Николас Спаркс - The Longest Ride

Later, I came across a letter I’d written in the midst of the dark years, after we’d learned that Daniel had moved away.

I witness your grief and I don’t know what to do, other than wish that I could somehow wash away the traces of your loss. I want more than anything to make things better, but in this I am helpless and have failed you. I’m sorry for this. As your husband, I can listen and hold you; and kiss your tears away, if given the chance.

It went on, this lifetime in a box, one letter after another. Outside the window, the moon ascended and drifted and eventually climbed out of sight as I continued to read. Each letter echoed and reaffirmed my love for Ruth, burnished by our long years together. And Ruth, I learned, had loved me, too, for she left me a gift at the bottom of the stack.

I will admit: I didn’t expect this. That Ruth could still surprise me, even from beyond, caught me off guard. I stared at the letter lying at the bottom of the box, trying to imagine when she’d written it and why she’d never told me.

I have read this letter often in the years since I first found it, so many times that I can recite it from memory. I know now that she’d kept it secret in the certainty that I would find it in the hour of my greatest need. She knew I would eventually read my letters to her; she predicted that a time would come when I could no longer resist the pull. And in the end, it worked out just as she’d planned.

On that night, however, I did not think of this. I simply reached for the letter with trembling hands and slowly began to read.

My Dearest Ira,

I write this letter as you are sleeping in the bedroom, uncertain where I should begin. We both know why you’re reading this letter and what it means. And I am sorry for what you must be enduring.

Unlike you, I am not good at writing letters and there is so much I want to say. Perhaps if I wrote in German it might flow more easily, but then you could not read it, so what would be the point? I want to write you the kind of letter you always wrote to me. Sadly, unlike you I have never been good with words. But I want to try. You deserve it, not just because you’re my husband, but because of the man you are.

I tell myself that I should begin with something romantic, a memory or gesture that captures the kind of husband you have been to me: the long weekend at the beach when we first made love, for example, or our honeymoon, when you presented me with six paintings. Or perhaps I should speak of the letters you wrote, or the feel of your gaze on me as I considered a particular piece of art. And yet, in truth it is in the quiet details of our life together where I have found the most meaning. Your smile at breakfast always made my heart leap, and the moment in which you reached for my hand never failed to reassure me of the rightness of the world. So you see, choosing a handful of singular events feels wrong to me – instead, I prefer to recall you in a hundred different galleries and hotel rooms; to relive a thousand small kisses and nights spent in the familiar comfort of each other’s arms. Each of those memories deserves its own letter, for the way you made me feel in each and every instance. For this, I have loved you in return, more than you will ever know.

I know you are struggling, and I am so sorry that I am not able to comfort you. It feels inconceivable that I will never be able to do so again. My plea to you is this: despite your sadness, do not forget how happy you have made me; do not forget that I loved a man who loved me in return, and this was the greatest gift I could ever have hoped to receive.

I am smiling as I write this, and I hope you can find it in yourself to smile as you read this. Do not drown yourself in grief. Instead, remember me with joy, for this is how I always thought of you. That is what I want, more than anything. I want you to smile when you think of me. And in your smile, I will live forever.

I know you miss me terribly. I miss you, too. But we still have each other, for I am – and always have been – part of you. You carry me in your heart, just as I carried you in mine, and nothing can ever change that. I love you, my darling, and you love me. Hold on to that feeling. Hold on to us. And little by little, you will find a way to heal.

Ruth

“You are thinking about the letter I wrote to you,” Ruth says to me. My eyes flutter open, and I squint with weary effort, determined to bring her into focus.

She is in her sixties, wisdom now deepening her beauty. There are small diamond studs in her ears, a gift I’d bought her when she retired. I try and fail to wet my lips. “How do you know?” I rasp.

“It is not so difficult.” She shrugs. “Your expression gives you away. You have always been easy to read. It is a good thing you never played poker.”

“I played poker in the war.”

“Perhaps,” she says. “But I do not think you won much money.”

I acknowledge the truth of this with a weak grin. “Thank you for the letter,” I croak. “I don’t know that I would have survived without it.”

“You would have starved,” she agrees. “You have always been a stubborn man.”

A wave of dizziness washes over me, causing her image to flicker. It’s getting harder to hold on to her. “I had a piece of toast that night.”

“Yes, I know. You and your toast. Breakfast for dinner. This I never understood. And toast was not enough.”

“But it was something. And by then, it was closer to breakfast anyway.”

“You should have had pancakes. And eggs. That way, you would have had the strength to walk the house again. You could have looked at the paintings and remembered, just like you used to.”

“I wasn’t ready for that yet. It would have hurt too much. Besides, one of them was missing.”

“It was not missing,” she says. She turns toward the window, her face in profile. “It had not arrived yet. It would not come for another week.” For a moment, she is silent, and I know she isn’t thinking about the letter. Nor is she thinking of me. Instead, she is thinking about the knock at the door. The knock came a little more than a week later, revealing a stranger on the doorstep. Ruth’s shoulders sag, and her voice is laced with regret. “I wish I could have been there,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I would have loved to talk to her. I have so many questions.”

These final words are drawn from a deep, hidden well of sadness, and despite my plight, I feel an unexpected ache.

The visitor was tall and attractive, the creases around her eyes suggesting too many hours spent in the sun. Her blond hair was tucked into a messy ponytail, and she was dressed in faded jeans and a simple short-sleeved blouse. But the ring on her finger and the BMW parked at the curb spoke of a well-heeled existence far different from mine. Under her arm she carried a package wrapped in simple brown paper, of a familiar size and shape.

“Mr. Levinson?” she asked. When I nodded, she smiled. “My name is Andrea Lockerby. You don’t know me, but your wife, Ruth, was once my husband’s teacher. It was a long time ago and you probably don’t remember, but his name was Daniel McCallum. I was wondering if you have a few minutes.”

For a moment, I was too surprised to speak, the name repeating in an endless loop. Only half-aware of what I was doing, I dumbly stepped aside to allow her to enter and guided her to the living room. When I sat in the easy chair, she took a seat on the couch kitty-corner to me.

Even then, I could think of nothing to say. Hearing Daniel’s name after almost forty years, in the aftermath of Ruth’s passing, still remains the greatest shock of my life.

She cleared her throat. “I wanted to come by to express my condolences. I know that your wife recently passed away and I’m sorry for your loss.”