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 in 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, and I agree with her.
"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," she says.
"You do?"
"Yes."
"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 is radiant.
I pull out her chair with some effort. 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. Without speaking, 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. With all my dreams, 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 worthwhile, and I watch as she raises her hazy eyes to mine. She pulls my hand toward her.
"You're wonderful. . . ." she says softly, trailing off, 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 around the room, then up to the ceiling, 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 deformed, or almost blind with cataractal eyes.
I'm strong and proud, and the luckiest man alive, and I keep on feeling that way for a long time across the table.
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 breathlessly. "I've always loved you, Noah."
Noah, I hear again. Noah. 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 doctor's words, have triumphed again, at least for a moment. I give up the pretense of mystery, and I kiss her hand and bring it to my cheek and whisper in her ear. I say:
"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 forever." She knows this is all I can do, for neither of us wants empty promises. But I can tell by the way she is looking at me that once again she wishes there were more.
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 despite myself. I know I should be joyous, for this reunion is the proof that love can still be ours, but 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.
Nothing.
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 toward 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! The words are inside me. 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 breathing stops for a moment, then starts again, this time shallower. My mouth goes dry, and I feel my heart pounding. It is over, I know, and I am right. The sundowning has come. This, the evening confusion associated with Alzheimer's disease 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."
"No," I whisper while shaking my head.
"You can't see them?"
"No," I say, and she thinks for a moment.
"Well, they're right there," she says, pushing me away, "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 with panic in her voice, her face becoming whiter. "What are you doing here?" There is fear growing inside her, and I hurt, for there is n
othing I can do. She moves farther from me, backing away, her hands in a defensive position, and then she says the most heartbreaking words of all.
"Go away! Stay away from me!" she screams. She is pushing the gnomes away from her, terrified, now 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. I don't know where it comes from. 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. While I wait, I stare at my wife.
Ten...
Twenty . . .
Thirty seconds pass, and I continue to stare, my eyes missing nothing, remembering the moments we just shared together. But in all that time she does not look back, and I am haunted by the visions of her struggling with unseen enemies.
I sit by the bedside with an aching back and start to cry as I pick up the notebook. Allie does not notice. I understand, for her mind is gone.
A couple of pages fall to the floor, and I bend over to pick them up. 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 from demons in her mind, and the old man who loves her more deeply than life itself, crying softly in the corner, his face in his hands.
I spend the rest of the evening alone in my room. My door is partially open and I see people walk by, some strangers, some friends, and if I concentrate, I can hear them talking about families, jobs, and visits to parks. Ordinary conversations, nothing more, but I find that I envy them and the ease of their communication. Another deadly sin, I know, but sometimes I can't help it.
Dr. Barnwell is here, too, speaking with one of the nurses, and I wonder who is ill enough to warrant such a visit at this hour. He works too much, I tell him. Spend the time with your family, I say, they won't be around forever. But he doesn't listen to me. He cares for his patients, he says, and must come here when called. He says he has no choice, but this makes him a man torn by contradiction. He wants to be a doctor completely devoted to his patients and a man completely devoted to his family. He cannot be both, for there aren't enough hours, but he has yet to learn this. I wonder, as his voice fades into the background, which he will choose or whether, sadly, the choice will be made for him.
I sit by the window in an easy chair and I think about today. It was happy and sad, wonderful and heart-wrenching. My conflicting emotions keep me silent for many hours. I did not read to anyone this evening; I could not, for poetic introspection would bring me to tears. In time, the hallways become quiet except for the footfalls of evening soldiers. At eleven o'clock I hear the familiar sounds that for some reason I expected. The footsteps I know so well.