Nicholas Sparks - Dear John

As I spoke, I could feel her shaking with sobs, and I continued to hold her for a long time afterward. When we finally separated, I knew that it would be the last time I ever held her.

I backed away, my eyes holding Savannah’s.

“I love you, too, John,” she said.

“Good-bye.” I raised a hand.

And with that, she wiped her face and began walking toward the hospital.

Saying good-bye was the hardest thing I ever had to do. Part of me wanted to turn the car around and race back to the hospital, to tell her that I would always be there for her, to confide in her the things Tim had said to me. But I didn’t.

On the way out of town, I stopped at a small convenience store. I needed gas and filled the tank; inside, I bought a bottle of water. As I approached the counter, I saw a jar that the owner had set out to collect money for Tim, and I stared at it. It was filled with change and dollar bills; on the label, it listed the name of an account at a local bank. I asked for a few dollars in quarters, and the man behind the counter obliged.

I was numb as I made my way back to the car. I opened the door and began fishing through the documents that the lawyer had given me, looking also for a pencil. I found what I needed, then went to the pay phone. It was located near the road, with cars roaring past. I dialed information and had to press the receiver hard against my ear to hear the computerized voice give me the number I’d requested. I scrawled it on the documents, then hung up. I dropped some coins into the slot, dialed the long-distance number, and heard another computer-generated voice request even more money. I dropped in a few more coins. Soon I could hear the phone ringing.

When it was answered, I told the man who I was and asked if he remembered me.

“Of course I do, John. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. My dad passed away.”

There was a short pause. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “You doing okay?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Is there anything I can do?”

I closed my eyes, thinking of Savannah and Tim and hoping somehow that my dad would forgive me for what I was about to do. “Yes,” I said to the coin dealer, “actually there is. I want to sell my dad’s coin collection, and I need the money as quickly as you can get it to me.”

What does true love really mean?

I think about the question again as I sit on the hillside and watch Savannah moving among the horses. For a moment, I flash to the night I showed up at the ranch to find her… but that visit, a year ago now, feels more and more like a dream to me.

I sold the coins for less than they were worth, and piece by piece, I knew that the remains of my dad’s collection would be distributed to people who would never care as much about them as he did. In the end, I saved only the buffalo head nickel, for I simply couldn’t bear to give it up. Aside from the photo, it’s all I have left of my dad, and I always carry it with me. It’s a talisman of sorts, one that carries with it all my memories of my dad; every now and then, I remove it from my pocket and stare at it. I’ll run my fingers over the plastic case that holds the coin, and all at once, I can see my dad reading the Greysheet in his office or smell the bacon as it sizzles in the kitchen. I find that it makes me smile, and for a moment, I feel that I’m no longer alone.

But I am, and part of me knows that I always will be. I hold this thought as I search out the figures of Savannah and Tim in the distance, holding hands as they walk to the house; I see them touch in a way that speaks of their genuine affection for each other. They look good as a couple, I have to admit. When Tim calls to Alan, he joins them, and the three of them head inside. I wonder for a moment what they’re talking about as they enter, for I’m curious about the little details of their lives, but I’m fully aware that it’s none of my business. I have heard, however, that Tim is no longer receiving treatment and that most people in town expect him to recover.

I learned this through the local lawyer I hired on my last visit to Lenoir. I’d entered his office with a cashier’s check and asked him to deposit it in the account that had been set up for Tim’s treatment. I knew all about attorney-client privilege, and I knew he would say nothing to anyone in town. It was important not to let Savannah know what I’d done. In any marriage, there’s room for only two people.

I did, however, ask the lawyer to keep me informed, and during the past year, I spoke with him several times from Germany. He told me that when he contacted Savannah to tell her that a client wanted to make an anonymous donation—but wanted to be kept informed of Tim’s progress—she broke down and cried when he told her the amount. He told me that within a week, she’d brought Tim to MD Anderson and learned that Tim was an ideal candidate for the vaccine trial MD Anderson planned to start in November. He told me that prior to joining the clinical trial, Tim was treated with biochemotherapy and adjuvant therapy and that the doctors were hopeful the treatments would kill the cancerous cells massing in his lungs. A couple of months ago, the lawyer called to tell me that the treatment had been more successful than even the doctors hoped and that now Tim was technically in remission.

It didn’t guarantee that he would live to an old age, but it did guarantee him a fighting chance, and that’s all I wanted for both of them. I wanted them to be happy. I wanted her to be happy. And from what I had witnessed today, they were. I’d come because I needed to know that I’d made the right choice in selling the coins for Tim’s treatment, that I’d done the right thing in never contacting her again, and from where I sat, I knew that I had.

I sold the collection because I finally understood what true love really meant. Tim had told meand shown me—that love meant that you care for another person’s happiness more than your own, no matter how painful the choices you face might be. I’d left Tim’s hospital room knowing that he’d been right. But doing the right thing wasn’t easy. These days, I lead my life feeling that something is missing that I somehow need to make my life complete. I know that my feeling about Savannah will never change, and I know I will always wonder about the choice I made.

And sometimes, despite myself, I wonder if Savannah feels the same way. Which of course explains the other reason I came to Lenoir.

I stare at the ranch as evening settles in. It’s the first night of the full moon, and for me, the memories will come. They always do. I hold my breath as the moon begins its slow rise over the mountain, its milky glow edging just over the horizon. The trees turn liquid silver, and though I want to return to those bittersweet memories, I turn away and look at the ranch again.

For a long time, I wait in vain. The moon continues its slow arc across the sky, and one by one, the lights in the house wink out. I find myself focusing anxiously on the front door, hoping for the impossible. I know that she won’t appear, but I still can’t force myself to leave. I breathe in slowly, as if hoping to draw her out.

And when I see her finally emerge from the house, I feel a strange tingling in my spine, one I’ve never experienced before. She pauses on the steps, and I watch as she turns and seems to stare in my direction. I freeze for no reason—I know she can’t possibly see me. From my perch, I watch as Savannah closes the door quietly behind her. She slowly descends the steps and wanders to the center of the yard.

She pauses then and crosses her arms, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one has followed her. Finally, she seems to relax. And then I feel as if I’m witnessing a miracle, as ever so slowly she raises her face toward the moon. I watch her drink in the sight, sensing the flood of memories she’s unleashed and wanting nothing more than to let her know I’m here. But instead I stay where I am and stare up at the moon as well. And for the briefest instant, it almost feels like we’re together again.