The Notebook(13)
Author: Nicholas Sparks

She thinks about this and laughs. Then she answers as I would: "I think some women do."

"Do you?"

"Now don’t go putting me on the spot. I don’t know you well enough for that." She is teasing me and I enjoy it.

We sit and watch the world around us. This has taken us a lifetime to learn. It seems only the old are able to sit next to one another and not say anything and still feel content. The young, brash and impatient, must always break the silence. It is a waste, for silence is pure. Silence is holy. It draws people together because only those who are comfortable with each other can sit without speaking. This is the great paradox.

Time passes, and gradually our breathing begins to coincide. Deep breaths, relaxed breaths, and there is a moment when she dozes off, like those comfortable with one another often do. When she wakes, a miracle: "Do you see that bird?" She points to it, and I strain my eyes. It is a wonder I can see it, but I can because the sun is bright.

"Caspian stern," I say softly, and we devote our attention to it as it glides over Brices Creek. And, like an old habit rediscovered, when I lower my arm, I put my hand on her knee and she doesn’t make me move it.

SHE IS RIGHT about my evasiveness. On days like these, when only her memory is gone, I am vague in my answers because I’ve hurt my wife unintentionally with careless slips of my tongue many times these past few years, and I am determined not to let it happen again. So I limit myself and answer only what is asked, to limit the pain. There are days she never learns of her children or that we are married. I am sorry for this, but I will not change.

Does this make me dishonest? Perhaps, but I have seen her crushed by the waterfall of information that is her life. Could I look myself in the mirror without red eyes and quivering jaw and know I have forgotten all that was important to me? I could not and neither can she, for when this odyssey began, that is how I began. Her life, her marriage, her children. Her friends and her work.

The days were hard on both of us. I was an encyclopedia, an object without feeling, of the whos, whats and wheres in her life, when in reality it is the whys, the things I did not know and could not answer, that make it all worth while. She would stare at pictures of forgotten offspring, hold paintbrushes that inspired nothing, and read love letters that brought back no joy. She would weaken over the hours, growing paler, becoming bitter and ending the day worse than when it began. Our days were lost and so was she.

So I changed. I learned what is obvious to a child. That life is simply a collection of little lives, each lived one day at a time. That each day should be spent finding beauty in flowers and poetry and talking to animals. That a day spent with dreaming and sunsets and refreshing breezes cannot be bettered. But most of all, I learned that life is for sitting on benches next to ancient creeks with my hand on her knee and sometimes, on good days, for falling in love.

"WHAT ARE you thinking?" she asks.

It is now dusk. We have left our bench and are shuffling along lighted paths that wind their way around this complex. She is holding my arm and I am her escort. It is her idea to do this. Perhaps she is charmed by me. Perhaps she wants to keep me from falling. Either way, I am smiling to myself.

"I’m thinking about you."

She makes no response to this except to squeeze my arm, and I can tell she likes what I said. Our life together has enabled me to see the clues, even if she does not know them herself. I go on: "I know you can’t remember who you are, but I can, and I find that when I look at you it makes me feel good."

She taps my arm and smiles. "You’re a kind man with a loving heart. I hope I enjoyed you as much before as I do now."

I think about this as we walk in silence, holding each other, past the rooms, past the courtyard. We come to the garden, mainly wild flowers, and I stop her. I pick a bundle-red, pink, yellow, violet. I give them to her, and she brings them to her nose. She smells them with eyes closed and she whispers, "They’re beautiful." We resume our walk, me in one hand, the flowers in another. People watch us, for we are a walking miracle, or so I am told. It is true in a way.

By the time we reach the doorway, I am tired. She knows this, so she stops me with her hand and makes me face her. I do, and I realize how hunched over I have become. She and I are now level. Sometimes I am glad she doesn’t know how much I have changed. She turns to me and stares for a long time.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I don’t want to forget you or this day, and I’m trying to keep your memory alive."

Will it work this time? I wonder, then know it will not. It can’t. I do not tell her my thoughts, though. I smile instead because her words are sweet.

"Thank you," I say.

"I mean it. I don’t want to forget you again. You’re very special to me. I don’t know what I would have done without you today."

My throat closes a little. There is emotion behind her words, the emotions I feel whenever I think of her. I know this is why I live, and I love her dearly at this moment. How I wish I were strong enough to carry her in my arms to paradise.

"Don’t try to say anything," she tells me. "Let’s just feel the moment."

And I do, and I feel heaven.

HER DISEASE is worse now than it was in the beginning, though Allie is different from most. There are three others with the disease here, and they are the sum of my practical experience of it. They, unlike Allie, are in the most advanced stages of Alzheimer’s and are almost completely lost. They wake up hallucinating and confused. They repeat themselves over and over. Seldom do they recognize the people who love them. It is a trying disease, and this is why it is hard for their children and mine to visit.

Allie, of course, has her own problems. She is terribly afraid in the mornings and cries inconsolably. She sees tiny people, like gnomes, I think, watching her, and she screams at them to get away. She bathes willingly but will not eat regularly. She is thin now, much too thin in my opinion, and on good days I do my best to fatten her up.

But this is where the similarity ends. This is why Allie is considered a miracle, because sometimes, just sometimes, after I read to her, her condition isn’t so bad. There is no explanation for this. "It’s impossible," the doctors say, "she cannot have Alzheimer’s." But she does. On most days and every morning there can be no doubt.

But why, then, is her condition different? Why does she sometimes change after I read? I tell the doctors the reason-I know it in my heart, but I am not believed. Four times specialists have travelled from Chapel Hill to find the answer. Four times they have left without understanding. I tell them, "You can’t possibly understand it if you use only your science training and your books," but they shake their heads and answer: "Alzheimer’s does not work like this. With her condition, it’s just not possible to have a conversation or improve as the day goes on. Ever."

But she does. Not every day, not most of the time, and definitely less than she used to. But sometimes. And all that is gone on these days is her memory, as if she has amnesia. Her emotions are normal, her thoughts are normal. And these are the days that I know I am doing right.

DINNER IS WAITING in her room when we return. It has been arranged for us to eat here, as it always is on days like these, and once again I could ask for no more. The people here are good to me and I am thankful.

The lights are dimmed, the room is lit by two candles on the table where we will sit, and music is playing softly in the background. The cups and plates are plastic and the carafe is filled with apple juice, but rules are rules and she doesn’t seem to care.

She inhales slightly at the sight. Her eyes are wide. "Did you do this?"

I nod and she walks into the room.

"It looks beautiful."

I offer my arm in escort and lead her to the window. She doesn’t release it when we get there. Her touch is nice, and we stand close together on this crystal springtime evening. The window is open slightly and I feel a breeze as it fans my cheek. The moon has risen and we watch for a long time as the evening sky unfolds.

"I’ve never seen anything so beautiful, I’m sure of it," she says.

"I haven’t, either," I say, but I am looking at her. She knows what I mean and I see her smile.

A moment later she whispers: "I think I know who Allie went with at the end of the story."

"Who?"

"She went with Noah."

"You’re sure?"

"Absolutely."

I smile and nod. "Yes, she did," I say softly, and she smiles back, her face radiant.

She sits and I sit opposite her. She offers her hand across the table and I take it in mine, and I feel her thumb begin to move as it did so many years ago. I stare at her for a long time, living and reliving the moments of my life, remembering it all and making it real. I feel my throat begin to tighten and once again I realize how much I love her.

My voice is shaky when I finally speak.

"You’re so beautiful," I say. I can see in her eyes that she knows how I feel about her and what I really mean by my words.

She does not respond. Instead she lowers her eyes and I wonder what she’s thinking. She gives me no clues and I gently squeeze her hand. I wait. I know her heart and I know I’m almost there.

And then a miracle that proves me right. As Glenn Miller plays softly in a candlelit room, I watch as she gradually gives in to the feelings inside her. I see a warm smile begin to form on her lips, the kind that makes it all worth while, and I watch as she raises her hazy eyes to mine. She pulls my hand towards her. "You’re wonderful…" she says softly, and at that moment she falls in love with me, too; this I know, for I have seen the signs a thousand times.

She says nothing else right away, she doesn’t have to, and she gives me a look from another lifetime that makes me whole again. I smile back, with as much passion as I can muster, and we stare at each other with the feelings inside us rolling like ocean waves. I look about the room, then back at Allie, and the way she’s looking at me makes me warm. And suddenly I feel young again. I’m no longer cold or aching, or hunched over or almost blind with cataracts. I’m strong and proud and the luckiest man alive, and I keep on feeling that way for a long time.

By the time the candles have burned down a third, I am ready to break the silence. I say, "I love you deeply and I hope you know that."

"Of course I do," she says. "I’ve always loved you, Noah."

Noah, I hear again. The word echoes in my head. Noah… Noah. She knows, I think to myself, she knows who I am…

She knows… Such a tiny thing, this knowledge, but for me it is a gift from God, and I feel our lifetime together, holding her, loving her, and being with her through the best years of my life.

She murmurs, "Noah… my sweet Noah…”

And I, who could not accept the doctors’ words, have triumphed again, at least for a moment. I give up the pretence of mystery, and I kiss her hand and bring it to my cheek and whisper in her ear: "You are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me."

"Oh… Noah," she says with tears in her eyes, "I love you, too."

IF ONLY IT would end like this, I would be a happy man.

But it won’t. Of this I’m sure, for as time slips by I begin to see the signs of concern in her face.

"What’s wrong?" I ask, and her answer comes softly.

"I’m so afraid. I’m afraid of forgetting you again. It isn’t fair… I just can’t bear to give this up." Her voice breaks as she finishes, but I don’t know what to say. I know the evening is coming to an end and there is nothing I can do to stop the inevitable. In this I am a failure.

I finally tell her: "I’ll never leave you. What we have is for ever."

She knows this is all I can do, for neither of us wants empty promises.

The crickets serenade us, and we begin to pick at our dinner. Neither one of us is hungry, but I lead by example and she follows me. She takes small bites and chews a long time, but I am glad to see her eat. She has lost too much weight in the past three months.

After dinner, I become afraid for I know the bell has tolled this evening. The sun has long since set and the thief is about to come, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. So I stare at her and wait and live a lifetime in these last remaining moments.

The clock ticks.

Nothing.

I take her in my arms and we hold each other.

Nothing.

I feel her tremble and I whisper in her ear.

Nothing.

I tell her for the last time this evening that I love her.

And the thief comes.

It always amazes me how quickly it happens. Even now, after all this time. For as she holds me, she begins to blink rapidly and shake her head. Then, turning towards the corner of the room, she stares for a long time, concern etched on her face.

No! my mind screams. Not yet! Not now… not when we’re so close! Not tonight! Any night but tonight… Please! I can’t take it again! It isn’t fair.. It isn’t fair…

But once again, it is to no avail.

"Those people," she finally says, pointing, "are staring at me. Please make them stop."

The gnomes. A pit rises in my stomach, hard and full. My mouth goes dry and I feel my heart pounding. It is over, I know. This, the evening confusion that affects my wife, is the hardest part of all. For when it comes, she is gone, and sometimes I wonder whether she and I will ever love again.

"There’s no one there, Allie," I say, trying to fend off the inevitable.

She doesn’t believe me. "They’re staring at me. You can’t see them?"

"No," I say, and she thinks for a moment.

"Well, they’re right there," she says, "and they’re staring at me."

With that, she begins to talk to herself, and moments later, when I try to comfort her, she flinches with wide eyes.

"Who are you?" she cries in panic, her face becoming whiter. "What are you doing here?" She backs away from me, her hands in a defensive position, and then she says the most heartbreaking words of all. "Go away! Stay away from me!" She is pushing the gnomes away from her, terrified, oblivious of my presence.