The Notebook (The Notebook #1)(35)

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.