the notebook-恋恋笔记本(英文版)-第15部分

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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　hold　back　the　floods　of　tears　and　despair　and　make　it　through。

I　pause　for　just　a　moment；　remembering　him。　He　was　four　years　old　at　the　time；　just　a　baby。　I　have　lived　twenty　times　as　long　as　he；　but　if　asked；　I　would　have　traded　my　life　for　his。　It　is　a　terrible　thing　to　outlive　your　child；　a　tragedy　I　wish　upon　no　one。

They　went　on；　this　correspondence　of　life　and　love；　and　I　read　dozens　more；　some　painful；　most　heart…warming。　By　three　o'clock　I　was　tired；　but　I　had　reached　the　bottom　of　the　stack。　There　was　one　letter　remaining；　the　last　one　I　wrote　to　her；　and　by　then　I　knew　I　had　to　keep　going。　I　lifted　the　seal　and　removed　both　pages。　I　put　the　second　page　aside　and　moved　the　first　page　into　better　light　and　began　to　read：

My　dearest　Allie；

The　porch　is　silent　except　for　the　sounds　that　float　from　the　shadows；　and　for　once　I　am　at　a　loss　for　words。　It　is　a　strange　experience　for　me；　for　when　I　think　of　you　and　the　life　we　have　shared；　there　is　much　to　remember。　A　lifetime　of　memories。　But　to　put　it　into　words？　I　am　not　a　poet；　and　yet　a　poem　is　needed　to　fully　express　the　way　I　feel　about　you。

So　my　mind　drifts　and　I　remember　thinking　about　our　life　together　as　I　made　Coffee　this　morning。　Kate　was　there；　and　so　was　Jane；　and　they　both　became　quiet　when　I　walked　into　the　kitchen。　I　saw　they'd　been　crying；　and　without　a　word　I　sat　myself　beside　them　at　the　table　and　held；　their　hands。　And　when　I　looked　at　them；　I　saw　you　from　so　long…ago；　the　day　we　said　goodbye。　They　resemble　you　and　how　you　were　then；　beautiful　and　sensitive　and　wounded　with　the　hurt　that　es　when　something　special　is　taken　away。　And　for　a　reason　I'm　not　sure　I　understand；　I　was　inspired　to　tell　them　a　story。

I　called　Jeff　and　David　into　the　kitchen；　for　they　were　here　as　well；　and　when　the　children　were　ready　I　told　them　about　us　and　how　you　came　back　to　me　so　long　ago。　I　told　them　about　our　walk；　and　the　crab　dinner　in　the　kitchen；　and　they　listened　with　smiles　when　they　heard　about　the　canoe　ride；　and　sitting　in　front　of　the　fire　with　the　storm　raging　outside。　I　told　them　about　your　mother　warning　us　about　Lon　the　next　day—they　seemed　as　surprised　as　we　were—and　yes；　I　even　told　them　what　happened　later　that　day；　after　you　went　back　to　town。

That　part　of　the　story　has　never　left　me；　even　after　all　this　time。　Even　though　you　described　it　to　me　only　once；　I　remember　marvelling　at　the　strength　you　showed　that　day。　I　still　cannot　imagine　what　was　going　through　your　mind　when　you　walked　into　the　lobby　and　saw　Lon；　or　how　it　must　have　felt　to　talk　to　him。　You　told　me　that　the　two　of　you　left　the　inn　and　sat　on　a　bench　by　the　old　Methodist　church；　and　that　he　held　your　hand；　even　as　you　explained　that　you　must　stay。

I　know　you　cared　for　him。　And　his　reaction　proves　to　me　he　cared　for　you　as　well。　Even　as　you　explained　that　you　had　always　loved　me；　and　that　it　wouldn't　be　fair　to　him；　he　did　not　release　your　hand。　I　know　he　was　hurt　and　angry；　and　tried　for　almost　an　hour　to　change　your　mind；　but　when　you　stoo