Your Perfect Year(63)

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Simon asked as soon as they settled on the blanket he’d spread on the floor in front of the sofa. Hannah had asked him if they could celebrate this New Year’s Eve like their very first evening together on the banks of the Elbe, with a picnic on the ground, in the hope of creating an atmosphere that would support the success of her impending mission. He had agreed to her request with amusement, calling her “my little romantic,” and then begun to move the food he’d prepared earlier from the table to the blanket. “Is something wrong?”

Hannah swallowed hard, trying not to break out in hysterical laughter. He was seriously asking her if something was wrong? But instead of yelling at him that nothing was right—nothing at all—since he’d told her he was expecting to pass away soon, she picked up her large shoulder bag and took out the lovingly gift-wrapped parcel.

“Here, this is for you.”

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

“Since when have you given presents on New Year’s?”

“Since today.”

“I can’t wait.” With excruciating slowness, he carefully peeled off every strip of tape—Simon always unwrapped packages that way, a trait that drove Hannah crazy.

Once again she had to control herself, this time to keep from grabbing the parcel from his hands and ripping the paper off herself. Her patience was seriously put to the test—no amount of chanting om would have been enough to soothe her frazzled nerves. And then, finally, at last, on what felt like the following New Year’s Eve, the Filofax was in his hand.

“A diary?” He looked at her in amazement.

“Yes.” She nodded. “For the coming year.”

“But . . .” He said no more. Simply “But.” The single word held a hundred thousand phrases, Simon’s expression more than a million objections. Everything Hannah had feared resonated in that “But.” But I don’t have another year left. But I’m going to die soon. But I don’t believe I’ll be able to use your gift. But I know there’s no hope left for me. But I . . .

“I’ve filled it out,” Hannah said to shut off the silent drone of Simon’s words in her head. “I thought of something for every day. All I want is that you accept my gift and at least try it. Please! For me. For us.”

Instead of replying, Simon undid the snap and opened the diary. He began to leaf through the pages, silently reading entry after entry, frowning occasionally. He read and read and read without saying a word.

Then, after reaching the last page, he looked up.

He was totally pale.

“I . . .” Hannah began, but fell silent as Simon set the diary aside, took her hands, and drew her to him. He held her as tightly as he had that evening at Da Riccardo; she could feel his heartbeat and how hard he was trembling.

“Thank you,” he whispered in her ear. “No one’s ever given me such a wonderful present. Thank you.”

“So you accept it?” She moved back so she could see his face.

Simon smiled. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Laughing with relief, Hannah fell on his neck. “It’ll all be okay, my love!” she said. “You’ll see. We can do it! Cancer won’t bring us to our knees. You’ll be well again, I just know it!”

“Yes,” he replied slowly, “I believe so too.”

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear you say that! As soon as the holidays are over, we’ll look for a good oncologist. Oh, what am I saying, ‘good’? The best! Even if we have to go to the ends of the earth! If necessary, we’ll hitchhike. We’ll walk! We’ll find a specialist, the top in his field! He’ll take care of your body, and the diary will nourish your soul.”

“It sounds great. We’ll do it.”

Hannah giggled; she couldn’t help it.

“What’s so funny?” He studied her.

“Nothing at all. I just love you crazily, madly, that’s all.”

“I love you too. Crazily, madly.”

It was still dark when Hannah woke in Simon’s bed.

It was there again! Exactly the same feeling she’d had on the morning they opened Little Rascals—that incredible fluttering of sheer excitement and love. Except that it was now many times stronger than it had been a few weeks ago.

Hannah turned to snuggle up to Simon and wake him gently. She wanted a little more of what they had shared during the night, more of the passion with which they had made love to the point of exhaustion.

He wasn’t there. The bed was empty; Hannah was alone.

The clock on the bedside table showed 7:59. Simon never got up at that time, even when he had been working as a news editor—they had never started work at the paper until ten in the morning, instead working until late into the evening on the next day’s edition.

She sat up and stretched, listening for sounds from the living room, expecting to hear the shower, the gurgling of the coffee machine, or the TV. But it was deadly silent; only some twigs tapped softly against the bedroom window.

“Simon?” she called. “Where are you? Come back to bed!”

No reply.

“Simon?”

Nothing. Hannah wrapped herself in the sheet and scooted down the mattress to the foot of the bed, where she peered out into the darkness of the hallway. “Siiimon!” she called a little louder. “Where are you?”