The Notebook(11)
Author: Nicholas Sparks

"I love you, Allie."

"I love you, too."

Noah opened her car door and they kissed one more time. Then she slid behind the wheel, never taking her eyes from him. She put the packet of letters and her handbag next to her on the seat and fumbled for the keys, then turned the ignition. It started easily and the engine began to turn over impatiently. It was almost time.

Noah pushed her door closed with both hands and Allie rolled down the window. She reached out her hand and Noah took it for just a moment, moving his fingers softly against her skin.

"Stay with me," Noah mouthed without sound, and this for some reason hurt more than Allie would have expected. The tears began to fall hard now, but she couldn’t speak. Reluctantly, she looked away and pulled her hand from his. She put the car in gear.

He fell into an almost trancelike state as he watched it roll slowly forwards, the gravel crunching under the wheels. Slowly the car turned towards the road that would take her back to town. Noah felt dizzy at the sight. "Don’t go!" he wanted to shout. But he didn’t say anything, and a minute later the only remaining signs of her were the tracks that her car had left behind.

She was gone. For ever this time. For ever. He closed his eyes.

DRIVING WITH TEARS in her eyes was difficult, but Allie went on anyway. She kept the window rolled down, thinking the fresh air might help clear her mind, but it didn’t seem to. Nothing would help. She was tired, and she wondered if she would have the energy she needed to talk to Lon. And what was she going to say? She hoped that something would come to her when the time came. By the time she reached Front Street, she had herself a little more under control. Traffic was light and she had time to watch strangers going about their business as she drove through New Bern. At a service station, a mechanic was looking under the bonnet of a new car. Two women were pushing prams just outside Hoffman-Lane, chatting while they window-shopped.

She saw the inn just up the street while she was stopped at a red light. She took a deep breath when the light turned green and drove slowly until she reached the parking lot. She turned in and saw Lon’s car sitting in the first spot. Although the one next to it was open, she passed it and picked a spot a little further from the entrance.

She turned off the engine, then reached into the glove compartment for a mirror and brush. Looking at herself, she saw her eyes were still red and puffy. Like yesterday after the rain, she was sorry she didn’t have any make-up, though she doubted it would help much now. She reached for her purse, opened it, and once again looked at the article that had brought her here. It felt impossible to her that she had arrived only the day before yesterday. It seemed like a lifetime since her dinner with Noah.

Starlings chirped in the trees around her. The clouds had begun to break up now, and Allie could see blue in between patches of white. It was going to be a beautiful day.

It was the kind of day she would have liked to spend with Noah, and as she was thinking about him, she remembered the letters her mother had given her and reached for them. She untied the package and found the first letter he had written her. She began to open it, then stopped because she could imagine what was in it. Something simple, no doubt-things he’d done, memories of the summer, perhaps some questions. Instead she reached for the last letter, the one on the bottom of the stack. The goodbye letter. This one interested her far more. How had he said it? How would she have said it?

The envelope was thin. One, maybe two pages. Whatever he had written wasn’t too long. She turned it over and checked the back. No name, just a street address in New Jersey. She held her breath as she used her fingernail to prise it open.

Unfolding it, she saw it was dated March 1935. Two and a half years without a reply.

She straightened the page and began to read.

My dearest Allie,

I don’t know what to say any more except that I couldn’t sleep last night because I knew that it is over between us. It is a different feeling for me, one that I never expected. Looking back, I suppose it couldn’t have ended another way.

You and I were different. We came from different worlds, and yet you were the one who taught me the value of love. You showed me what it was like to care for another, and I am a better man because of it. I don’t want you ever to forget that.

I am not bitter because of what has happened. On the contrary I am secure in knowing that what we had was real, and I am happy we were able to come together for even a short time. And if, in some distant place in the future, we see each other in our new lives, I will smile at you with joy, and remember how we spent a summer learning from each other and growing in love. And maybe, for a brief moment, you’ll feel it too, and you’ll smile back and savour the memories we will always share.

I love you, Allie.

Noah

She read the letter again, then put it back into the envelope. She knew she couldn’t delay any longer. Lon was waiting for her.

Her legs felt weak as she stepped out of the car. She paused and took a deep breath, and as she started across the parking lot she realized that she still wasn’t sure what she was going to say to him.

And the answer didn’t finally come until she reached the door and opened it and saw Lon standing in the lobby.

CHAPTER EIGHT: WINTER FOR TWO

THE STORY ends there, so I close the notebook, remove my glasses and wipe my eyes. I look at her now that I have finished, but she does not look back. Instead she is staring out of the window at the courtyard, where friends and family meet.

I read to her this morning, as I do every morning, because it is something I must do. Not for duty-although I suppose a case could be made for this-but for another, more romantic reason. I wish I could explain it more fully right now, but it’s still early, and talking about romance isn’t really possible before lunch any more, at least not for me. Besides, I have no idea how it’s going to turn out, and to be honest; I’d rather not get my hopes up.

We spend every day together now, but our nights are spent alone. The doctors tell me that I’m not allowed to see her after dark. I understand the reasons, and though I agree with them completely I sometimes break the rules. Late at night when my mood is right, I will sneak from my room and go to hers and watch her while she sleeps. Of this she knows nothing. I’ll come in and see her breathe and know that, had it not been for her, I would never have married.

And when I look at her face, a face I know better than my own, I know that I have meant as much to her. And that means more to me than I could ever hope to explain.

Sometimes, when I am standing there, I think about how lucky I am to have been married to her for almost forty-nine years. Next month it will be that long. She heard me snore for the first forty-five, but since then we have slept in separate rooms. I do not sleep well without her. I toss and turn and yearn for her warmth and lie there most of the night, eyes open wide, watching the shadows dance across the ceilings like tumbleweeds rolling across the desert. I sleep two hours if I am lucky, and still I wake before dawn.

I shuffle towards her and sit in the chair beside her bed. My back aches when I sit. I must get a new cushion for this chair, I remind myself for the hundredth time. I reach for her hand and take it, bony and fragile. It feels nice. She responds with a twitch, and gradually her thumb begins to rub my finger softly. I do not speak until she does; this I have learned. Most days I sit in silence until the sun goes down.

Minutes pass before she finally turns to me. She is crying. I smile and release her hand, then reach in my pocket. I take out a handkerchief and wipe at her tears. She looks at me as I do so, and I wonder what she is thinking.

"That was a beautiful story."

A light rain begins to fall. Little drops tap gently on the window. I take her hand again. It is going to be a good day, a very good day. A magical day. I smile, I can’t help it.

"Yes, it is," I tell her.

"Did you write it?" she asks, her voice like a whisper.

"Yes," I answer.

She turns towards the nightstand. Her medicine is in a little cup. Mine too. Little pills, colours like a rainbow so we won’t forget to take them. They bring mine here to her room now, even though they’re not supposed to.

"I’ve heard it before, haven’t I?"

"Yes," I say again, just as I do every time. I have learned to be patient.

She studies my face. Her eyes are as green as ocean waves.

"It makes me feel less afraid," she says.

"I know." I nod, rocking my head softly.

She turns away, and I wait some more. She releases my hand and reaches for her water glass. She takes a sip.

"Is it a true story?" She sits up a little in her bed and takes another drink. Her body is still strong. "I mean, did you know these people?"

"Yes," I say again. I could say more, but usually I don’t. She is still beautiful.

She asks the obvious. "Well, which one did she finally marry?"

I answer, "The one who was right for her."

"Which one was that?"

I smile. "You’ll know," I say quietly, "by the end of the day. You’ll know."

She does not question me further. Instead she begins to fidget. She is thinking of a way to ask me another question, though she isn’t sure how to do it.

A bird starts to sing outside the window and we both turn our heads. We sit quietly for a while, enjoying something beautiful together. Then it is lost, and she sighs. "I have to ask you something else," she says.

"Whatever it is, I’ll try to answer."

"It’s hard, though."

She does not look at me and I cannot see her eyes. This is how she hides her thoughts. Some things never change.

"Take your time," I say. I know what she will ask.

Finally she turns to me and looks into my eyes. She offers a gentle smile, the kind you share with a child, not a lover.

"I don’t want to hurt your feelings because you’ve been so nice to me, but…"

I wait. Her words will hurt me. They will tear a piece from my heart and leave a scar.

"Who are you?"

WE HAVE LIVED at Creekside Extended Care Facility for three years now. It was her decision to come here, partly because it was near our home, but also because she thought it would be easier for me. We boarded up our home because neither of us could bear to sell it, signed some papers, and received a place to live and die in exchange for some of the freedom for which we had worked a lifetime.

She was right to do this, of course. There is no way I could have made it alone, for sickness has come to us, both of us. We are in the final minutes in the day of our lives, and the clock is ticking. Loudly. I wonder if I am the only one who can hear it.

A throbbing pain courses through my fingers, and it reminds me that we have not held hands with fingers interlocked since we moved here. I am sad about this, but it is my fault, not hers. It is arthritis in the worst form, rheumatoid and advanced. My hands are misshapen and grotesque now, and they throb through most of my waking hours. But every day I take her hands despite the pain, and I do my best to hold them because that is what she wants me to do.

Although the Bible says man can live to be a hundred and twenty, I don’t want to, and I don’t think my body would make it even if I did. It is falling apart, steady erosion on the inside and at the joints. My kidneys are beginning to fail and my heart rate is decreasing every month. Worse, I have cancer again, this time of the prostate. This is my third bout with the unseen enemy, and it will take me eventually, though not till I say it is time. The doctors are worried about me, but I am not. I have no time for worry in this twilight of my life.

Of our five children, four are still living, and though it is hard for them to visit, they come often, and for this I am thankful. But even when they aren’t here, they come alive in my mind every day, each of them, and they bring to mind the smiles and tears that come with raising a family. A dozen pictures line the walls of my room. They are my heritage, my contribution to the world. I am very proud. Sometimes I wonder what my wife thinks of them as she dreams, or if she thinks of them at all, or if she even dreams. There is so much about her I don’t understand any more.

"My name," I say, "is Duke." I have always been a John Wayne fan.

"Duke," she whispers to herself, "Duke." She thinks for a moment, her forehead wrinkled, her eyes serious.

"Yes," I say, "I’m here for you." And always will be, I think to myself.

She flushes with my answer. Her eyes become wet and red, and tears begin to fall. My heart aches for her, and I wish for the thousandth time that there was something I could do.

She says, "I’m sorry. I don’t understand anything that’s happening to me right now. Even you. When I listen to you talk I feel like I should know you, but I don’t. I don’t even know my name." She wipes at her tears and says, "Help me, Duke, help me remember who I am. Or at least, who I was. I feel so lost."

I answer from my heart, but I lie to her about her name. As I have about my own. There is a reason for this.

"You are Hannah, a lover of life, a strength to those who shared in your friendships. You are a dream, a creator of happiness, an artist who has touched a thousand souls. You’ve led a full life and wanted for nothing, because your needs are spiritual and you have only to look inside you. You are kind and loyal, and you are able to see beauty where others do not. You are a teacher of wonderful lessons, a dreamer of better things."

She does not respond. Instead she stares at me for a long while, until our breathing coincides. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Deep breaths. I wonder if she knows I think she’s beautiful.

"Would you stay with me a while?" she finally asks.

I smile and nod. She smiles back. She reaches for my hand, takes it gently and pulls it to her waist. She stares at the hardened knots that deform my fingers and caresses them gently. Her hands are still those of an angel.

"Come," I say as I stand with great effort, "let’s go for a walk. The air is crisp and the goslings are waiting. It’s beautiful today." I am staring at her as I say these last few words. She blushes. It makes me feel young again.

SHE WAS FAMOUS, of course. One of the best southern painters of the twentieth century, some said, and I was, and am, proud of her. Unlike me, who struggled to write even the simplest of verses, my wife could create beauty as easily as the Lord created the earth. Her paintings are in museums around the world, but I have kept only two for myself. The first one she ever gave me and the last one. They hang in my room, and late at night I sit and stare and sometimes cry when I look at them. I don’t know why.