the notebook-恋恋笔记本(英文版)-第18章

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e。

Of　our　five　children；　four　are　still　living；　and　though　it　is　hard　for　them　to　visit；　they　e　often；　and　for　this　I　am　thankful。　But　even　when　they　aren't　here；　they　e　alive　in　my　mind　every　day；　each　of　them；　and　they　bring　to　mind　the　smiles　and　tears　that　e　with　raising　a　family。　A　dozen　pictures　line　the　walls　of　my　room。　They　are　my　heritage；　my　contribution　to　the　world。　I　am　very　proud。　Sometimes　I　wonder　what　my　wife　thinks　of　them　as　she　dreams；　or　if　she　thinks　of　them　at　all；　or　if　she　even　dreams。　There　is　so　much　about　her　I　don't　understand　any　more。

〃My　name；〃　I　say；　〃is　Duke。〃　I　have　always　been　a　John　Wayne　fan。

〃Duke；〃　she　whispers　to　herself；　〃Duke。〃　She　thinks　for　a　moment；　her　forehead　wrinkled；　her　eyes　serious。

〃Yes；〃　I　say；　〃I'm　here　for　you。〃　And　always　will　be；　I　think　to　myself。

She　flushes　with　my　answer。　Her　eyes　bee　wet　and　red；　and　tears　begin　to　fall。　My　heart　aches　for　her；　and　I　wish　for　the　thousandth　time　that　there　was　something　I　could　do。

She　says；　〃I'm　sorry。　I　don't　understand　anything　that's　happening　to　me　right　now。　Even　you。　When　I　listen　to　you　talk　I　feel　like　I　should　know　you；　but　I　don't。　I　don't　even　know　my　name。〃　She　wipes　at　her　tears　and　says；　〃Help　me；　Duke；　help　me　remember　who　I　am。　Or　at　least；　who　I　was。　I　feel　so　lost。〃

I　answer　from　my　heart；　but　I　lie　to　her　about　her　name。　As　I　have　about　my　own。　There　is　a　reason　for　this。

〃You　are　Hannah；　a　lover　of　life；　a　strength　to　those　who　shared　in　your　friendships。　You　are　a　dream；　a　creator　of　Happiness；　an　artist　who　has　touched　a　thousand　souls。　You've　led　a　full　life　and　wanted　for　nothing；　because　your　needs　are　spiritual　and　you　have　only　to　look　inside　you。　You　are　kind　and　loyal；　and　you　are　able　to　see　beauty　where　others　do　not。　You　are　a　teacher　of　wonderful　lessons；　a　dreamer　of　better　things。〃

She　does　not　respond。　Instead　she　stares　at　me　for　a　long　while；　until　our　breathing　coincides。　In。　Out。　In。　Out。　In。　Out。　Deep　breaths。　I　wonder　if　she　knows　I　think　she's　beautiful。

〃Would　you　stay　with　me　a　while？〃　she　finally　asks。

I　smile　and　nod。　She　smiles　back。　She　reaches　for　my　hand；　takes　it　gently　and　pulls　it　to　her　waist。　She　stares　at　the　hardened　knots　that　deform　my　fingers　and　caresses　them　gently。　Her　hands　are　still　those　of　an　angel。

〃e；〃　I　say　as　I　stand　with　great　effort；　〃let's　go　for　a　walk。　The　air　is　crisp　and　the　goslings　are　waiting。　It's　beautiful　today。〃　I　am　staring　at　her　as　I　say　these　last　few　words。　She　blushes。　It　makes　me　feel　young　again。

SHE　WAS　FAMOUS；　of　course。　One　of　the　best　southern　painters　of　the　twentieth　century；　some　said；　and　I　was；　and　am；　proud　of　her。　Unlike　me；　who　struggled　to　write　even　the　simplest　of　verses；　my　wife　could　create　beauty　as　easily　as　the　Lord　created　the　earth。　Her　paintings　are　in　museums　around　the　world；　but　I　have　kept　only　two　for　myself。　The　first　one　she　ever　gave　me　and　the　last　one。　They　hang　in　my　room；　and　late　at　night　I　sit　and　stare　and　sometimes　cry　when　I　look　at　them。　I　don't　know　why。

And　so　the　years　passed。　We　led　our　lives；　working；　painting；　raising　children；　loving　each　other。　I　see　photos　of　Christmases；　family　trips；　of　graduations　and　of　weddings。　I　see　grandchildren　and　happy　faces。　I　see　photos　of　us；　our　hair　growing　whiter；　the　lines　in　our　faces　deeper。　A　lifetime　that　seems　so　typical；　yet　unmon。

We　could　not　foresee　the　future；　but　then　who　can？　I　do　not　live　now　as　I　expected　to。　But　I　am　not　bitter。　Our　lives　can't　be　measured　by　our　final　years；　of　this　I　am　sure；　and　I　guess　I　should　have　known　what　lay　ahead。　Looking　back；　I　suppose　it　seems　obvious；　but　at　first　I　thought　her　confusion　understandable　and　not　unique。　She　would　forget　where　she　placed　her　keys；　but　who　has　not　done　that？　She　would　forget　a　neighbour's　name；　but　not　someone　we　knew　well　or　with　whom　we　socialized。　Sometimes　she　would　write　the　wrong　year　when　she　made　out　her　cheques；　but　again　I　dismissed　it　as　simple　mistakes　that　one　makes　when　thinking　of　other　things。

It　was　not　until　the　more　obvious　events　occurred　that　I　began　to　suspect　the　worst。　An　iron　in　the　freezer；　clothes　in　the　dishwasher；　books　in　the　oven。　Other　things；　too。　But　the　day　I　found　her　in　the　car　three　blocks　away；　crying　over　the　steering　wheel　because　she　couldn't　find　her　way　Home；　was　the　first　day　I　was　really　frightened。　And　she　was　frightened；　too；　for　when　I　tapped　on　her　window；　she　turned　to　me　and　said；　〃Oh　God；　what's　happening　to　me？　Please　help　me。〃　A　knot　twisted　in　my　stomach；　but　I　dared　not　think　the　worst。

Six　days　later　the　doctor　saw　her　and　began　a　series　of　tests。　I　did　not　understand　them　then　and　I　do　not　understand　them　now；　but　I　suppose　it　is　because　I　am　afraid　to　know。　She　spent　almost　an　hour　with　Dr。　Barnwell；　and　she　went　back　the　next　day。　That　day　was　the　longest　day　I　have　ever　spent。

Finally　he　called　us　both　into　his　office　and　sat　us　down。　She　held　my　arm　confidently；　but　I　remember　clearly　that　my　own　hands　were　shaking。

〃I'm　so　sorry　to　have　to　tell　you　this；〃　Dr。　Barnwell　began；　〃but　you　seem　to　be　in　the　early　stages　of　Alzheimer’s。。。”

The　words　echoed　in　my　head：　the　early　stages　of　Alzheimer’s…

　My　world　spun　in　circles；　and　I　felt　her　grip　tighten　on　my　arm。　She　whispered；　almost　to　herself：　〃Oh；　Noah　。　。　。　Noah　。　。　。”

And　tears　started　to　fall。　It　is　a　barren　disease；　as　empty　and　lifeless　as　a　desert。　It　is　a　thief　of　hearts　and　souls　and　memories。　I　did　not　know　what　to　say　to　her　as　she　sobbed　on　my　bosom；　so　I　simply　held　her　and　rocked　her　back　and　forth。

The　doctor　was　grim。　He　was　a　good　man；　and　this　was　hard　for　him。　He　was　younger　than　my　youngest；　and　I　felt　my　age　in　his　presence。

We　rocked　to　and　fro；　and　Allie；　my　dream；　my　timeless　beauty；　told　me　she　was　sorry。　I　knew　there　was　nothing　to　forgive；　and　I　whispered　in　her　ear。　〃Everything　will　be　fine；〃　I　whispered；　but　inside　I　was　afraid。　I　was　a　hollow　man　with　nothing　to　offer。

I　remember　only　bits　and　pieces　of　Dr。　Barnwell's　continuing　explanation。

〃It's　a　degenerative　brain　disorder　affecting　memory　and　personality。　。　。　there　is　no　cure　or　therapy　。　。　。　there's　no　way　to　tell　how　fast　it　will　progress　。。。　it　differs　from　person　to　person。　。。。　I　wish　I　knew　more。　。　。　。　Some　days　will　be　better　than　others。　。。。　It　will　grow　worse　with　the　passage　of　time。　。　。　。　I'm　sorry　。　。　。〃

Everyone　was　sorry。　Our　children　were　brokenhearted；　our　friends　were　scared　for　themselves。　I　don't　remember　leaving　the　doctor's　office；　and　I　don't　remember　driving　Home。　My　memories　of　that　day　are　gone；　and　in　this　my　wife　and　I　are　the　same。

It　has　been　four　years　now。　Since　then　we　have　made　the　best　of　it；　if　that　is　possible。　Allie　organized；　as　was　her　disposition。　She　made　arrangements　to　leave　the　house　and　move　here。　She　rewrote　her　will　and　sealed　it。　She　left　specific　burial　instructions；　and　they　sit　in　my　desk；　in　the　bottom　drawer。　I　have　not　seen　them。　And　when　she　was　finished；　she　began　to　write。　Letters　to　friends　and　children。　Letters　to　brothers　and　sisters　and　cousins。　Letters　to　nieces；　nephews　and　neighbours。　And　a　letter　to　me。

I　read　it　sometimes　when　I　am　in　the　mood　and；　when　I　do；　I　am　reminded　of　Allie　on　cold　winter　evenings；　seated　by　a　roaring　fire　with　a　glass　of　wine　at　her　side；　reading　the　letters　I　had　written　to　her　over　the　years。　She　kept　them；　these　letters；　and　now　I　keep　them；　for　she　made　me　promise　to　do　so。　She　said　I　would　know　what　to　do　with　them。　She　was　right；　I　find　I　enjoy　reading　bits　and　pieces　of　them　just　as　she　used　to。　They　intrigue　me；　for　when　I　sift　through　them　I　realize　that　romance　and　passion　are　possible　at　any　age。　I　see　Allie　now　and　know　I've　never　loved　her　more；　but　as　I　read　the　letters；　I　e　to　understand　that　I　have　always　felt　the　same　way。

　I　read　them　last　three　evenings　ago；　long　after　I　should　have　been　asleep。　It　was　almost　two　o'clock　when　I　went　to　the　desk　and　found　the　stack　of　letters；　thick　and　weathered。　I　untied　the　ribbon；　itself　almost　half　a　century　old；　and　found　the　letters　her　mother　had　hidden　so　long　ago　and　those　from　afterwards。　A　lifetime　of　letters；　letters　professing　my　love；　letters　from　my　heart。　I　glanced　through　them　with　a　smile　on　my　face；　picking　and　choosing；　and　finally　opened　a　letter　from　our　first　anniversary。

I　read　an　excerpt：

When　I　see　you　now—moving　slowly　with　new　life　growing　inside　you—I　hope　you　know　how　much　you　mean　to　me；　and　how　special　this　year　has　been。　No　man　is　more　blessed　than　me；　and　I　love　you　with　all　my　heart。

I　put　it　aside　and　found　another；　this　one　from　a　cold　evening　thirty…nine　years　ago：

Sitting　next　to　you；　while　our　youngest　daughter　sang　off…key　in　the　school　Christmas　show；　I　looked　at　you　and　saw　a　pride　that　es　only　to　those　who　feel　deeply　in　their　hearts；　and　I　knew　that　no　man　could　be　luckier　than　me。

And　after　our　son　died；　the　one　who　resembled　his　mother　。　。　。　It　was　the　hardest　time　we　ever　went　through；　and　the　words　still　ring　true　today：

In　times　of　grief　and　sorrow　I　will　hold　you　and　rock　you；　and　take　your　grief　and　make　it　my　own。　When　you　cry；　I　cry；　and　when　you　hurt；　I　hurt。　And　together　we　will　try　to