Edging forward . . . past him now . . .
She waved one last time without smiling before she began to accelerate, and he waved back weakly. “Don’t go!” he wanted to shout as the car moved farther away. But he didn’t say anything, and a minute later the car was gone and the only remaining signs of her were the tracks that her car had left behind.
He stood there without moving for a long time. As quickly as she had come, she was gone. Forever this time. Forever.
He closed his eyes then and watched her leave once more, her car moving steadily away from him, taking his heart with her.
But, like her mother, he realized sadly, she never looked back.
D
riving with tears in her eyes was difficult, but she went on anyway, hoping that instinct would take her back to the inn. She kept the window rolled down, thinking the fresh air might help clear her mind, but it didn’t seem to help. 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 still had no idea but hoped that something would come to her when the time came.
It would have to.
By the time she reached the drawbridge that led to Front Street, she had herself a little more under control. Not completely, but well enough, she thought, to talk to Lon. At least she hoped so.
Traffic was light, and she had time to watch strangers going about their business as she drove through New Bern. At a gas station, a mechanic was looking under the hood of a new automobile while a man, presumably its owner, stood beside him. Two women were pushing baby carriages just outside Hoffman-Lane, chatting between themselves while they window-shopped. In front of Hearns Jewelers, a well-dressed man walked briskly, carrying a briefcase.
She made another turn and saw a young man unloading groceries from a truck that blocked part of the street. Something about the way he held himself, or the way he moved, reminded her of Noah harvesting crabs at the end of the dock.
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 that the inn shared with a couple of other businesses. 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 farther from the entrance.
She turned the key, and the engine stopped promptly. Next she reached into the glove compartment for a mirror and brush, finding both sitting on top of a map of North Carolina. Looking at herself, she saw her eyes were still red and puffy. Like yesterday after the rain, as she examined her reflection she was sorry she didn’t have any makeup, though she doubted it would help much now. She tried pulling her hair back on one side, tried both sides, then finally gave up.
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.
T
he 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 them 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.