The Notebook - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,54

rooms, past the courtyard. We come to the garden, mainly wildflowers, 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, though most times I do not feel lucky.

“You think it’s me?” I finally ask.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I have found what you have hidden.” “What?”

“This,” she says, handing a small slip of paper to me. “I found it under my pillow.”

I read it, and it says:

The body slows with mortal ache, yet my promise remains true at the closing of our days,

A tender touch that ends with a kiss will awaken love in joyous ways.

“Are there more?” I ask.

“I found this in the pocket of my coat.”

Our souls were one, if you must know and never shall they be apart;

With splendid dawn, your face aglow

I reach for you and find my heart.

“I see,” and that is all I say.

We walk as the sun sinks lower in the sky. In time, silver twilight is the only remainder of the day, and still we talk of the poetry. She is enthralled by the romance.

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 these three are the sum of my practical experience with 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. Two of the three can’t feed themselves and will die soon. The third has a tendency to wander and get lost. She was found once in a stranger’s car a quarter mile away. Since then she has been strapped to the bed. All can be very bitter at times, and at other times they can be like lost children, sad and alone. Seldom do they recognize the staff or 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, too, problems that will probably grow worse over time. 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 must not have Alzheimer’s.” But she does. On most days and every morning there can be no doubt. On this there is agreement.

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