The Notebook (The Notebook #1)(37)

“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?”

“A lover of words, a shaper of thoughts.”

She does not respond directly. Instead she stares at me for a long while, until our breathing coincides. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Deep breaths. I wonder if she knows I think she’s beautiful.

“Would you stay with me a while?” she finally asks.

I smile and nod. She smiles back. She reaches for my hand, takes it gently, and pulls it to her waist. She stares at the hardened knots that deform my fingers and caresses them gently. Her hands are still those of an angel.

“Come,” I say as I stand with great effort, “let’s go for a walk. The air is crisp and the goslings are waiting. It’s beautiful today.” I am staring at her as I say these last few words.

She blushes. It makes me feel young again.

She was famous, of course. One of the best southern painters of the twentieth century, some said, and I was, and am, proud of her. Unlike me, who struggled to write even the simplest of verses, my wife could create beauty as easily as the Lord created the earth. Her paintings are in museums around the world, but I have kept only two for myself. The first one she ever gave me and the last one. They hang in my room, and late at night I sit and stare and sometimes cry when I look at them. I don’t know why.

And so the years passed. We led our lives, working, painting, raising children, loving each other. I see photos of Christmases, family trips, of graduations and of weddings. I see grandchildren and happy faces. I see photos of us, our hair growing whiter, the lines in our faces deeper. A lifetime that seems so typical, yet uncommon.

We could not foresee the future, but then who can? I do not live now as I expected to. And what did I expect? Retirement. Visits with the grandchildren, perhaps more travel. She always loved to travel. I thought that perhaps I would start a hobby, what I did not know, but possibly shipbuilding. In bottles. Small, detailed, impossible to consider now with my hands. But I am not bitter.

Our lives can’t be measured by our final years, of this I am sure, and I guess I should have known what lay ahead in our lives. Looking back, I suppose it seems obvious, but at first I thought her confusion understandable and not unique. She would forget where she placed her keys, but who has not done that? She would forget a neighbor’s name, but not someone we knew well or with whom we socialized. Sometimes she would write the wrong year when she made out her checks, but again I dismissed it as simple mistakes that one makes when thinking of other things.

It was not until the more obvious events occurred that I began to suspect the worst. An iron in the freezer, clothes in the dishwasher, books in the oven. Other things, too. But the day I found her in the car three blocks away, crying over the steering wheel because she couldn’t find her way home was the first day I was really frightened. And she was frightened, too, for when I tapped on her window, she turned to me and said, “Oh God, what’s happening to me? Please help me.” A knot twisted in my stomach, but I dared not think the worst.

Six days later the doctor met with her and began a series of tests. I did not understand them then and I do not understand them now, but I suppose it is because I am afraid to know. She spent almost an hour with Dr. Barnwell, and she went back the next day. That day was the longest day I ever spent. I looked through magazines I could not read and played games I did not think about. Finally he called us both into his office and sat us down. She held my arm confidently, but I remember clearly that my own hands were shaking.