Николас Спаркс - The Longest Ride

“I’m Dr. Dillon,” he said. “I was told that you’ve been waiting for a chance to visit Mr. Levinson?”

“Do you mean Ira?” Sophia asked.

“You’re the ones who found him, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask what your interest is?”

Sophia almost told the doctor about the letter then but didn’t. Luke sensed her confusion and cleared his throat. “I guess we just want to know that he’s going to be okay.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t discuss his condition since you’re not family,” he said.

“But he’s going to be okay, right?”

The doctor looked from one to the other. “By all rights, you shouldn’t even be here. You did the right thing by calling the ambulance. And I’m glad you found him when you did, but you don’t have any further responsibility. You’re strangers.”

Sophia looked at the doctor, sensing he had more to say, watching as he finally sighed.

“I don’t really know what’s going on here,” Dr. Dillon said, “but for whatever reason, when Mr. Levinson heard you were here, he asked to see you. I can’t tell you anything about his condition, but I must ask that you keep the visit as short as possible.”

Ira appeared even smaller than he had in the car, as though he’d shrunk in the last few hours. He lay in the partially reclined hospital bed, his mouth agape, his cheeks hollow, IV lines snaking out of his arm. A machine next to his bed was beeping in rhythm to his heart.

“Not too long,” the doctor warned, and Luke nodded before the two of them entered the room. Hesitating, Sophia moved to the side of the bed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Luke pull a chair away from the wall and slide it toward her before stepping back again. Sophia took a seat by the bed and leaned into his field of vision.

“We’re here, Ira,” she said, holding the letter in front of him. “I have your letter for you.”

Ira inhaled with some effort, slowly rolling his head. His eyes went first to the letter and then to her. “Ruth…”

“Yes,” she said. “Your letter to Ruth. I’m going to put it right here beside you, okay?”

At her comment, he stared without focus, uncomprehending. Then his face softened, becoming almost sad. He moved his hand slightly, trying to reach hers, and on instinct, she reached over and took it.

“Ruth,” he said, tears beginning to form. “My sweet Ruth.”

“I’m sorry… I’m not Ruth,” she said softly. “My name is Sophia. We’re the ones who found you today.”

He blinked, then blinked again, his confusion evident.

“Ruth?”

The plea in his tone made her throat tighten.

“No,” she said quietly, watching as he moved his hand and inched it toward the letter. She understood what he was doing and slid the letter toward him. He took it, lifting it as though it were an enormous weight, pushing it toward her hand. Only then did she notice Ira’s tears. When he spoke, his voice sounded stronger, the words clear for the first time. “Can you be?”

She fingered the letter. “You want me to read this? The letter you wrote to your wife?”

His gaze met her eyes, a tear spilling down his shrunken cheek. “Please, Ruth. I want you to read it.”

He exhaled a long breath, as if the effort of speaking had worn him out. Sophia turned toward Luke, wondering what she should do. Luke pointed toward the letter.

“I think you should read it, Ruth,” he said to her. “It’s what he wants you to do. Read it aloud, so he can hear you.” Sophia stared at the letter in her hands. It felt wrong. Ira was confused. It was a personal letter. Ruth was supposed to read this, not her…

“Please,” she heard Ira say, as if reading her mind, his voice weakening again.

With trembling hands, Sophia studied the envelope before lifting the seal. The letter was a single page long, written in the same shaky scrawl she’d noticed on the envelope. Though still uncertain, she found herself moving the letter into better light. And with that, she slowly began to read:

My darling Ruth,

It is early, too early, but as always it seems I’m unable to go back to sleep. Outside, the day is breaking in all its newfound glory and yet, all I can think about is the past. In this silent hour, I dream of you and the years we spent together. An anniversary is approaching, dear Ruth, but it is not the one we usually celebrate. It is, however, the one that set in motion my life with you, and I turn to your seat, wanting to remind you of this, even though I understand that you will not be there. God, with a wisdom I can’t claim to understand, called you home a long time ago, and the tears I shed that night have never seemed to dry.

Sophia stopped to look at Ira, noting the way his lips had come together, tears still leaking into the crevices and valleys of his face. Though she tried to remain poised, her voice began to crack as she went on.

I miss you this morning, just as I have missed you every day for the last nine years. I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of living without the sound of your laughter, and I despair at the thought that I can never hold you again. And yet it would please you to know that when these dark thoughts threaten to overtake me, I can hear your voice chiding me: “Do not be so gloomy, Ira. I did not marry a gloomy man.”

When I think back, there is so much to remember. We had adventures, yes? These are your words, not mine, for this is how you always described our lives together. You said this to me while lying beside me in bed, you said this to me on Rosh Hashanah, every single year. I always detected a satisfied gleam in your eye whenever you said this, and in those moments, it was your expression, more than your words, that always filled my heart with joy. With you, my life felt indeed like a fantastic adventure – despite our ordinary circumstances, your love imbued everything we did with secret riches. How I was lucky enough to share a life with you, I still cannot understand.

I love you now, just as I have always loved you, and I’m sorry that I’m not able to tell you. And though I write this letter in the hope that you’ll somehow be able to read it, I also know that the end of an era approaches. This, my darling, is the last letter I will write you. You know what the doctors have told me, you know that I’m dying, and that I will not visit Black Mountain in August. And yet, I want you to know that I’m not afraid. My time on earth is ending and I’m at peace with whatever comes. I’m not saddened by this. If anything, it fills me with peace, and I count the days with a sense of relief and gratitude. For every day that passes is one day closer to the moment I will see you again.

You are my wife, but more than that, you have always been my one true love. For nearly three-quarters of a century, you have given my existence meaning. It is time now to say good-bye, and on the cusp of this transition I think I understand why you were taken away. It was to show me how special you were and through this long process of grieving, to teach me again the meaning of love. Our separation, I now understand, has only been temporary. When I gaze into the depths of the universe, I know the time is coming when I will hold you in my arms once more. After all, if there is a heaven, we will find each other again, for there is no heaven without you.

I love you,

Ira

Through a blur of tears, Sophia watched Ira’s face assume an expression of indescribable peace. Carefully, she reinserted the letter into the envelope. She slid it into his hand and felt him take it back. By then, the doctor was standing at the door and Sophia knew it was time to go. She rose from the chair and Luke returned it to its place against the wall, then slipped his hand into hers. As he turned his head on the pillow, Ira’s mouth fell open, and his breathing became labored. Sophia turned to the doctor, who was already on his way to Ira’s side. With one last glance back at Ira’s frail figure, Sophia and Luke started down the corridor, on their way home at last.