The Notebook (The Notebook #1)(43)

“You are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.”

“Oh . . . Noah,” she says with tears in her eyes, “I love you, too.”

If only it would end like this, I would be a happy man.

But it won’t. Of this I’m sure, for as time slips by, I begin to see the signs of concern in her face.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, and her answer comes softly.

“I’m so afraid. I’m afraid of forgetting you again. It isn’t fair ...I just can’t bear to give this up.”

Her voice breaks as she finishes, but I don’t know what to say. I know the evening is coming to an end, and there is nothing I can do to stop the inevitable. In this I am a failure. I finally tell her:

“I’ll never leave you. What we have is forever.” She knows this is all I can do, for neither of us wants empty promises. But I can tell by the way she is looking at me that once again she wishes there were more.

The crickets serenade us, and we begin to pick at our dinner. Neither one of us is hungry, but I lead by example and she follows me. She takes small bites and chews a long time, but I am glad to see her eat. She has lost too much weight in the past three months.

After dinner, I become afraid despite myself. I know I should be joyous, for this reunion is the proof that love can still be ours, but I know the bell has tolled this evening. The sun has long since set and the thief is about to come, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. So I stare at her and wait and live a lifetime in these last remaining moments.

Nothing.

The clock ticks.

Nothing.

I take her in my arms and we hold each other. Nothing.

I feel her tremble and I whisper in her ear. Nothing.

I tell her for the last time this evening that I love her.

And the thief comes.

It always amazes me how quickly it happens. Even now, after all this time. For as she holds me, she begins to blink rapidly and shake her head. Then, turning toward the corner of the room, she stares for a long time, concern etched on her face.

No! my mind screams. Not yet! Not now ...not when we’re so close! Not tonight! Any night but tonight. . . . Please! The words are inside me. I can’t take it again! It isn’t fair . . . it isn’t fair....

But once again, it is to no avail.

“Those people,” she finally says, pointing, “are staring at me. Please make them stop.”

The gnomes.

A pit rises in my stomach, hard and full. My breathing stops for a moment, then starts again, this time shallower. My mouth goes dry, and I feel my heart pounding. It is over, I know, and I am right. The sundowning has come. This, the evening confusion associated with Alzheimer’s disease that affects my wife, is the hardest part of all. For when it comes, she is gone, and sometimes I wonder whether she and I will ever love again.

“There’s no one there, Allie,” I say, trying to fend off the inevitable. She doesn’t believe me.

“They’re staring at me.”

“No,” I whisper while shaking my head.

“You can’t see them?”

“No,” I say, and she thinks for a moment.

“Well, they’re right there,” she says, pushing me away, “and they’re staring at me.”

With that, she begins to talk to herself, and moments later, when I try to comfort her, she flinches with wide eyes.

“Who are you?” she cries with panic in her voice, her face becoming whiter. “What are you doing here?” There is fear growing inside her, and I hurt, for there is nothing I can do. She moves farther from me, backing away, her hands in a defensive position, and then she says the most heartbreaking words of all.

“Go away! Stay away from me!” she screams. She is pushing the gnomes away from her, terrified, now oblivious of my presence.

I stand and cross the room to her bed. I am weak now, my legs ache, and there is a strange pain in my side. I don’t know where it comes from. It is a struggle to press the button to call the nurses, for my fingers are throbbing and seem frozen together, but I finally succeed. They will be here soon now, I know, and I wait for them. While I wait, I stare at my wife.

Ten...

Twenty . . .

Thirty seconds pass, and I continue to stare, my eyes missing nothing, remembering the moments we just shared together. But in all that time she does not look back, and I am haunted by the visions of her struggling with unseen enemies.

I sit by the bedside with an aching back and start to cry as I pick up the notebook. Allie does not notice. I understand, for her mind is gone.

A couple of pages fall to the floor, and I bend over to pick them up. I am tired now, so I sit, alone and apart from my wife. And when the nurses come in they see two people they must comfort. A woman shaking in fear from demons in her mind, and the old man who loves her more deeply than life itself, crying softly in the corner, his face in his hands.

I spend the rest of the evening alone in my room. My door is partially open and I see people walk by, some strangers, some friends, and if I concentrate, I can hear them talking about families, jobs, and visits to parks. Ordinary conversations, nothing more, but I find that I envy them and the ease of their communication. Another deadly sin, I know, but sometimes I can’t help it.

Dr. Barnwell is here, too, speaking with one of the nurses, and I wonder who is ill enough to warrant such a visit at this hour. He works too much, I tell him. Spend the time with your family, I say, they won’t be around forever. But he doesn’t listen to me. He cares for his patients, he says, and must come here when called. He says he has no choice, but this makes him a man torn by contradiction. He wants to be a doctor completely devoted to his patients and a man completely devoted to his family. He cannot be both, for there aren’t enough hours, but he has yet to learn this. I wonder, as his voice fades into the background, which he will choose or whether, sadly, the choice will be made for him.