"What are you talking about?"
"Would her new husband be willing to take care of Alan?"
When I said nothing to that, he raised his eyebrows. "Would you?" he added.
I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came out. His expression softened.
"That's what I think about when I'm lying here. When I'm not sick, I mean. Actually, I think about a lot of things. Including you."
"Me?"
"You still love her, don't you?"
I kept my expression steady, but he read me anyway. "It's okay," he said. "I already know. I've always known." He looked almost wistful. "I can still remember Savannah's face the first time she talked about you. I'd never seen her like that. I was happy for her because there was something about you that I trusted right away. That whole first year you were gone, she missed you so much. It was like her heart was breaking a little bit every single day. You were all she could think about. And then she found out you weren't coming home and we ended up in Lenoir and my parents died and . . ." He didn't finish. "You always knew I was in love with her, too, didn't you?"
I nodded.
"I thought so." He cleared his throat. "I've loved her since I was twelve years old. And gradually, she fell in love with me, too."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because," he said, "it wasn't the same. I know she loves me, but she's never loved me the way she loved you. She never had that burning passion for me, but we were making a good life together. She was so happy when we started the ranch . . . and it just made me feel so good that I could do something like that for her. Then I got sick, but she's always here, caring for me the same way I'd care for her if it was happening to her." He stopped then, struggling to find the right words, and I could see the anguish in his expression.
"Yesterday, when you came in, I saw the way she was looking at you, and I knew that she still loved you. More than that, I know she always will. It breaks my heart, but you know what? I'm still in love with her, and to me that means that I want nothing more than for her to be happy in life. I want that more than anything. It's all I've ever wanted for her."
My throat was so dry that I could barely speak. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying don't forget Savannah if anything happens to me. And promise that you'll always treasure her the same way I do."
"Tim . . ."
"Don't say anything, John." He raised a hand, either to stop me or in farewell. "Just remember what I said, okay?"
When he turned away, I knew our conversation was over.
I stood then and walked quietly out of the room, shutting the door behind me.
Outside the hospital, I squinted in the harsh morning sunlight. I could hear birds chirping in the trees, but even though I searched for them, they remained hidden from me.
The parking lot was half full. Here and there, I could see people walking to the entrance or back to their cars. All looked as weary as I felt, as if the optimism they showed to loved ones in the hospital vanished the moment they were alone. I knew that miracles were always possible no matter how sick a person might be, and that women in the maternity ward were feeling joy as they held their newborns in their arms, but I sensed that, like me, most of the hospital visitors were barely holding it together.
I sat on the bench out front, wondering why I'd come and wishing that I hadn't. I replayed my conversation with Tim over and over, and the image of his anguish made me close my eyes. For the first time in years, my love for Savannah felt somehow . . . wrong. Love should bring joy, it should grant a person peace, but here and now, it was bringing only pain. To Tim, to Savannah, even to me. I hadn't come to tempt Savannah or ruin her marriage . . . or had I? I wasn't sure I was quite as noble as I thought I was, and the realization left me feeling as empty as a rusted paint can.
I removed the photograph of Savannah from my wallet. It was creased and worn. As I stared at her face, I found myself wondering what the coming year would bring. I didn't know whether Tim would live or die, and I didn't want to think about it. I knew that no matter what happened, the relationship between Savannah and me would never be what it once was. We'd met at a carefree time, a moment full of promise; in its place now were the harsh lessons of the real world.
I rubbed my temples, struck by the thought that Tim knew what had almost happened between Savannah and me last night, that maybe he'd even expected it. His words made that clear, as did his request that I promise to love her with the devotion he felt. I knew exactly what he was suggesting that I do if he died, but somehow his permission made me feel even worse.
I finally stood and began the slow walk to my car. I wasn't sure where I wanted to go, other than that I needed to get as far away from the hospital as I could. I needed to leave Lenoir, if only to give myself a chance to think. I dug my hands into my pockets and fished out my keys.
It was only when I got close to my car that I realized Savannah's truck was parked next to mine. Savannah was sitting in the front seat, and when she saw me coming, she opened the door and got out. She waited for me, smoothing her blouse as I drew near.
I stopped a few feet away.
"John," she said, "you left without saying good-bye last night."
"I know."
She nodded slightly. We both understood the reason.
"How did you know I was here?"
"I didn't," she said. "I went by the motel and they told me you'd checked out. When I came here, I saw your car and decided to wait for you. Did you see Tim?"
"Yeah. He's doing better. He thinks he'll be getting out of the hospital later today."
"That's good news," she said. She motioned to my car. "Are you leaving town?"
"Gotta get back. My leave's up."
She crossed her arms. "Were you going to come say good-bye?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I hadn't thought that far ahead."
I saw a flash of hurt and disappointment on her face. "What did you and Tim talk about?"
I looked over my shoulder at the hospital, then back at her. "You should probably ask him that question."
Her mouth formed a tight line, and her body seemed to stiffen. "So this is good-bye?"
I heard a car honk on the road out front and saw a number of cars suddenly slow. The driver of a red Toyota veered into the other lane, doing his best to get around the traffic. As I watched, I knew I was stalling and that she deserved an answer.
"Yes," I said, slowly turning back to her. "I think it is."
Her knuckles stood out white against her arms. "Can I write to you?"
I forced myself not to look away, wishing again that the cards had fallen differently for us. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea."
"I don't understand."
"Yes, you do," I said. "You're married to Tim, not me." I let that sink in while gathering my strength for what I wanted to say next. "He's a good man, Savannah. A better man than me, that's for sure, and I'm glad you married him. As much as I love you, I'm not willing to break up a marriage for it. And deep down, I don't think you are, either. Even if you love me, you love him, too. It took me a little while to realize that, but I'm sure of it."
Left unspoken was Tim's uncertain future, and I could see her eyes beginning to fill with tears.
"Will we ever see each other again?"
"I don't know." The words burned in my throat. "But I'm hoping we don't."
"How can you say that?" she asked, her voice beginning to crack.
"Because it means that Tim's going to be okay. And I have a feeling that it's all going to turn out the way it should."
"You can't say that! You can't promise that!"
"No," I said, "I can't."
"Then why does it have to end now? Like this?"
A tear spilled down her face, and despite the fact that I knew I should simply walk away, I took a step toward her. When I was close, I gently wiped it away. In her eyes I could see fear and sadness, anger and betrayal. But most of all, I saw them pleading with me to chan
ge my mind.
I swallowed hard.
"You're married to Tim, and your husband needs you. All of you. There's no room for me, and we both know there shouldn't be."
As more tears started flowing down her face, I felt my own eyes fill up. I leaned in and kissed Savannah gently on the lips, then took her in my arms and held her tight.
"I love you, Savannah, and I always will," I breathed. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. You were my best friend and my lover, and I don't regret a single moment of it. You made me feel alive again, and most of all, you gave me my father. I'll never forget you for that. You're always going to be the very best part of me. I'm sorry it has to be this way, but I have to leave, and you have to see your husband."
As I spoke, I could feel her shaking with sobs, and I continued to hold her for a long time afterward. When we finally separated, I knew that it would be the last time I ever held her.
I backed away, my eyes holding Savannah's.
"I love you, too, John," she said.
"Good-bye." I raised a hand.
And with that, she wiped her face and began walking toward the hospital.
Saying good-bye was the hardest thing I ever had to do. Part of me wanted to turn the car around and race back to the hospital, to tell her that I would always be there for her, to confide in her the things Tim had said to me. But I didn't.
On the way out of town, I stopped at a small convenience store. I needed gas and filled the tank; inside, I bought a bottle of water. As I approached the counter, I saw a jar that the owner had set out to collect money for Tim, and I stared at it. It was filled with change and dollar bills; on the label, it listed the name of an account at a local bank. I asked for a few dollars in quarters, and the man behind the counter obliged.
I was numb as I made my way back to the car. I opened the door and began fishing through the documents that the lawyer had given me, looking also for a pencil. I found what I needed, then went to the pay phone. It was located near the road, with cars roaring past. I dialed information and had to press the receiver hard against my ear to hear the computerized voice give me the number I'd requested. I scrawled it on the documents, then hung up. I dropped some coins into the slot, dialed the long-distance number, and heard another computer-generated voice request even more money. I dropped in a few more coins. Soon I could hear the phone ringing.
When it was answered, I told the man who I was and asked if he remembered me.
"Of course I do, John. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks. My dad passed away."
There was a short pause. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "You doing okay?"
"I don't know," I said.
"Is there anything I can do?"
I closed my eyes, thinking of Savannah and Tim and hoping somehow that my dad would forgive me for what I was about to do. "Yes," I said to the coin dealer, "actually there is. I want to sell my dad's coin collection, and I need the money as quickly as you can get it to me."
Epilogue
Lenoir, 2006
What does true love really mean?
I think about the question again as I sit on the hillside and watch Savannah moving among the horses. For a moment, I flash to the night I showed up at the ranch to find her . . . but that visit, a year ago now, feels more and more like a dream to me.
I sold the coins for less than they were worth, and piece by piece, I knew that the remains of my dad's collection would be distributed to people who would never care as much about them as he did. In the end, I saved only the buffalo head nickel, for I simply couldn't bear to give it up. Aside from the photo, it's all I have left of my dad, and I always carry it with me. It's a talisman of sorts, one that carries with it all my memories of my dad; every now and then, I remove it from my pocket and stare at it. I'll run my fingers over the plastic case that holds the coin, and all at once, I can see my dad reading the Greysheet in his office or smell the bacon as it sizzles in the kitchen. I find that it makes me smile, and for a moment, I feel that I'm no longer alone.
But I am, and part of me knows that I always will be. I hold this thought as I search out the figures of Savannah and Tim in the distance, holding hands as they walk to the house; I see them touch in a way that speaks of their genuine affection for each other. They look good as a couple, I have to admit. When Tim calls to Alan, he joins them, and the three of them head inside. I wonder for a moment what they're talking about as they enter, for I'm curious about the little details of their lives, but I'm fully aware that it's none of my business. I have heard, however, that Tim is no longer receiving treatment and that most people in town expect him to recover.
I learned this through the local lawyer I hired on my last visit to Lenoir. I'd entered his office with a cashier's check and asked him to deposit it in the account that had been set up for Tim's treatment. I knew all about attorney-client privilege, and I knew he would say nothing to anyone in town. It was important not to let Savannah know what I'd done. In any marriage, there's room for only two people.
I did, however, ask the lawyer to keep me informed, and during the past year, I spoke with him several times from Germany. He told me that when he contacted Savannah to tell her that a client wanted to make an anonymous donation--but wanted to be kept informed of Tim's progress--she broke down and cried when he told her the amount. He told me that within a week, she'd brought Tim to MD Anderson and learned that Tim was an ideal candidate for the vaccine trial MD Anderson planned to start in November. He told me that prior to joining the clinical trial, Tim was treated with biochemotherapy and adjuvant therapy and that the doctors were hopeful the treatments would kill the cancerous cells massing in his lungs. A couple of months ago, the lawyer called to tell me that the treatment had been more successful than even the doctors hoped and that now Tim was technically in remission.
It didn't guarantee that he would live to an old age, but it did guarantee him a fighting chance, and that's all I wanted for both of them. I wanted them to be happy. I wanted her to be happy. And from what I had witnessed today, they were. I'd come because I needed to know that I'd made the right choice in selling the coins for Tim's treatment, that I'd done the right thing in never contacting her again, and from where I sat, I knew that I had.
I sold the collection because I finally understood what true love really meant. Tim had told me--and shown me--that love meant that you care for another person's happiness more than your own, no matter how painful the choices you face might be. I'd left Tim's hospital room knowing that he'd been right. But doing the right thing wasn't easy. These days, I lead my life feeling that something is missing that I somehow need to make my life complete. I know that my feeling about Savannah will never change, and I know I will always wonder about the choice I made.
And sometimes, despite myself, I wonder if Savannah feels the same way. Which of course explains the other reason I came to Lenoir.
I stare at the ranch as evening settles in. It's the first night of the full moon, and for me, the memories will come. They always do. I hold my breath as the moon begins its slow rise over the mountain, its milky glow edging just over the horizon. The trees turn liquid silver, and though I want to return to those bittersweet memories, I turn away and look at the ranch again.
For a long time, I wait in vain. The moon continues its slow arc across the sky, and one by one, the lights in the house wink out. I find myself focusing anxiously on the front door, hoping for the impossible. I know that she won't appear, but I still can't force myself to leave. I breathe in slowly, as if hoping to draw her out.
And when I see her finally emerge from the house, I feel a strange tingling in my spine, one I've never experienced before. She pauses on the steps, and I watch as she turns and seems to stare in my direction. I freeze for no reason--I know she can't possibly see me. From my perch, I watch as Savannah closes the door quietly behind her. She slowly descends the steps and wanders to the center of the yard.
She pauses then and cross
es her arms, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one has followed her. Finally, she seems to relax. And then I feel as if I'm witnessing a miracle, as ever so slowly she raises her face toward the moon. I watch her drink in the sight, sensing the flood of memories she's unleashed and wanting nothing more than to let her know I'm here. But instead I stay where I am and stare up at the moon as well. And for the briefest instant, it almost feels like we're together again.
Nicholas Sparks, Dear John
(Series: # )
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