The Not

THE NOTEBOOK
Nicholas Sparks
CHAPTER ONE - MIRACLES
WHO AM I? And how, I wonder, will this story end?
The sun has come up and I am sitting by a window that is foggy with
the breath of a life gone by. I’m a sight this morning: two shirts,
heavy pants, a scarf wrapped twice around my neck and tucked into a
thick sweater knitted by my daughter thirty birthdays ago. The
thermostat in my room is set as high as it will go, and a smaller space
heater sits directly behind me. II clicks and groans and spews hot air
like a fairy-tale dragon, and still my body shivers with a cold that will
never go away, a cold that has been eighty years in the making.
Eighty years. I wonder if this is how it is for everyone my age.
My life? It isn’t easy to explain. It has not been the rip-roaring
spectacular I fancied it would be, but neither have I burrowed around
with the gophers. I suppose it has most resembled a blue-chip stock:
fairly stable, more ups than downs, and gradually trending upwards
over time. I’ve learned that not everyone can say this about his life.
But do not be misled. I am nothing special, of this I am sure. I am a
common man with common thoughts, and I’ve led a common life.
There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be
forgotten, but I’ve loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me
this has always been enough.
The romantics would call this a love story: the cynics would call it a
tragedy. In my mind it’s a little bit of both, and no matter how you
choose to view it in the end, it does not change the fact that it involves
a great deal of my life. I have no complaints about the path I’ve
chosen to follow and the places it has taken me—the path has always
been the right one. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Time, unfortunately doesn’t make it easy to stay on course. The path
is straight as ever, but now it is strewn with the rocks and gravel that
accumulate over a lifetime. Until three years ago it would have been
easy to ignore, but it’s impossible now. There is a sickness rolling
through my body; I’m neither strong nor healthy, and my days are
spent like an old party balloon: listless, spongy and growing softer
over time.
I cough, and through squinted eyes I check my watch. I realize it is
time to go. I stand and shuffle across the room; stopping at the desk to
pick up the notebook I have read a hundred times. I slip it beneath my
arm and continue on my way to the place I must go.
I walk on tiled floors, white speckled with grey. Like my hair and
the hair of most people here, though I’m the only one in the hallway
this morning. They are in their rooms, alone except for television, but
they, like me, are used to it. A person can get used to anything, given
enough lime.
I hear the muffled sounds of crying in the distance and know who is
making them. The nurses see me and we smile and exchange
greetings. I am sure they wonder about me and the things that I go
through every day. I listen as they begin to whisper among themselves
when I pass.
“There he goes again.” I hear. “I hope it turns out well.” But they
say nothing directly to me about it.
A minute later, I reach the room. The door has been propped open
for me, as it usually is. There are two nurses in the room, and as I
enter they say “Good morning” with cheery voices,