left him short a surgeon. It had taken some serious work to rearrange my schedule. But, now, I had two months ahead of me to get my father’s practice back on track and out of my life for good.
Revving the engine of the practical little car I’d adopted as my own, I headed onward. The car was nothing fancy, but it’d get the job done. I’d never been overly attached to cars. Having driven a beat-up truck through most of college had taught me to remain humble. Or maybe my father would have taken credit for that as well.
Nevertheless, living in downtown Chicago for the last several years had required more trips on the Red Line than an actual car.
But I did love a nice ride in the country every now and then. Settling into the nondescript black sedan, I tried to convince myself this was no different.
Just a leisurely drive.
I managed to keep this mantra going for a few hours until I hit the coast. Then, reality set in.
I really was going back.
Still in off-season, the Outer Banks of North Carolina was still quite peaceful, catering to mostly locals until the population tripled almost overnight the second summer hit. Soon, these quiet shops and empty beaches would be filled with families from all over the world, spending their precious money for a slice of what locals enjoyed year-round.
I kept on driving, past Kill Devil Hills and all its many golf courses and tourist attractions. The Wright Brothers Memorial came and went, reminding me of a junior high field trip when I’d spent the entire bus ride talking Molly’s ear off about the first flight.
Even then, I’d had it bad for her.
The farther I drove, the quieter it became. Small beach towns passed by as I slowly made my way to Hatteras. This was where the Outer Banks really shone.
Wooden houses dotted the shore, high on stilts to keep them protected from storms. I could see the wear and tear from their age, but that was part of the charm. People rode their bikes to cozy little mom-and-pop restaurants, feasting on local seafood and crabs.
It was a simple way of life. One that was easily loved…or despised.
In my case, it had been a healthy mix of both until the end. Until my world had been flipped upside down.
By the time I ventured down to the farthest tip of the Banks, my legs were sore, and my stomach was empty. Pulling off just before the ferry that would take me on the last leg of the trip, I stopped at a small restaurant to refuel.
Stepping out of the car, I stretched, feeling stiff and tired from being in one position for so long.
I was used to being active. Sitting around never suited me. Even as a kid, I’d run around the island for hours, chasing crabs along the shore with my friends. These days, however, exercise was more of an indoor sport, as I’d opted for a high-priced gym membership over crab-chasing.
But I still loved to run.
Taking the short walk from the car, I entered the restaurant, looking for a bite to eat before boarding the ferry.
What I got was the exact opposite of quiet.
“Holy shit!” a familiar voice called from across the restaurant. “Is thattheJake Jameson?”
I looked over and immediately recognized him.
