The Notebook

  She reached for her pocketbook, opened it, and once again looked at the article that had brought her here. So much had happened since then; it was hard to believe it had been only three weeks. 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. The sun was still shaded, but she knew it would only be a matter of time. 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 packet 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. After all, he probably expected an answer from her. Instead she reached for the last letter he'd written, the one on the bottom of the stack. The good-bye letter. This one interested her far more than the others. 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. First, 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 pry it open.

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

  She imagined him sitting at an old desk, crafting the letter, somehow knowing this was the end, and she saw what she thought were tearstains on the paper. Probably just her imagination.

  She straightened the page and began to read in the soft white sunlight that shone through the window.

  My dearest Allie,

  I don't know what to say anymore 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, but 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 to ever 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 period of 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 beneath the trees, 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 savor the memories we will always share together.

  I love you, Allie.

  Noah

  She read the letter again, more slowly this time, then read it a third time before she put it back into the envelope. Once more, she imagined him writing it, and for a moment she debated reading another, but 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 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.

  Winter for Two

  The story ends there, so I close the notebook, remove my glasses, and wipe my eyes. They are tired and bloodshot, but they have not failed me so far. They will soon, I am sure. Neither they nor I can go on forever. I look to her now that I have finished, but she does not look back. Instead she is staring out the window at the courtyard, where friends and family meet.

  My eyes follow hers, and we watch it together. In all these years the daily pattern has not changed. Every morning, an hour after breakfast, they begin to arrive. Young adults, alone or with family, come to visit those who live here. They bring photographs and gifts and either sit on the benches or stroll along the tree-lined paths designed to give a sense of nature. Some will stay for the day, but most leave after a few hours, and when they do, I always feel sadness for those they've left behind. I wonder sometimes what my friends think as they see their loved ones driving off, but I know it's not my business. And I do not ever ask them because I've learned that we're all entitled to have our secrets.

  But soon, I will tell you some of mine.

  I place the notebook and magnifier on the table beside me, feeling the ache in my bones as I do so, and I realize once again how cold my body is. Even reading in the morning sun does nothing to help it. This does not surprise me anymore, though, for my body makes its own rules these days.

  I'm not completely unfortunate, however. The people who work here know me and my faults and do their best to make me more comfortable. They have left me hot tea on the end table, and I reach for it with both hands. It is an effort to pour a cup, but I do so because the tea is needed to warm me and I think the exertion will keep me from completely rusting away. But I am rusted now, no doubt about it. Rusted as a junked car twenty years in the Everglades.

  I have 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 anymore, 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 each and 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 completely, and though I agree with them, 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 or more 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. This makes no sense to me.

  Soon, this will all be over. I know this. She does not. The entries in my diary have become shorter and take little time to write. I keep them simple now, since most of my days are the same. But tonight I think I will copy a poem that one of the nurses found for me and thought I would enjoy. It goes like this:

  I ne'er was struck before that hour

  With love so sudden and so sweet, Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower

  And stole my heart away complete.

  Because our evenings are our own, I have been asked to visit the others. Usually I do, for I am the reader and I am needed, or so I am told. I walk the halls and choose where to go because I am too old to devote myself to a schedule, but deep down I always know who needs me. They are my friends, and when I push open their doors, I see rooms that look like mine, always semidarkened, illuminated only by the lights of Wheel of Fortune and Vanna's teeth. The furniture is the same for everyone, and the TVs blare because no one can hear well anymore.

  Men or women, they smile at me when I enter and speak in whispers as they turn off their sets. "I'm so glad you've come," they say, and then they ask about my wife. Sometimes I tell them. I might tell them of her sweetness and her charm and describe how she taught me to see the world for the beautiful place it is. Or I tell the
m of our early years together and explain how we had all we needed when we held each other under starry southern skies. On special occasions I whisper of our adventures together, of art shows in New York and Paris or the rave reviews from critics writing in languages I do not understand. Mostly, though, I smile and I tell them that she is the same, and they turn from me, for I know they do not want me to see their faces. It reminds them of their own mortality. So I sit with them and read to lessen their fears.

  Be composed--be at ease with me . . .

  Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you, Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you, do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you.

  And I read, to let them know who I am.

  I wander all night in my vision, . . .

  Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers,

  Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill-assorted, contradictory,

  Pausing, gazing, bending, and stopping.

  If she could, my wife would accompany me on my evening excursions, for one of her many loves was poetry. Thomas, Whitman, Eliot, Shakespeare, and King David of the Psalms. Lovers of words, makers of language. Looking back, I am surprised by my passion for it, and sometimes I even regret it now. Poetry brings great beauty to life, but also great sadness, and I'm not sure it's a fair exchange for someone my age. A man should enjoy other things if he can; he should spend his final days in the sun. Mine will be spent by a reading lamp.

  I shuffle toward 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 softly rub my finger. I do not speak until she does; this I have learned. Most days I sit in silence until the sun goes down, and on days like those I know nothing about her.

  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 is like a whisper, a light wind flowing through the leaves.

  "Yes," I answer.

  She turns toward the nightstand. Her medicine is in a little cup. Mine too. Little pills, colors like a rainbow so we won't forget to take them. They bring mine here now, to her room, 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 on days like these. 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. It is on her nightstand, next to the medicine. 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 know what to think about this but 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. Instead she chooses to put it off for a moment and reaches for one of the little paper cups.

  "Is this mine?"

  "No, this one is," and I reach over and push her medicine toward her. I cannot grab it with my fingers. She takes it and looks at the pills. I can tell by the way she is looking at them that she has no idea what they are for. I use both hands to pick up my cup and dump the pills into my mouth. She does the same. There is no fight today. That makes it easy. I raise my cup in a mock toast and wash the gritty flavor from my mouth with my tea. It is getting colder. She swallows on faith and washes them down with more water.

  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 just like that we 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 during most of my waking hours. I look at them and want them gone, amputated, but then I would not be able to do the little things I must do. So I use my claws, as I call them sometimes, and 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 120, I don't want to, and I don't think my body would make it even if I did. It is falling apart, dying one piece at a time, steady erosion on the inside and at the joints. My hands are useless, 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 anymore.

  I wonder what my daddy would think of my life and what he would do if he were me. I have not seen him for fifty years and he is now but a shadow in my thoughts. I cannot picture him clearly anymore; his face is darkened as if a light shines from behind him. I am not sure if this is due to a failing memory or simply the passage of time. I have only one picture of him, and this too has faded. In another ten years it will be gone and so will I, and his memory will be erased like a message in the sand. If
not for my diaries, I would swear I had lived only half as long as I have. Long periods of my life seem to have vanished. And even now I read the passages and wonder who I was when I wrote them, for I cannot remember the events of my life. There are times I sit and wonder where it all has gone.

  "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."

  I stop for a moment and catch my breath. Then, "Hannah, there is no reason to feel lost, for:

  Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost,

  No birth, identity, form--no object of the world,

  Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing; . . . The body, sluggish, aged, cold--the embers left from earlier fires,

  . . . shall duly flame again;"

  She thinks about what I have said for a moment. In the silence, I look toward the window and notice that the rain has stopped now. Sunlight is beginning to filter into her room. She asks:

  "Did you write that?"

  "No, that was Walt Whitman." "Who?"