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, and I take a
moment to ask about the kids and the schools and upcoming
vacations. We talk above the crying for a minute or so. They do not
seem to notice: they have become numb to it, but then again, so have
I.
Afterwards I sit in the chair that has come to be shaped like me.
They are finishing up now; her clothes are on, but she is crying. It will
become quieter after they leave. I know. The excitement of the
morning always upsets her, and today is no exception. Finally the
nurses walk out. Both of them touch me and smile as they walk by.
I sit for just a second and stare at her, but she doesn�t return the
look. I understand, for she doesn�t know who I am. I�m a stranger to
her. Then, turning away, I how my head and pray silently for the
strength I know I will need.
Ready now. On go the glasses, out of my pocket comes a magnifier.
I put it on the table for a moment while I open the notebook. It takes
two licks on my gnarled finger to get the well-worn cover open to the
first page. Then I put the magnifier in place.
There is always a moment right before I begin to read the story when
my mind churns, and