Page 6 of The Strawberry Field
And what kind of doctor can’t save the person she loves?
Maybe I was never really one at all.
By degree, yes. By title, yes.
But in truth?
Doctors fight. They show up. They stay. I ran.
I’m not a doctor. Not anymore.
I’m just a woman curled under a childhood quilt, hiding from everything I couldn’t fix.
“The past is never where you left it.”—Katherine Anne Porter
Chapter Three
Sawyer
I WAKE WITH a jolt, heart hammering. For a split second, I don’t know where I am.
Sunlight spills through the window beside the bed—too bright, too sudden. I squint against it, brain scrambling until the pieces settle: Virginia. I’m at the lake house.
I collapse back onto the pillow, eyes shut tight, aching for the sleep I just left. The kind that was mercifully blank. No dreams. No memories. Just nothing. A pause from the ache.
But the light won’t let me disappear again. Not today.
My stomach growls, sharp and hollow. I press a hand to the concave space beneath my ribs, startled by the loss—of weight, of appetite, of interest in everything that used to tether me to my daily life.
Coffee. I want it so badly I can almost taste it. But I didn’t bring anything with me. No groceries. No plan for any.
Even the thought of standing up feels like too much. But I move anyway.
Not from motivation—just momentum.
I strip out of yesterday’s clothes and make my way to the bathroom. The faucet sputters to life, the faint sulfur smell of the well water here rising like a memory. I let it run, then step under the spray.
The heat steadies me. I scrub my skin with a bar of soap and lather shampoo through my hair. The temptation to slump against the tile overtakes me.
Back in the bedroom, I find a towel under the sink. As I press it to my face, the scent catches me, faint, but familiar. Clean linen. My mother’s favorite.
For a second, I see her standing in the laundry room, pulling towels from the dryer, smiling as she scolds us for running into the lake fully clothed. Her voice echoes through my head, startlingly real.
And just like that, my throat tightens.
I blink her away and reach into my suitcase for clothes. Black yoga pants, a sports bra, a loose workout shirt. The shirt hangs on me now. Like it belongs to someone else. My reflection in the mirror is unfamiliar. Hollow cheeks. Dark smudges beneath tired eyes. Colorless lips.
The bed still looks inviting. The tousled quilt promises the kind of retreat I know too well. I take a step toward it—then stop.
Groceries. At the very least.
I grab my phone. Ten percent battery. I search for stores nearby. Carl’s Place shows up first. The name makes something small and warm flutter in my chest.
Red vinyl booths. A sticky counter. Coconut cream pie behind a glass dome, the promise at the end of a vegetable plate.
That memory pushes me down the stairs and out the door.
*
