第 13 页

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.

She says nothing else right away, she doesn't have to, and she gives me a look from another lifetime that makes me whole again. I smile back, with as much passion as I can muster, and we stare at each other with the feelings inside us rolling like ocean waves. I look about the room, then back at Allie, and the way she's looking at me makes me warm. And suddenly I feel young again. I'm no longer cold or aching, or hunched over or almost blind with cataracts. I'm strong and proud and the luckiest man alive, and I keep on feeling that way for a long time.

By the time the candles have burned down a third, I am ready to break the silence. I say, "I love you deeply and I hope you know that."

"Of course I do," she says. "I've always loved you, Noah."

Noah, I hear again. The word echoes in my head. Noah . . . Noah. She knows, I think to myself, she knows who I am . . .

She knows. . . . Such a tiny thing, this knowledge, but for me it is a gift from God, and I feel our lifetime together, holding her, loving her, and being with her through the best years of my life.

She murmurs, "Noah . . . my sweet Noah ...”

And I, who could not accept the doctors' words, have triumphed again, at least for a moment. I give up the pretence of mystery, and I kiss her hand and bring it to my cheek and whisper in her ear: "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 for ever."

She knows this is all I can do, for neither of us wants empty promises.

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 for 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.

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 towards 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! 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 mouth goes dry and I feel my heart pounding. It is over, I know. This, the evening confusion 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. You can't see them?"

"No," I say, and she thinks for a moment.

"Well, they're right there," she says, "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 in panic, her face becoming whiter. "What are you doing here?" She backs away from me, her hands in a defensive position, and then she says the most heartbreaking words of all. "Go away! Stay away from me!" She is pushing the gnomes away from her, terrified, 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. 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.

I sit by the bed with an aching back and start to cry as I pick up the notebook. 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 and the old man who loves her more deeply than life itself crying softly in the corner, his face in his hands.

BY THE following week, my life had pretty much returned to normal. Or at least as normal as my life could be. Reading to Allie, who was unable to recognize me at any time, reading to others, wandering the halls. Lying awake at night and sitting by my heater in the morning. I found a strange comfort in the predictability of my life.

On a cool, foggy morning eight days after she and I had spent our day together, I woke early, as is my custom, and pottered around my desk, alternately looking at photographs and reading letters written many years before. At least I tried to. I couldn't concentrate too well because I had a headache, so I put them aside and went to sit in my chair by the window to watch the sun come up. Allie would be awake in a couple of hours, I knew, and I wanted to be refreshed, for reading all day would only make my head hurt more.

I closed my eyes for a few minutes then, opening them, I watched my old friend, the creek, roll by my window. Unlike Allie I had been given a room where I could see it, and it has never failed to inspire me. It is a contradiction this creek—a hundred thousand years old but renewed with each rainfall. It is life, I think, to watch the water. A man can learn so many things.

It happened as I sat in the chair, just as the sun peeped over the horizon. My hand, I noticed, started to tingle, something it had never done before. I started to lift it, but I was forced to stop when my head pounded again, this time hard, almost as if I had been hit in the head with a hammer. I closed my eyes tightly. My hand stopped tingling and began to go numb, as if my nerves had been severed somewhere on my lower arm. A shooting pain rocked my head and seemed to flow down my neck and into every cell of my body, like a tidal wave, crushing and wasting everything in its path.

I lost my sight and I heard what sounded like a train roaring inches from my head, and I knew that I was having a stroke. The pain coursed through my body like a lightning bolt, and in my last remaining moments of consciousness I pictured Allie, lying in her bed, waiting for the story I would never read, lost and confused, completely and totally unable to help herself.

I WAS UNCONSCIOUS on and off for days, and in those moments when I was awake I found myself hooked to machines, two bags of fluid hanging near the bed. I could hear the faint hum of machines, sometimes making sounds I could not recognize, and found myself lulled to never-never land time and time again.

I could see the concern in the doctors' faces as they scanned the charts and adjusted the machines. Grim faces would prelude their predictions—"loss of speech, loss of movement, paralysis." Another chart notation, another beep of a strange machine, and they'd leave, never knowing I heard every word. I tried not to think of these things afterwards, but instead concentrated on Allie, bringing a picture of her to my mind whenever I could. I tried to feel her touch, hear her voice, and when I did tears would fill my eyes because I didn't know if I would be able to hold her again. This was not how I'd imagined it would end. I'd always assumed I would go last.

I drifted in and out of consciousness for days until another foggy morning when my promise to Allie spurred my body once again. I opened my eyes and saw a room full of flowers, and their scent motivated me further. I looked for the buzzer, struggled to press it, and a nurse arrived thirty seconds later, followed closely by Dr. Barnwell.

"I'm thirsty," I said with a raspy voice, and Dr. Barnwell smiled broadly.

"Welcome back," he said, "I knew you'd make it."

TWO WEEKS LATER I am able to leave the hospital, though I am only half a man now. The right side of my body is weaker than the left. This, they tell me, is good news, for the paralysis could have been total. Sometimes, it seems, I am surrounded by optimists.

The bad news is that my hands prevent me from using either my cane or wheelchair, so I must march now to my own unique cadence to keep upright. Not left-right-left as in my youth, or even the shuffle-shuffle of late, but rather slow-shuffle, slide-the-right, slow-shuffle. I am on an epic adventure now when I travel the halls.

When I return to my room, I know I will not sleep. I breathe deeply and smell the springtime fragrances that filter through the open window. There is a slight chill in the air and I find that I am invigorated by the change in temperature. Evelyn, one of the many nurses here, helps me to the chair by the window. She puts her hand on my shoulder and pats it gently. She says nothing, and by her silence I know that she is staring out of the window. Then she leans forward and tenderly kisses me on the cheek.

"It's good to have you back. Allie's missed you and so have the rest of us. We were all praying for you because it's just not the same around here when you're gone." She smiles at me and touches my face before she leaves. I say nothing.

The stars are out tonight and the crickets are singing. As I sit, I wonder if anyone outside can see me, this prisoner of flesh. I search the courtyard, looking for signs of life, but there is nothing. Even the creek is still. In the darkness it looks like empty space and I find that I'm drawn to its mystery. I watch for hours, and as I do I see the reflection of clouds on the water. A storm is coming and in time the sky will turn silver, like dusk again.

Lightning cuts the wild sky and I feel my mind drift back. Who are we, Allie and I? Are we ancient ivy on a cypress tree, tendrils and branches intertwined so closely that we would both die if we were forced apart? Another bolt and the table beside me is lit enough to enable me to see a picture of Allie, the best one I have. I had it framed years ago in the hope that the glass would make it last for ever. I reach for it and hold it inches from my face. She was forty-one when it was taken, and she had never been more beautiful. There are so many things I want to ask her, but I know the picture won't answer, so I put it aside.