Nicholas Sparks - The Notebook

The days were hard on both of us. I was an encyclopedia, an object without feeling, of the whos, whats and wheres in her life, when in reality it is the whys, the things I did not know and could not answer, that make it all worth while. She would stare at pictures of forgotten offspring, hold paintbrushes that inspired nothing, and read love letters that brought back no joy. She would weaken over the hours, growing paler, becoming bitter and ending the day worse than when it began. Our days were lost and so was she.

So I changed. I learned what is obvious to a child. That life is simply a collection of little lives, each lived one day at a time. That each day should be spent finding beauty in flowers and poetry and talking to animals. That a day spent with dreaming and sunsets and refreshing breezes cannot be bettered. But most of all, I learned that life is for sitting on benches next to ancient creeks with my hand on her knee and sometimes, on good days, for falling in love.

"WHAT ARE you thinking?" she asks.

It is now dusk. We have left our bench and are shuffling along lighted paths that wind their way around this complex. She is holding my arm and I am her escort. It is her idea to do this. Perhaps she is charmed by me. Perhaps she wants to keep me from falling. Either way, I am smiling to myself.

"I'm thinking about you."

She makes no response to this except to squeeze my arm, and I can tell she likes what I said. Our life together has enabled me to see the clues, even if she does not know them herself. I go on: "I know you can't remember who you are, but I can, and I find that when I look at you it makes me feel good."

She taps my arm and smiles. "You're a kind man with a loving heart. I hope I enjoyed you as much before as I do now."

I think about this as we walk in silence, holding each other, past the rooms, past the courtyard. We come to the garden, mainly wild flowers, and I stop her. I pick a bundle-red, pink, yellow, violet. I give them to her, and she brings them to her nose. She smells them with eyes closed and she whispers, "They're beautiful." We resume our walk, me in one hand, the flowers in another. People watch us, for we are a walking miracle, or so I am told. It is true in a way.

By the time we reach the doorway, I am tired. She knows this, so she stops me with her hand and makes me face her. I do, and I realize how hunched over I have become. She and I are now level. Sometimes I am glad she doesn't know how much I have changed. She turns to me and stares for a long time.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I don't want to forget you or this day, and I'm trying to keep your memory alive."

Will it work this time? I wonder, then know it will not. It can't. I do not tell her my thoughts, though. I smile instead because her words are sweet.

"Thank you," I say.

"I mean it. I don't want to forget you again. You're very special to me. I don't know what I would have done without you today."

My throat closes a little. There is emotion behind her words, the emotions I feel whenever I think of her. I know this is why I live, and I love her dearly at this moment. How I wish I were strong enough to carry her in my arms to paradise.

"Don't try to say anything," she tells me. "Let's just feel the moment."

And I do, and I feel heaven.

HER DISEASE is worse now than it was in the beginning, though Allie is different from most. There are three others with the disease here, and they are the sum of my practical experience of it. They, unlike Allie, are in the most advanced stages of Alzheimer's and are almost completely lost. They wake up hallucinating and confused. They repeat themselves over and over. Seldom do they recognize the people who love them. It is a trying disease, and this is why it is hard for their children and mine to visit.

Allie, of course, has her own problems. She is terribly afraid in the mornings and cries inconsolably. She sees tiny people, like gnomes, I think, watching her, and she screams at them to get away. She bathes willingly but will not eat regularly. She is thin now, much too thin in my opinion, and on good days I do my best to fatten her up.

But this is where the similarity ends. This is why Allie is considered a miracle, because sometimes, just sometimes, after I read to her, her condition isn't so bad. There is no explanation for this. "It's impossible," the doctors say, "she cannot have Alzheimer's." But she does. On most days and every morning there can be no doubt.

But why, then, is her condition different? Why does she sometimes change after I read? I tell the doctors the reason-I know it in my heart, but I am not believed. Four times specialists have travelled from Chapel Hill to find the answer. Four times they have left without understanding. I tell them, "You can't possibly understand it if you use only your science training and your books," but they shake their heads and answer: "Alzheimer's does not work like this. With her condition, it's just not possible to have a conversation or improve as the day goes on. Ever."

But she does. Not every day, not most of the time, and definitely less than she used to. But sometimes. And all that is gone on these days is her memory, as if she has amnesia. Her emotions are normal, her thoughts are normal. And these are the days that I know I am doing right.

DINNER IS WAITING in her room when we return. It has been arranged for us to eat here, as it always is on days like these, and once again I could ask for no more. The people here are good to me and I am thankful.

The lights are dimmed, the room is lit by two candles on the table where we will sit, and music is playing softly in the background. The cups and plates are plastic and the carafe is filled with apple juice, but rules are rules and she doesn't seem to care.

She inhales slightly at the sight. Her eyes are wide. "Did you do this?"

I nod and she walks into the room.

"It looks beautiful."

I offer my arm in escort and lead her to the window. She doesn't release it when we get there. Her touch is nice, and we stand close together on this crystal springtime evening. The window is open slightly and I feel a breeze as it fans my cheek. The moon has risen and we watch for a long time as the evening sky unfolds.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful, I'm sure of it," she says.

"I haven't, either," I say, but I am looking at her. She knows what I mean and I see her smile.

A moment later she whispers: "I think I know who Allie went with at the end of the story."

"Who?"

"She went with Noah."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

I smile and nod. "Yes, she did," I say softly, and she smiles back, her face radiant.

She sits and I sit opposite her. She offers her hand across the table and I take it in mine, and I feel her thumb begin to move as it did so many years ago. I stare at her for a long time, living and reliving the moments of my life, remembering it all and making it real. I feel my throat begin to tighten and once again I realize how much I love her.

My voice is shaky when I finally speak.

"You're so beautiful," I say. I can see in her eyes that she knows how I feel about her and what I really mean by my words.

She does not respond. Instead she lowers her eyes and I wonder what she's thinking. She gives me no clues and I gently squeeze her hand. I wait. I know her heart and I know I'm almost there.

And then a miracle that proves me right. As Glenn Miller plays softly in a candlelit room, I watch as she gradually gives in to the feelings inside her. I see a warm smile begin to form on her lips, the kind that makes it all worth while, and I watch as she raises her hazy eyes to mine. She pulls my hand towards her. "You're wonderful…" she says softly, and at that moment she falls in love with me, too; this I know, for I have seen the signs a thousand times.