The Notebook (19 page)
I see the flame beside me and it reminds me of another fire from decades ago, with me in your soft clothes and you in your jeans. I knew then we would always be together, even though I wavered the following day. My heart had been captured, roped by a southern poet, and I knew inside that it had always been yours. Who was I to question a love that rode on shooting stars and roared like crashing waves? For that is what it was between us then and that is what it is today.
I remember coming back to you the next day, the day my mother visited. I was so scared, more scared than I had ever been because I was sure you would never forgive me for leaving you. I was shaking as I got out of the car, but you took it all away with your smile and the way you held your hand out to me. “How ’bout some coffee,” was all you said. And you never brought it up again. In all our years together.
Nor did you question me when I would leave and walk alone the next few days. And when I came in with tears in my eyes, you always knew whether I needed you to hold me or to just let me be. I don’t know how you knew, but you did, and you made it easier for me. Later when we went to the small chapel and traded our rings and made our vows, I looked in your eyes and knew I had made the right decision. But more than that, I knew I was foolish for ever
considering someone else. I have never wavered since.
We had a wonderful life together, and I think about it a lot now. I close my eyes sometimes and see you with speckles of gray in your hair, sitting on the porch and playing your guitar while little ones play and clap to the music you create. Your clothes are stained from hours of work and you are tired, and though I offer you time to relax, you smile and say, “That’s what I am doing now.” I find your love for our children very sensual and exciting. “You’re a better father than you know,” I tell you later, after the children are sleeping. Soon after, we peel off our clothes and kiss each other and almost lose ourselves before we are able to slip between the flannel sheets.
I love you for many things, especially your passions, for they have always been those things which are most beautiful in life. Love and poetry and fatherhood and friendship and beauty and nature. And I am glad you have taught the children these things, for I know their lives are better for it. They tell me how special you are to them, and every time they do, it makes me feel like the luckiest woman alive.
You have taught me as well, and inspired me, and supported me in my painting, and you will never know how much it has meant to me. My works hang in museums and private collections
now, and though there have been times when I was frazzled and distracted because of shows and critics, you were always there with kind words, encouraging me. You understood my need for my own studio, my own space, and saw beyond the paint on my clothes and in my hair and sometimes on the furniture. I know it was not easy. It takes a man to do that, Noah, to live with something like that. And you have. For forty-five years now. Wonderful years.
You are my best friend as well as my lover, and I do not know which side of you I enjoy the most. I treasure each side, just as I have treasured our life together. You have something inside you, Noah, something beautiful and strong. Kindness, that’s what I see when I look at you now, that’s what everyone sees. Kindness. You are the most forgiving and peaceful man I know. God is with you, He must be, for you are the closest thing to an angel that I’ve ever met.
I know you thought me crazy for making us write our story before we finally leave our home, but I have my reasons and I thank you for your patience. And though you asked, I never told you why, but now I think it is time you knew.
We have lived a lifetime most couples never know, and yet, when I look at you, I am frightened by the knowledge that all this will be ending soon. For we both know my prognosis and
what it will mean to us. I see your tears and I worry more about you than I do about me, because I fear the pain I know you will go through. There are no words to express my sorrow for this, and I am at a loss for words.
So I love you so deeply, so incredibly much, that I will find a way to come back to you despite my disease, I promise you that. And this is where the story comes in. When I am lost and lonely, read this story—just as you told it to the children—and know that in some way, I will realize it’s about us. And perhaps, just perhaps, we will find a way to be together again.
Please don’t be angry with me on days I do not remember you, and we both know they will come. Know that I love you, that I always will, and that no matter what happens, know I have led the greatest life possible. My life with you.
And if you save this letter to read again, then believe what I am writing for you now. Noah, wherever you are and whenever this is, I love you. I love you now as I write this, and I love you now as you read this. And I am so sorry if I am not able to tell you. I love you deeply, my husband. You are, and always have been, my dream.
Allie
When I am finished with the letter, I put it aside. I rise from my desk and find my slippers. They are near my bed, and I must sit to put them on. Then, standing, I cross the room and open my door. I peek down the hall and see Janice seated at the main desk. At least I think it is Janice. I must pass this desk to get to Allie’s room, but at this hour I am not supposed to leave my room, and Janice has never been one to bend the rules. Her husband is a lawyer.
I wait to see if she will leave, but she does not seem to be moving, and I grow impatient. I finally exit my room anyway, slow-shuffle, slide-the-right, slow-shuffle. It takes aeons to close the distance, but for some reason she does not see me approaching. I am a silent panther creeping through the jungle, I am as invisible as baby pigeons.
In the end I am discovered, but I am not surprised. I stand before her.
“Noah,” she says, “what are you doing?”
“I’m taking a walk,” I say. “I can’t sleep.”
“You know you’re not supposed to do this.”
“I know.”
I don’t move, though. I am determined.
“You’re not really going for a walk, are you? You’re going to see Allie.”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Noah, you know what happened the last time you saw her at night.”
“I remember.”
“Then you know you shouldn’t be doing this.”
I don’t answer directly. Instead I say, “I miss her.” “I know you do, but I can’t let you see her.”
“It’s our anniversary,” I say. This is true. It is one year before gold. Forty-nine years today.
“I see.”
“Then I can go?”
She looks away for a moment, and her voice changes. Her voice is softer now, and I am surprised. She has never struck me as the sentimental type.
“Noah, I’ve worked here for five years and I worked at another home before that. I’ve seen hundreds of couples struggle with grief and sadness, but I’ve never seen anyone handle it like you do. No one around here, not the doctors, not the nurses, has ever seen anything like it.”
She pauses for just a moment, and strangely, her eyes begin to fill with tears. She wipes them with her finger and goes on:
“I try to think what it’s like for you, how you keep going day after day, but I can’t even imagine it. I don’t know how you do it. You even beat her disease sometimes. Even though the doctors don’t understand it, we nurses do. It’s love, it’s as simple as that. It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”
A lump has risen in my throat, and I am speechless.
“But Noah, you’re not supposed to do this, and I can’t let you. So go back to your room.” Then, smiling softly and sniffling and shuffling some papers on the desk, she says: “Me, I’m going downstairs for some coffee. I won’t be back to check on you for a while, so don’t do anything foolish.”
She rises quickly, touches my arm, and walks toward the stairs. She doesn’t look back, and suddenly I am alone. I don’t know what to think. I look at where she had been sitting and see her coffee, a full cup, still steaming, and once again I learn that there are good people in the world.
I am warm for the first time in years as I begin my trek to Allie’s room. I take steps the size of Pixie straws, and even at that pace it is dangerous, for my legs have grown tired already. I find I must touch the wall to keep from falling down. Lights buzz overhead, their fluorescent glow making my eyes ache, and I squint a little. I walk by a dozen darkened rooms, rooms where I have read before, and I realize I miss the people inside. They are my friends, whose faces I know so well, and I will see them all tomorrow. But not tonight, for there is no time to stop on this journey. I press on, and the movement forces blood through banished arteries. I feel myself becoming stronger with every step. I hear a door open behind me, but I don’t hear footsteps, and I keep going. I am a stranger now. I cannot be stopped. A phone rings in the nurses’ station, and I push forward so I will not be caught. I am a midnight bandit, masked and fleeing on horseback from sleepy desert towns, charging into yellow moons with gold dust in my saddlebags. I am young and strong with passion in my heart, and I will break down the door and lift her in my arms and carry her to paradise.
Who am I kidding?
I lead a simple life now. I am foolish, an old man in love, a dreamer who dreams of nothing but reading to Allie and holding her whenever I can. I am a sinner with many faults and a man who believes in magic, but I am too old to change and too old to care.
When I finally reach her room my body is weak. My legs wobble, my eyes are blurred, and my heart is beating funny inside my chest. I struggle with the knob, and in the end it takes two hands and three truckloads of effort. The door opens and light from the hallway spills in, illuminating the bed where she sleeps. I think, as I see her, I am nothing but a passerby on a busy city street, forgotten forever.
Her room is quiet, and she is lying with the covers halfway up. After a moment I see her roll to one side, and her noises bring back memories of happier times. She looks small in her bed, and as I watch her I know it is over between us. The air is stale and I shiver. This place has become our tomb.
I do not move, on this our anniversary, for almost a minute, and I long to tell her how I feel, but I stay quiet so I won’t wake her. Besides, it is written on the slip of paper that I will slide under her pillow. It says:
Love, in these last and tender hours is sensitive and very pure
Come morning light with soft-lit powers to awaken love that’s ever sure.
I think I hear someone coming, so I enter her room and close the door behind me. Blackness descends and I cross her floor from memory and reach the window. I open the curtains, and the moon stares back, large and full, the guardian of the evening. I turn to Allie and dream a thousand dreams, and though I know I should not, I sit on her bed while I slip the note beneath her pillow. Then I reach across and gently touch her face, soft like powder. I stroke her hair, and my breath is taken away. I feel wonder, I feel awe, like a composer first discovering the works of Mozart. She stirs and opens her eyes, squinting softly, and I suddenly regret my foolishness, for I know she will begin to cry and scream, for this is what she always does. I am impulsive and weak, this I know, but I feel an urge to attempt the impossible and I lean toward her, our faces drawing closer.
And when her lips meet mine, I feel a strange tingling I have never felt before, in all our years together, but I do not pull back. And suddenly, a miracle, for I feel her mouth open and I discover a forgotten paradise, unchanged all this time, ageless like the stars. I feel the warmth of her body, and as our tongues meet, I allow myself to slip away, as I had so many years ago. I close my eyes and become a mighty ship in churning waters, strong and fearless, and she is my sails. I gently trace the outline of her cheek, then take her hand in mine. I kiss her lips, her cheeks, and listen as she takes a breath. She murmurs softly, “Oh, Noah . . . I’ve missed you.” Another miracle—the greatest of all!—and there’s no way I can stop the tears as we begin to slip toward heaven itself. For at that moment, the world is full of wonder as I feel her fingers reach for the buttons on my shirt and slowly, ever so slowly, she begins to undo them one by one.
| Q. | What is the inspiration for this book? Is it based to any extent on your own experiences or the experiences of those you know? |
| A. | The Notebook was originally inspired by the story of my wife’s beloved grandparents. They had a truly magical relationship, one that withstood the test of time and circumstance. At the time I’d met them, they had been married for over sixty years and I remember marveling at how much they still seemed to care for each other. The Notebook attempts to describe such a love. |
| | With that said, The Notebook is a novel, not a memoir. Many changes were made regarding their story, in order to make the novel more universal, while staying committed to my original intent. |
| Q. | How do you account for the success of your novel? What do you think its overriding appeal is? |
| A. | It’s never simple to pinpoint the reasons for a book’s success. In the case of The Notebook, I think the most obvious reason is that the story touched people in a deeply personal way. It seems that nearly everyone I spoke with about the novel knew a “Noah and Allie” in their own life. As people made this connection, the book became a so-called “word of mouth” success, with those who enjoyed it recommending it to others. In the end, any book that sells well needs to have this sort of support from readers. |
| | On a more practical level, the novel’s short length was appealing to many people. Nowadays, we all seem to have less time to read and The Notebook probably owes much of its success to the fact that people could finish it in one or two sittings. I think that readers also appreciated that the novel did not include foul language and its love scene was tasteful and mild compared to what’s found in many other novels. These factors made people feel comfortable about recommending it to others. |
| | Finally, I can’t ignore the fact that the publisher did an outstanding job with the novel. It was well promoted, it had a beautiful cover, and it was enthusiastically supported by the sales representatives. In addition, I was sent on a fifty-city tour (unusually large, by the way) and that also helped get the word out. |
| Q. | The Notebook is an intensely romantic book—a novel about the everlasting power of “true love.” Do you believe that this kind of love exists in real life? |
| A. | Yes, absolutely. True love exists and there’s evidence of it every day. I think talking about romantic love, however, is similar to talking about schools for children. It seems that most people feel that the school their child goes to is wonderful, but elsewhere, schools are terrible. But if most people feel that way, then it becomes a contradiction. Same thing with romantic love. People feel it in their own lives, but doubt if other people do. And those who don’t have it hope that someday they will. I think The Notebook tapped into that feeling. |
| Q. | The Notebook takes place in a small southern town. Why did you choose that setting rather than, say, a big city like New York? |
| A. | I live in a small southern town, and life there is different than in a big city. Last night, for instance, a friend of mine got hurt. Instead of bringing him to the hospital or an urgent care clinic, I took him to the doctor’s house. The doctor took care of him, then drove to the office to pick up a temporary cast, returned, and then bandaged him up. No charge, by the way. |
| | Small towns feed into a nostalgia that people have for the way things used to be. Simpler, less rushed, more community oriented, things like that. |
| Q. | The book details the lives of very old, as well as very young, people. How did someone as young as yourself acquire the insight to write about the experience of being old in such a moving way? |
| A. | That’s what writers strive to do. Though I can’t describe the process of writing and how I do it (I don’t really understand where my ideas come from), I do keep a few general rules in mind, no matter what type of character I’m writing. |
| | First, I tend to assume that most people— male or female, young or old—have largely the same types of thoughts. However, the difference lies in their perspective. So I try to put myself in their shoes and see the world the way they do. Then, I read constantly and see how other authors have written from varying perspectives, and I try to figure out whether they accomplished what they’d set out to do, or if they failed. Either way, I ask myself, “Why?” Finally, I work hard at it—I edit constantly, until it “feels right” to me. Only then will I accept it. |
| Q. | Letter writing plays such a big part in The Notebook. Is there something about letter writing that intrigues you? |
| A. | The epistolary form of writing has been around for centuries, of course. I’m neither the first nor the finest to use it. But letters are a wonderful vehicle for writing, if used effectively and sparingly. In the case of a novel written primarily in third person, for instance, a letter might allow for deeper insight, since a letter is written in first person. |
| | Also, I’m fond of letter writing myself. Call it old-fashioned, but that’s how my wife and I fell in love. We lived a thousand miles apart in the early stages of our relationship, and I used to write her every day. She’s told me often that it was the most romantic thing that had ever been done for her. |
| Q. | How has the success of The Notebook affected your life? Do you find that your family lifestyle has changed much? Or your values? |
| A. | The success has been wonderful. It’s enabled me to concentrate on writing full-time, but more than that, it’s allowed me to spend far more time with my family. Financially, of course, there’s been a change as well and it would be dishonest of me to overlook that. |
| | But other than that, our lifestyle is still largely unchanged. I coach soccer for my sons’ teams, we go to church every Sunday, we’re in a “Supper Club” with the same people we knew before, my wife volunteers at the school like every other mom, we still eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. |
| | Nor have our values changed. We worry about the same things all parents do, and we’re doing our best to raise kind and confident children. Our relationship with each other, with our children, with our community, and with God will always be the most important things in our lives. |
| Q. | What was it like going on your author tour and meeting and hearing from so many people whose lives were affected by your book? |
| A. | That was truly wonderful. Writing is communication; so is talking to readers about their impressions of the novel. It’s one of the aspects I most enjoy about being an author. |
| Q. | What advice do you have for aspiring writers? |
| A. | My advice is four-fold. First, read as much as possible. Read all types of novels—don’t limit yourself to one genre. Each genre seems to have its own strengths and weaknesses. For instance, “techno-thrillers” are very good at describing action, not so good at describing romance or love. Romance novels are just the opposite. |
| | Second, learn as much as you can about publishing. Learn how it works, how to get published, how to market your book, what editors look for, etc. There’s a wealth of information in any bookstore and it’s important to understand the business aspects of writing. Publishing is, after all, a business. |
| | Third, have realistic goals for the type of writer you want to be. For instance, is your goal to sell a million hardcover copies of your novel? If so, you need to understand the conventions of so-called “commercial fiction.” Or is your goal simply to get published? If so, write what you want, but write it well. |
| | And finally, write. You can’t be a writer without writing. |