Twenty...

Thirty seconds pass, and I continue to stare, my eyes missing nothing, rememberingthe 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, soI sit, alone and apart from my wife. And when the nurses come in they see two peoplethey must comfort. A woman shaking in fear from demons in her mind, and the oldman who loves her more deeply than life itself, crying softly in the corner, his face inhis hands.

I spend the rest of the evening alone in my room. My door is partially open and I seepeople walk by, some strangers, some friends, and if I concentrate, I can hear themtalking about families, jobs, and visits to parks. Ordinary conversations, nothingmore, but I find that I envy them and the ease of their communication. Anotherdeadly 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 illenough to warrant such a visit at this hour. He works too much, I tell him. Spend thetime with your family, I say, they won't be around forever. But he doesn't listen tome.

He cares for his patients, he says, and must come here when called. He says he has nochoice, but this makes him a man torn by contradiction. He wants to be a doctorcompletely devoted to his patients and a man completely devoted to his family. Hecannot 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, thechoice 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 manyhours.

I did not read to anyone this evening; I could not, for poetic introspection wouldbring me to tears. In time, the hallways become quiet except for the footfalls ofevening soldiers. At eleven o'clock I hear the familiar sounds that for some reasonI expected. The footsteps I know so well.

Dr. Barnwell peeks in.

"I noticed your light was on. Do you mind if I come in?" "No,"

I say, shaking my head.

He comes in and looks around the room before taking a seat a few feet from me. "Ihear," he says, "you had a good day with Allie." He smiles. He is intrigued by us andthe relationship we have. I do not know if his interest is entirely professional.

"I suppose so."

He cocks his head at my answer and looks at me. "Youokay, Noah? You look a little down."

"I'm fine. Just a little tired.”

"How was Allie today?"

"She was okay. We talked for almost four hours."

"Four hours? Noah, that's.., incredible."

I can only nod. He goes on, shaking his head. "I've never seen anything like it, oreven heard about it. I guess that's what love is all about. You two were meantfor each other. She must love you very much. You know that, don't you?"

"I know," I say, but I can't say anything more. "What's really bothering you, Noah?

Did Allie say or do something that hurt your feelings?''

"No. She was wonderful, actually. It's just that right now I feel.., alone."

"Alone?"

"Nobody's alone."

"I'm alone," I say as I look at my watch and think of his family sleeping in a quiet house,the place he should be, "and so are you."

The next few days passed without significance. Allie was unable to recognize me atany time, and I admit my attention waned now and then, for most of my thoughtswere of the day we had just spent. Though the end always comes too soon, there wasnothing lost that day, only gained, and I was happy to have received this blessing onceagain.

By the following week, my life had pretty much returned to normal. Or at least asnormal as my life can be. Reading to Allie, reading to others, wandering the halls.

Lying awake at night and sitting by my heater in the morning. I find a strange comfortin the predictability of my life.

On a cool, foggy morning eight days after she and I had spent our day together, Iwoke early, as is my custom, and puttered around my desk, alternately looking atphotographs and reading letters written many years before. At least I tried to. Icouldn'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 acouple of hours, I knew, and I wanted to be refreshed, for reading all day would onlymake my head hurt more.

I closed my eyes for a few minutes while my head alternately pounded and subsided.

Then, opening them, I watched my old friend, the creek, roll by my window. UnlikeAllie, I had been given a room where I could see it, and it has never failed to inspireme. It is a contradiction‐‐this creek‐‐a hundred thousand years old but renewed witheach rainfall.

I talked to it that morning, whispered so it could hear,

"You are blessed, my friend, and I am blessed, and together we meet the comingdays."

The ripples and waves circled and twisted in agreement, the pale glow of morninglight reflecting the world we share. The creek and I. Flowing, ebbing, receding.

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 first peeked over the horizon. My hand,I noticed, started to tingle, something it had never done before. I started to lift it, butI was forced to stop when my head pounded again, this time hard, almost as if I hadbeen hit in the head with a hammer. I closed my eyes, then squeezed my lids tight.

My hand stopped tingling and began to go numb, quickly, as if my nerves weresuddenly severed somewhere on my lower arm. My wrist locked as a shooting painrocked 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 Iheard what sounded like a train roaring inches from my head, and I knew that I washaving a stroke. The pain coursed through my body like a lightning bolt, and in mylast remaining moments of consciousness, I pictured Allie, lying in her bed, waitingfor the story I would never read, lost and confused, completely and totally unable tohelp herself. Just like me.

And as my eyes closed for the final time, I thought to myself, Oh God, what haveI done?

! was unconscious on and off for days, and in those moments when I was awake, Ifound myself hooked to machines, tubes up my nose and down my throat and twobags of fluid hanging near the bed. I could hear the faint hum of machines, droningon and off, sometimes making sounds I could not recognize. One machine, beeping

with my heart rate, was strangely soothing, and I found myself lulled to never‐landtime and time again.

The doctors were worried. I could see the concern in their faces through squintedeyes as they scanned the charts and adjusted the machines. They whispered theirthoughts,thinking I couldn't hear. "Strokes could be serious," they'd say, "especiallyfor someone his age, and the consequences could be severe." Grim faces wouldprelude their predictions‐‐"loss of speech, loss of movement, paralysis." Anotherchart notation, another beep of a strange machine, and they'd leave, never knowingI heard every word. I tried not to think of these things afterward but insteadconcentrated on Allie, bringing a picture of her to my mind whenever I could. I did mybest to bring her life into mine, to make us one again. ! tried to feel her touch, hearher voice, see her face, and when I did tears would fill my eyes because I didn't knowif I would be able to hold her again, to whisper to her, to spend the day with hertalking and reading and walking.

This was not how I'd imagined, or hoped, it would end. I'd always assumed I wouldgo last. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I drifted in and out of consciousnessfor days until another foggy morning when my promise to Allie spurred my body onceagain. I opened my eyes and saw a room full of flowers, and their scent motivated mefurther. I looked for the buzzer, struggled to press it, and a nurse arrived thirtyseconds later, followed closely by Dr. Barnwell, who smiled almost immediately.

"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. If Iwere a Cadillac, I would drive in circles, one wheel turning, for the right side of mybody is weaker than the left. This, they tell me, is good news, for the paralysis couldhave been total. Sometimes, it seems, I am surrounded by optimists. The bad news isthat my hands prevent me from using either cane or wheelchair, so I must now marchto my own unique cadence to keep upright. Not left‐right‐left as was common in myyouth, or even the shuffle‐shuffle of late, but rather slowshuffle, slide‐the‐right, slowshuffle.

I am an epic adventure now when I travel the halls. It is slow going even for me, thiscoming from a man who could barely outpace a turtle two weeks ago. It is late when

I return, and when I reach my room, I know I will not sleep. I breathe deeply and smellthe springtime fragrances that filter through my room. The window has been leftopen, and there is a slight chill in the air. I find that I am invigorated by the change intemperature. Evelyn, one of the many nurses here who is one‐third my age, helps meto the chair that sits by the window and begins to close it. I stop her, and though hereyebrows rise, she accepts my decision. I hear a drawer open, and a moment later asweater is draped over my shoulders. She adjusts it as if I were a child, and when sheis finished, she puts her hand on my shoulder and pats it gently. She says nothing asshe does this, and by her silence I know that she is staring out the window. She doesnot move for a long time, and I wonder what she is thinking, but I do not ask.