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.
Eventually I hear her sigh.
She turns to leave, and as she does, she stops, leans forward, and then kisses me onthe cheek, tenderly, the way my granddaughter does. I am surprised by this, and shesays quietly, "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'regone." She smiles at me and touches my face before she leaves.
I say nothing. Later I hear her walk by again, pushing a cart, talking to anothernurse,their voices hushed. The stars are out tonight, and the world is glowing an eerieblue. The crickets are singing, and their sound drowns out everything else. As I sit, Iwonder if anyone outside can see me, this prisoner of flesh. I search the trees, thecourtyard, the benches near the geese, 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'mdrawn to its mystery. I watch for hours, and as I do, I see the reflection of clouds asthey begin to bounce off the water. A storm is coming, and in time the sky will turnsilver, like dusk again.
Lightning cuts the wild sky, and I feel my mind drift back. Who are we, Allie and I? Arewe ancient ivy on a cypress tree, tendrils and branches intertwined so closely that wewould both die if we were forced apart? I don't know. Another bolt and the tablebeside me is lit enough to see a picture of Allie, the best one I have. I had it framedyears ago in the hope that the glass would make it last forever. I reach for it and holdit inches from my face. I stare at it for a long time, I can't help it. She was forty‐onewhen it was taken, and she had never been more beautiful. There are so many thingsI want to ask her, but I know the picture won't answer, so I put it aside.
Tonight, with Allie down the hall, I am alone. I will always be alone. This I thoughtas I lay in the hospital. This I'm sure of as I look out the window and watch thestorm clouds appear. Despite myself I am saddened by our plight, for I realize thatthe last day we were together I never kissed her lips. Perhaps I never will again.
It is impossible to tell with this disease. Why do I think such things?
I finally stand and walk to my desk and turn on the lamp. This takes more effort thanI think it will, and I am strained, so I do not return to the window seat.
I sit down and spend a few minutes looking at the pictures that sit on my desk. Familypictures, pictures of children and vacations. Pictures of Allie and me. I think back tothe times we shared together, alone or with family, and once again I realize howancient I am.
