‘The Longest Ride’ Chapters 28-30

Nicholas Sparks,

AARP

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Published September 25, 2024

A pair of hands belonging to Ira in his 80s holds a handwritten letter from Ruth above an envelope on a table

Illustration by The Brave Union

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Chapter 28 • Chapter 29 • Chapter 30

Chapter 28

Ira

When I wake, my first thought is that my body is weak and growing steadily weaker. Sleep, instead of giving me strength, has robbed me of some of the precious hours I have remaining.

Morning sunlight slants through the window, reflected bright and sharp by the snow. It takes a moment to realize that it’s Monday. More than thirty-six hours now since the accident. Who could have imagined such a thing happening to an old man like me? This will to live. But I have always been a survivor, a man who laughs in the face of death and spits in the eye of mother fate. I fear nothing, not even the pain. It’s time for me to open the door and scale the embankment, to flag down a passing car. If no one comes to me, I will have to go to them.

Who am I kidding?

I can do no such thing. The agony is so intense that it takes a concerted effort to bring the world back into focus. For a moment, I feel strangely dissociated from my body—I can see myself propped on the steering wheel, my body a broken wreck. For the first time since the accident, I am sure that it is no longer possible for me to move. The bells are tolling, and I do not have long. This should frighten me, but it doesn’t. In no small way, I have been waiting to die for the last nine years.

I was not meant to be alone. I am not good at it. The years since Ruth’s passing have ticked by with the kind of desperate silence known only to the elderly. It is a silence underscored by loneliness and the knowledge that the good years are already in the past, coupled with the complications of old age itself.

The body is not meant to survive nearly a century. I speak from experience when I say this. Two years after Ruth died, I suffered a minor heart attack—I was barely able to dial for help before I fell to the floor, unconscious. Two years after that, it became difficult to maintain my balance, and I purchased the walker to keep from toppling into the rosebushes whenever I ventured outside.

Caring for my father had taught me to expect these kinds of challenges, and I was largely able to move past them. What I hadn’t expected, however, was the endless array of minor torments—little things, once so easy, now rendered impossible. I can no longer open a jar of jelly; I have the cashier at the supermarket do it before she slips it into the bag. My hands shake so much that my penmanship is barely legible, which makes it difficult to pay the bills. I can read only in the brightest of lights, and without my dentures in place, I can eat nothing but soup. Even at night, age is torturous. It takes forever for me to fall asleep, and prolonged slumber is a mirage. There is medicine, too—so many pills that I’ve had to tack a chart on the refrigerator to keep them straight. Medicine for arthritis and high blood pressure and high cholesterol, some taken with food and some without, and I’m told that I must always carry nitroglycerine pills in my pocket, in the event I ever again feel that searing pain in my chest. Before the cancer took root—a cancer that will gnaw at me until I’m nothing but skin and bones—I used to wonder what indignity the future would bring next. And God, in his wisdom, provided the answer. How about an accident! Let’s break his bones and bury him in snow! I sometimes think God has an odd sense of humor.

Had I said this to Ruth, she would not have laughed. She would say I should be thankful, for not everyone is blessed with a long life. She would have said that the accident was my fault. And then, with a shrug, she would have explained that I had lived because our story was not yet finished.

What became of me? And what will become of the collection?

I’ve spent nine years answering these questions, and I think Ruth would have been pleased. I’ve spent these years surrounded by Ruth’s passion; I have spent my years embraced by her. Everywhere I have looked, I’ve been reminded of her, and before I go to bed every night, I stare at the painting above the fireplace, comforted by the knowledge that our story will have precisely the kind of ending that Ruth would have wanted.

+++

The sun rises higher, and I hurt even in the distant recesses of my body. My throat is parched and all I want is to close my eyes and fade away.

But Ruth will not let me. There is an intensity in her gaze that wills me to look at her.

“It is worse now,” she says. “The way you are feeling.”

“I’m just tired,” I mumble.

“Yes,” she says. “But it is not your time yet. There is more you must tell me.”

I can barely make out her words. “Why?”

“Because it is the story of us,” she says. “And I want to hear about you.”

My mind spins again. The side of my face hurts where it presses against the steering wheel, and I notice that my broken arm looks bizarrely swollen. It has turned purple and my fingers look like sausages. “You know how it ends.”

“I want to hear it. In your own words.”

“No,” I say.

“After sitting shiva, the depression set in,” she goes on, ignoring me. “You were very lonely. I did not want this for you.”

Sorrow has crept into her voice, and I close my eyes. “I couldn’t help it,” I say. “I missed you.”

She is silent for a moment. She knows I am being evasive. “Look at me, Ira. I want to see your eyes as you tell me what happened.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Why not?” she persists.

The ragged sound of my breath fills the car as I choose my words. “Because,” I finally offer, “I’m ashamed.”

“Because of what you did,” she announces.

She knows the truth and I nod, afraid of what she thinks of me. In time, I hear her sigh.

“I was very worried about you,” she finally says. “You would not eat after you sat shiva, after everyone went away.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“This is not true. You were hungry all the time. You chose to ignore it. You were starving yourself.”

“It doesn’t matter now—,” I falter.

“I want you to tell me the truth,” she persists.

“I wanted to be with you.”

“But what does that mean?”

Too tired to argue, I finally open my eyes. “It means,” I say, “that I was trying to die.”

+++

It was the silence that did it. The silence that I still experience now, a silence that descended after the other mourners went away. At the time, I was not used to it. It was oppressive, suffocating—so quiet that it eventually became a roar that drowned out everything else. And slowly but surely, it leached me of my ability to care.

Exhaustion and habits further conspired against me. At breakfast, I would pull out two cups for coffee instead of one, and my throat would clench as I put the extra cup back in the cupboard. In the afternoon, I would call out that I was going out to retrieve the mail, only to realize that there was no one to answer me. My stomach felt permanently tense, and in the evenings, I couldn’t fathom the idea of cooking a dinner that I would have to eat alone. Days would pass where I ate nothing at all.

I am no doctor. I do not know if the depression was clinical or simply a normal product of mourning, but the effect was the same. I did not see any reason to go on. I did not want to go on. But I was a coward, unwilling to take specific action. Instead, I took no action, other than a refusal to eat much of anything, and again the effect was the same. I lost weight and grew steadily weaker, my path preordained, and little by little, my memories became jumbled. The realization that I was losing Ruth again made everything even worse, and soon I was eating nothing at all. Soon, the summers we spent together vanished entirely and I no longer saw any reason to fend off the inevitable. I began to spend most of my time in bed, eyes unfocused as I gazed at the ceiling, the past and the future a blank.

+++

“I do not think this is true,” she says. “You say that because you were depressed, you did not eat. You say that because you could not remember, you did not eat. But I think that it is because you did not eat that you could not remember. And so you did not have the strength to fight the depression.”

“I was old,” I say. “My strength had long since evaporated.”

“You are making excuses now.” She waves a hand. “But this is not a time to make jokes. I was very worried about you.”

“You couldn’t be worried. You weren’t there. That was the problem.”

Her eyes narrow and I know I’ve struck a nerve. She tilts her head, the morning sunlight casting half her face in shadow. “Why do you say this?”

“Because it’s true?”

“Then how can I be here now?”

“Maybe you aren’t.”

“Ira . . .” She shakes her head. She talks to me the way I imagine she once talked to her students. “Can you see me? Can you hear me?” She leans forward, placing her hand on my own. “Can you feel this?”

Her hand is warm and soft, hands I know even better than my own. “Yes,” I say. “But I couldn’t then.”

She smiles, looking satisfied, as if I’d just proved her point. “That is because you were not eating.”

+++

A truth emerges in any long marriage, and the truth is this: Our spouses sometimes know us better than we even know ourselves.

Ruth was no exception. She knew me. She knew how much I would miss her; she knew how much I needed to hear from her. She also knew that I, not she, would be the one left alone. It’s the only explanation, and over the years, I have never questioned it. If she made one mistake, it was that I did not discover what she had done until my cheeks had hollowed and my arms looked like twigs. I do not remember much about the day I made my discovery. The events have been lost to me, but this is not surprising. By that point, my days had become interchangeable, without meaning, and it wasn’t until darkness set in that I found myself staring at the box of letters that sat upon Ruth’s chest of drawers.

I had seen them every night since her passing, but they were hers, not mine, and to my misguided way of thinking, I simply assumed they would make me feel worse. They would remind me of how much I missed her; they would remind me of all that I had lost. And the idea was unbearable. I just could not face it. And yet, on that night, perhaps because I’d become numb to my feelings, I forced myself from the bed and retrieved the box. I wanted to remember again, if only for a single night, even if it hurt me.

The box was strangely light, and when I lifted the lid, I caught a whiff of the hand lotion Ruth had always used. It was faint, but it was there, and all at once, my hands began to shake. But I was a man possessed, and I reached for the first of the anniversary letters I’d written to her.

The envelope was crisp and yellowing. I’d inscribed her name with a steadiness that had long since vanished, and once again, I was reminded of my age. But I did not stop. Instead, I slid the brittle letter out of its sleeve as I maneuvered it into the light.

At first, the words were foreign to me, a stranger’s words, and I did not recognize them. I paused and tried again, concentrating on bringing the words into focus. And as I did, I felt Ruth’s presence gradually take shape beside me. She is here, I thought to myself; this is what she’d intended. My pulse began to race as I continued to read, the bedroom dissolving around me. Instead, I was back at the lake in the thin mountain air of late summer. The college, shuttered and forlorn, stood in the background as Ruth read the letter, her downcast eyes flickering across the page.

I’ve brought you here—to the place where art first took on true meaning for me—and even though it will never be the same as it once was, this will always be our place. It’s here that I was reminded of the reasons I fell in love with you; it was here where we began our new life together.

When I finished the letter, I slipped it back into the envelope and set it aside. I read the second letter, then the next, then the one after that. The words flowed easily from one year to the next, and with them came memories of summers that in my depression I had been unable to recall. I paused when I read a passage that I’d written on our sixteenth anniversary.

I wish I had the talent to paint the way I feel about you, for my words always feel inadequate. I imagine using red for your passion and pale blue for your kindness; forest green to reflect the depth of your empathy and bright yellow for your unflagging optimism. And still I wonder: can even an artist’s palette capture the full range of what you mean to me?

Later, I came across a letter I’d written in the midst of the dark years, after we’d learned that Daniel had moved away.

I witness your grief and I don’t know what to do, other than wish that I could somehow wash away the traces of your loss. I want more than anything to make things better, but in this I am helpless and have failed you. I’m sorry for this. As your husband, I can listen and hold you; and kiss your tears away, if given the chance.

It went on, this lifetime in a box, one letter after another. Outside the window, the moon ascended and drifted and eventually climbed out of sight as I continued to read. Each letter echoed and reaffirmed my love for Ruth, burnished by our long years together. And Ruth, I learned, had loved me, too, for she left me a gift at the bottom of the stack.

I will admit: I didn’t expect this. That Ruth could still surprise me, even from beyond, caught me off guard. I stared at the letter lying at the bottom of the box, trying to imagine when she’d written it and why she’d never told me. I have read this letter often in the years since I first found it, so many times that I can recite it from memory. I know now that she’d kept it secret in the certainty that I would find it in the hour of my greatest need. She knew I would eventually read my letters to her; she predicted that a time would come when I could no longer resist the pull.

And in the end, it worked out just as she’d planned.

On that night, however, I did not think of this. I simply reached for the letter with trembling hands and slowly began to read.

My Dearest Ira,

I write this letter as you are sleeping in the bedroom, uncertain where I should begin. We both know why you’re reading this letter and what it means. And I am sorry for what you must be enduring.

Unlike you, I am not good at writing letters and there is so much I want to say. Perhaps if I wrote in German it might flow more easily, but then you could not read it, so what would be the point? I want to write you the kind of letter you always wrote to me. Sadly, unlike you I have never been good with words. But I want to try. You deserve it, not just because you’re my husband, but because of the man you are.

I tell myself that I should begin with something romantic, a memory or gesture that captures the kind of husband you have been to me: the long weekend at the beach when we first made love, for example, or our honeymoon, when you presented me with six paintings. Or perhaps I should speak of the letters you wrote, or the feel of your gaze on me as I considered a particular piece of art. And yet, in truth it is in the quiet details of our life together where I have found the most meaning. Your smile at breakfast always made my heart leap, and the moment in which you reached for my hand never failed to reassure me of the rightness of the world. So you see, choosing a handful of singular events feels wrong to me—instead, I prefer to recall you in a hundred different galleries and hotel rooms; to relive a thousand small kisses and nights spent in the familiar comfort of each other’s arms. Each of those memories deserves its own letter, for the way you made me feel in each and every instance. For this, I have loved you in return, more than you will ever know.

I know you are struggling, and I am so sorry that I am not able to comfort you. It feels inconceivable that I will never be able to do so again. My plea to you is this: despite your sadness, do not forget how happy you have made me; do not forget that I loved a man who loved me in return, and this was the greatest gift I could ever have hoped to receive.

I am smiling as I write this, and I hope you can find it in yourself to smile as you read this. Do not drown yourself in grief. Instead, remember me with joy, for this is how I always thought of you. That is what I want, more than anything. I want you to smile when you think of me. And in your smile, I will live forever.

I know you miss me terribly. I miss you, too. But we still have each other, for I am—and always have been—part of you. You carry me in your heart, just as I carried you in mine, and nothing can ever change that. I love you, my darling, and you love me. Hold on to that feeling. Hold on to us. And little by little, you will find a way to heal.

Ruth

+++

“You are thinking about the letter I wrote to you,” Ruth says to me. My eyes flutter open, and I squint with weary effort, determined to bring her into focus.

She is in her sixties, wisdom now deepening her beauty. There are small diamond studs in her ears, a gift I’d bought her when she retired. I try and fail to wet my lips. “How do you know?” I rasp.

“It is not so difficult.” She shrugs. “Your expression gives you away. You have always been easy to read. It is a good thing you never played poker.”

“I played poker in the war.”

“Perhaps,” she says. “But I do not think you won much money.”

I acknowledge the truth of this with a weak grin. “Thank you for the letter,” I croak. “I don’t know that I would have survived without it.”

“You would have starved,” she agrees. “You have always been a stubborn man.”

A wave of dizziness washes over me, causing her image to flicker. It’s getting harder to hold on to her. “I had a piece of toast that night.”

“Yes, I know. You and your toast. Breakfast for dinner. This I never understood. And toast was not enough.”

“But it was something. And by then, it was closer to breakfast anyway.”

“You should have had pancakes. And eggs. That way, you would have had the strength to walk the house again. You could have looked at the paintings and remembered, just like you used to.”

“I wasn’t ready for that yet. It would have hurt too much. Besides, one of them was missing.”

“It was not missing,” she says. She turns toward the window, her face in profile. “It had not arrived yet. It would not come for another week.” For a moment, she is silent, and I know she isn’t thinking about the letter. Nor is she thinking of me. Instead, she is thinking about the knock at the door. The knock came a little more than a week later, revealing a stranger on the doorstep. Ruth’s shoulders sag, and her voice is laced with regret. “I wish I could have been there,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I would have loved to talk to her. I have so many questions.”

These final words are drawn from a deep, hidden well of sadness, and despite my plight, I feel an unexpected ache.

+++

The visitor was tall and attractive, the creases around her eyes suggesting too many hours spent in the sun. Her blond hair was tucked into a messy ponytail, and she was dressed in faded jeans and a simple short-sleeved blouse. But the ring on her finger and the BMW parked at the curb spoke of a well-heeled existence far different from mine. Under her arm she carried a package wrapped in simple brown paper, of a familiar size and shape.

“Mr. Levinson?” she asked. When I nodded, she smiled. “My name is Andrea Lockerby. You don’t know me, but your wife, Ruth, was once my husband’s teacher. It was a long time ago and you probably don’t remember, but his name was Daniel McCallum. I was wondering if you have a few minutes.”

For a moment, I was too surprised to speak, the name repeating in an endless loop. Only half-aware of what I was doing, I dumbly stepped aside to allow her to enter and guided her to the living room. When I sat in the easy chair, she took a seat on the couch kitty-corner to me.

Even then, I could think of nothing to say. Hearing Daniel’s name after almost forty years, in the aftermath of Ruth’s passing, still remains the greatest shock of my life.

She cleared her throat. “I wanted to come by to express my condolences. I know that your wife recently passed away and I’m sorry for your loss.”

I blinked, trying to find words for the flood of emotion and memories that threatened to drown me. Where is he? I wanted to ask. Why did he vanish? And why did he never contact Ruth? But I could say none of those things. Instead, I could only croak out, “Daniel McCallum?”

She set the wrapped package off to the side as she nodded. “He mentioned a few times that he used to come to your house. Your wife tutored him here.”

“And . . . he’s your husband?”

Her eyes flashed away for an instant before coming back to me. “He was my husband. I’m remarried now. Daniel passed away sixteen years ago.”

At her words, I felt something go numb inside. I tried to do the math, to understand how old he’d been, but I couldn’t. The only thing I knew for sure was that he’d been far too young and that it didn’t make any sense. She must have known what I was thinking, for she went on.

“He had an aneurysm,” she said. “It occurred spontaneously—no prior symptoms at all. But it was massive and there was nothing the doctors could do.”

The numbness continued to spread until it felt as though I couldn’t move at all.

“I’m sorry,” I offered. The words sounded inadequate even to my own ears.

“Thank you.” She nodded. “And again, I’m sorry for your loss as well.”

For a moment, silence weighed on us both. Finally, I spread my hands out before her. “What can I do for you, Mrs. . . .”

“Lockerby,” she reminded me, reaching for the package. She slid it toward me. “I wanted to give you this. It’s been in my parents’ attic for years, and when they finally sold the house a couple of months ago, I found it in one of the boxes they sent me. Daniel was very proud of it, and it just didn’t feel right to throw his painting away.”

“A painting?” I asked.

“He told me once that painting it had been one of the most important things he ever did.”

It was hard for me to grasp her meaning. “You’re saying that Daniel painted something?”

She nodded. “In Tennessee. He told me that he painted it while living at the group home. An artist who volunteered there helped him with it.”

“Please,” I said, suddenly raising my hand. “I don’t understand any of this. Can you just start at the beginning and tell me about Daniel? My wife always wondered what happened to him.”

She hesitated. “I’m not sure how much I can really tell you. I didn’t meet him until we were in college, and he never talked much about his past. It’s been a long time.”

I stayed quiet, willing her to continue. She seemed to be searching for the right words, picking at a loose thread in the hem of her blouse. “All I know is the little he did tell me,” she began. “He said his parents had died and that he lived with his stepbrother and his wife somewhere around here, but they lost the farm and ended up moving to Knoxville, Tennessee. The three of them lived in their pickup truck for a while, but then the stepbrother got arrested for something and Daniel ended up in a group home. He lived there and did well enough in school to earn an academic scholarship to the University of Tennessee . . . we started dating when we were seniors, both majoring in international relations. Anyway, a few months after graduation, before we headed off to the Peace Corps, we got married. That’s really all I know. Like I said, he didn’t talk much about his past—it sounded like a difficult childhood and I think it was painful for him to relive it.”

I tried to digest all this, trying to picture the trajectory of Daniel’s life. “What was he like?” I pressed.

“Daniel? He was . . . incredibly smart and kind, but there was a definite intensity to him. It wasn’t anger, exactly. It was more like he’d seen the worst that life could offer, and was determined to make things better. He had a kind of charisma, a conviction that just made you want to follow him. We spent two years in Cambodia with the Peace Corps, and after that he took a job with the United Way while I worked at a free clinic. We bought a little house and talked about having kids, but after a year or so we sort of realized that we weren’t ready for suburbia. So we sold our things, boxed up some personal items and stored them at my parents’, and ended up taking jobs with a human rights organization based in Nairobi. We were there for seven years, and I don’t think he’d ever been happier. He traveled to a dozen different countries getting various projects under way, and he felt like his life had true purpose, that he was making a difference.”

She stared out the window, falling silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her expression was a mixture of regret and wonder. “He was just so smart and curious about everything. He read all the time. Even though he was young, he was already in line to become the executive director of the organization, and he probably would have made it. But he died when he was only thirty-three.” She shook her head. “After that, Africa just wasn’t the same for me. So I came home.”

As she talked, I tried and failed to reconcile all she had told me with the dusty country boy who’d studied at our dining room table. Yet I knew in my heart that Ruth would have been proud of the way he turned out.

“And you’re remarried?”

“Twelve years now.” She smiled. “Two kids. Or rather, stepchildren. My husband’s an orthopedic surgeon. I live in Nashville.”

“And you drove all the way here to bring me a painting?”

“My parents moved to Myrtle Beach—we were on our way to visit them. Actually, my husband’s waiting for me at a coffee shop downtown, so I should probably get going soon. And I’m sorry to just drop in like this. I know it’s a terrible time. But it didn’t feel right to just throw the painting away, so on a whim, I looked up your wife’s name on the Internet and saw the obituary. I realized that your house would be right on the way when we went to see my parents.”

I had no idea what to expect, but after removing the brown paper, my throat seemed to close in on itself. It was a painting of Ruth—a child’s painting, crudely conceived. The lines weren’t exactly right and her features were rather out of proportion, but he’d been able to capture her smile and her eyes with surprising skill. In this portrait, I could detect the passion and lively amusement that had always defined her; there was also a trace of the enigma that had always transfixed me, no matter how long we were together. I traced my finger over the brushstrokes that formed her lips and cheek.

“Why . . . ,” was all I could say, nearly breathless.

“The answer’s on the back,” she said, her voice gentle. When I leaned the painting forward, I saw the photograph I’d taken of Ruth and Daniel so long ago. It had yellowed with age and was curling at the corners. I tugged it free, staring at it for a long time.

“On the back,” she said, touching my hand.

I turned the photograph over, and there, written in neat penmanship, I saw what he had written.

Ruth Levinson

Third grade teacher.

She believes in me and I can be anything I want when I grow up.

I can even change the world.

All I remember then is that I was overcome, my mind going blank. I have no recollection of what more we talked about, if anything. I do remember, however, that as she was getting ready to leave, she turned to me as she stood in the open doorway.

“I don’t know where he kept it at the group home, but you should know that in college, the painting hung on the wall right over his desk. It was the only personal thing he had in his room. After college, it came with us to Cambodia, then back to the States. He told me he was afraid that something would happen to it if he brought it to Africa, and ended up leaving it behind. But after we got there, he regretted it. He told me then that the painting meant more to him than anything he owned. It wasn’t until I found the photograph in the back that I really understood what he meant. He wasn’t talking about the painting. He was talking about your wife.”

+++

In the car, Ruth is quiet. I know she has more questions about Daniel, but at the time, I had not thought to ask them. This, too, is one of my many regrets, for after that, I never saw Andrea again. Just as Daniel had vanished in 1963, she, too, vanished from my life.

“You hung the portrait above the fireplace,” she finally says. “And then you removed the other paintings from storage and hung them all over the house and stacked them in the rooms.”

“I wanted to see them. I wanted to remember again. I wanted to see you.”

Ruth is silent, but I understand. More than anything, Ruth would have wanted to see Daniel, if only through his wife’s eyes.

+++

Day by day, after I’d read the letter and once the portrait of Ruth was hung, the depression began to lift. I began to eat more regularly. It would take over a year for me to gain back the weight I’d lost, but my life began to settle into a kind of routine. And in that first year after she died, yet another miracle—the third miracle in that otherwise tragic year—occurred that helped me find my way back.

Like Andrea, another unexpected visitor arrived at my doorstep—this time a former student of Ruth’s who came to the house to express her condolences. Her name was Jacqueline, and though I did not remember her, she too wanted to talk. She told me how much Ruth had meant to her as a teacher, and before she left, she showed me a tribute that she’d written in Ruth’s honor that would be published in the local paper. It was both flattering and revealing, and when it was published, it seemed to open the floodgates. Over the next few months, the parade of former students visiting my house swelled. Lindsay and Madeline and Eric and Pete and countless others, most of whom I’d never known existed, showed up at my door at unexpected moments, sharing stories about my wife’s years in the classroom.

Through their words, I came to realize that Ruth had been a key who unlocked the possibilities of so many people’s lives—mine was only the first.

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+++

The years after Ruth’s death, I sometimes think, can be divided into four phases. The depression and recovery after Ruth’s passing was the first of those phases; the period in which I tried to move on as best I could was the second. The third phase covered the years following the reporter’s visit in 2005, when the bars went up on the windows. It wasn’t until three years ago, however, that I finally decided what to do with the collection, which led to the fourth and final phase.

Estate planning is a complicated affair, but essentially, the question boiled down to this: I had to decide what to do with our possessions, or the state would end up deciding for me. Howie Sanders had been pressing Ruth and me for years to make a decision. He asked us whether there were any charities of which I was particularly fond or whether I wanted the paintings to go to a particular museum. Perhaps I wanted to auction them off, with the proceeds earmarked for specific organizations or universities? After the article appeared—and the potential value of the collection became a topic of heated speculation in the art world—he became even more persistent, though by then I was the only one who was there to listen.

It wasn’t until 2008, however, that I finally consented to come to his office.

He had arranged meetings of a confidential nature with curators from various museums: New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art, the North Carolina Museum of Art, and the Whitney, as well as representatives from Duke University, Wake Forest, and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. There were individuals from the Anti-Defamation League and United Jewish Appeal—a couple of my father’s favorite organizations—as well as someone from Sotheby’s. I was ushered into a conference room and introductions were made, and on each of their faces, I could read an avid curiosity as they wondered how Ruth and I—a haberdasher and a schoolteacher—had managed to accumulate such an extensive private modern art collection.

I sat through a series of individual presentations, and in each instance, I was assured that any portion of the collection that I cared to put in their hands would be valued fairly—or, in the case of the auctioneer, maximized. The charities promised to put the money toward any causes that were special to Ruth and me.

I was tired by the time the day ended, and upon my return home, I fell asleep almost immediately in the easy chair in the living room. When I woke, I found myself staring at the painting of Ruth, wondering what she would have wanted me to do.

“But I did not tell you,” Ruth says quietly. It has been a while since she has spoken, and I suspect that she’s trying to conserve my strength. She, too, can feel the end coming. I force my eyes open, but she is nothing but a blurry image now. “No,” I answer. My voice is ragged and slurry, almost unintelligible. “You never wanted to discuss it.”

She tilts her head to look at me. “I trusted you to make the decision.”

+++

I can remember the moment when I finally made up my mind. It was early evening, a few days after the meetings at Howie’s office. Howie had called an hour earlier, asking if I had any questions or wanted him to follow up with anyone in particular. After I hung up, and with the help of my walker, I made my way to the back porch.

There were two rocking chairs flanking a small table, dusty from disuse. When we were younger, Ruth and I used to sit out here and talk, watching the stars emerge from hiding in the slowly darkening sky. Later, when we were older, these evenings on the back porch became less frequent, because both of us had grown more sensitive to the temperature. The cold of winter and the heat of summer rendered the porch unusable for more than half the year; it was only during the spring and fall that Ruth and I continued to venture out.

But on that night, despite the heat and the thick layer of dust on the chairs, I sat just as we used to. I pondered the meeting and everything that had been said. And it became clear that Ruth had been right: No one really understood.

For a while, I toyed with the idea of bequeathing the entire collection to Andrea Lockerby, if only because she, too, had loved Daniel. But I didn’t really know her, nor had Ruth. Besides, I couldn’t help feeling disappointed that despite the obvious influence that Ruth had had on Daniel’s life, he had never once tried to contact her. This I just could not understand, or entirely forgive, because I knew Ruth’s heart had been irreparably broken.

There was no easy answer, because for us, the art had never been about the money. Like the reporter, these curators and collectors, these experts and salespeople, didn’t understand. With the echo of Ruth’s words in my head, I finally felt the answer begin to take shape.

An hour later, I called Howie at his home. I told him that my intention was to auction the entire collection, and like a good soldier, he did not debate my decision. Nor did he question me when I explained that I wanted the auction held in Greensboro. However, when I told him how I wanted the auction to be handled, he was stunned into silence to the point where I wondered whether he was still connected. Finally, after clearing his throat, he talked with me about the specifics of all that it would entail. I told him that secrecy was the foremost priority.

Over the next few months, the details were arranged. I went to Howie’s office two more times and met with the representatives from Sotheby’s. I met again with the executive directors of various Jewish charities; the sums they would receive obviously depended on the auction itself and how much money the collection would fetch. To that end, appraisers spent weeks cataloging and photographing the entire collection, estimating value, and establishing provenance. Eventually, a catalog was sent for my approval. The estimated value of the collection was mind-boggling even to me, but again it did not matter.

When all the arrangements for the initial and subsequent auctions were completed—it was impossible to sell all the art in a single day—I talked to both Howie and the appropriate representative from Sotheby’s, outlining their responsibilities, and had them sign numerous legal documents, ensuring there could be no alteration to the plan I envisioned. I wanted to prepare for any contingency, and when everything was finally ready, I signed my will in front of four witnesses. I further specified that my will was final and not to be altered or modified under any circumstances.

Back at home, in the aftermath, I sat in the living room and gazed at the painting of Ruth, tired and satisfied. I missed her, maybe more in that instant than I ever had before, but even so, I smiled and said the words that I knew she would have wanted to hear.

“They will understand, Ruth,” I said. “They will finally understand.”

+++

It is afternoon now, and I feel myself shrinking, like a sand castle slowly being washed away with every wave. Beside me, Ruth looks at me with concern.

“You should take a nap again,” she says, her voice tender.

“I’m not tired,” I lie.

Ruth knows that I am lying, but she pretends to believe me, chattering on with a forced insouciance. “I do not think I would have been a good wife to someone else. I think I am sometimes too stubborn.”

“That’s true,” I concede with a smile. “You’re lucky I put up with you.”

She rolls her eyes. “I am trying to be serious, Ira.”

I stare at her, wishing that I could hold her. Soon, I think to myself. Soon, I will join her. It is hard to keep talking, but I force myself to respond.

“If we’d never met, I think I would have known that my life wasn’t complete. And I would have wandered the world in search of you, even if I didn’t know who I was looking for.”

Her eyes brighten at this, and she reaches over to run her hand through my hair, her touch soothing and warm. “You have said this to me before. I have always liked this answer.”

I close my eyes and they nearly stay closed. When I force them open again, Ruth has dimmed, becoming almost translucent.

“I’m tired, Ruth.”

“It is not time yet. I have not read your letter yet. The new one, the one you wanted to deliver. Can you remember what you wrote?”

I concentrate, recalling a tiny snippet, but only that and nothing more.

“Not enough,” I mumble.

“Tell me what you can remember. Anything.”

It takes a while to gather my strength. I breathe deliberately, hear the faint whistle of my labored exchange. I can no longer feel the dryness in my throat. All of it has been replaced by bone-deep exhaustion.

“ ‘If there is a heaven, we will find each other again, for there is no heaven without you.’ ” I stop, realizing that saying even this much leaves me breathless.

I think she is touched, but I can no longer tell. Though I am looking at her, she is almost gone now. But I can feel the radius of her sadness, her regret, and I know that she is leaving. Here and now, she can’t exist without me.

She seems to know this, and though she continues to fade, she scoots closer in the seat. She runs her hand through my hair and kisses me on my cheek. She is sixteen and twenty and thirty and forty, every age, all at once. She is so beautiful that my eyes begin to well with tears.

“I love what you have written to me,” she whispers. “I want to hear the rest of it.”

“I don’t think so,” I mumble, and I think I feel one of her tears splash onto my cheek.

“I love you, Ira,” she whispers. Her breath is soft in my ear, like the murmurings of an angel. “Remember how much you always meant to me.”

“I remember . . . ,” I begin, and when she kisses me again, my eyes close for what I think will be the very last time.

Chapter 29

Sophia

On Saturday night, while the rest of the campus was celebrating yet another weekend, Sophia was writing a paper in the library when her cell phone buzzed. Though the use of phones was allowed only in designated areas, Sophia saw there was no one else around and reached over, frowning when she saw the text and the sender.

Call me, Marcia had written. It’s urgent.

Minimal as it was, it was more communication than they’d had since the argument, and Sophia wondered what to do. Text back? Ask what was going on? Or do as Marcia had asked and call her?

Sophia wasn’t sure. Frankly, she didn’t want to talk to Marcia at all. Like the rest of her sorority, she was surely at a party or at a bar. She was most likely drinking, which opened the door to the possibility that she and Brian might be fighting, and the last thing Sophia wanted was to get involved in something like that. She didn’t want to listen to Marcia cry about what a jerk he was, nor did she feel ready to rush over and support her, especially after the painstaking way in which Marcia had continued to avoid her.

Now, though, she wanted Sophia to call her. Because whatever was going on, it was urgent.

Now that was a word that was open to all sorts of interpretation, she thought to herself. She debated for another few seconds, making her decision, before finally saving her work and shutting down the computer. She slid it into her backpack, put on her jacket, and headed to the exit. As she pushed open the door, she was met unexpectedly by an arctic blast of air and a thickening layer of snow on the ground. The temperature must have dropped twenty degrees in the last few hours. She was going to freeze on the walk back . . .

But not yet. Brushing aside her better judgment, she reached for her phone and tucked back into the lobby. Marcia picked up on the first ring. In the background, she could hear music blaring and the cacophony of a hundred conversations.

“Sophia? Thank God you called!”

Sophia drew a tense breath. “What’s so urgent?”

She could hear the background noise fading, Marcia no doubt in search of someplace more quiet. A door slammed, and she heard Marcia’s voice more clearly.

“You need to get back to the house right now,” Marcia said, a note of panic in her tone.

“Why?”

“Luke is there. He’s parked on the street out front. He’s been waiting there for the last twenty minutes. You need to get there right away.”

Sophia swallowed. “We broke up, Marcia. I don’t want to see him.”

“Oh,” Marcia said, not bothering to hide her confusion. “That’s terrible. I know how much you liked him . . .”

“Is that it?” Sophia asked. “I’ve got to go . . .”

“No, wait!” Marcia called out. “I know you’re mad at me and I know I deserve it, but that’s not why I’m calling. Brian knows that Luke is there—Mary-Kate told him a few minutes ago. Brian’s been drinking for hours and he’s getting riled up. He’s already getting some of the guys together to go after him. I’ve been trying to talk him out of it, but you know how he is. And Luke has no idea what’s coming. You might be broken up, but I don’t think you want him to get hurt . . .”

By then, Sophia was barely listening, the icy winds drowning out the sound of Marcia’s voice as she hurried back toward the house.

+++

The campus appeared deserted as she took every shortcut she could, trying to reach the house in time. As she ran, she called Luke repeatedly on his cell phone, but for whatever reason, he wasn’t answering. She managed to send him a brief text as well but didn’t get a response.

It wasn’t far, but the cold February wind was bitter, stinging her ears and cheeks, and her feet kept sliding in the new-fallen snow. She hadn’t worn boots, and melting snow seeped through her shoes, soaking her toes. Wet snow continued to fall, feathery and thick, the kind of snow that would turn instantly to ice, making the roads dangerous.

She broke into a flat-out run, autodialing Luke again to no avail. Off campus now, onto the streets. Then Greek Row, students clustered together behind brightly lit windows. A few people hurried down the sidewalks, bustling from one party to the next, the usual Saturday night ritual of abandon and excess. Her house was on the far end of the street, and peering into the snowy darkness, she faintly made out the outline of Luke’s truck.

Just then, she glimpsed a group of guys leaving a fraternity house three doors down, on the other side of the street. Five or six of them, led by someone very tall. Brian. Another figure soon followed, and though she was illuminated only briefly as she ran across the porch and down the steps, Sophia easily recognized her roommate. Faintly, muffled by the winter weather, she heard Marcia calling for Brian to stop.

As she ran, her backpack thumped awkwardly and her feet continued to slip, making her feel clumsy. She was closing in, but not fast enough. Brian and his friends had already fanned out on either side of the truck. She was four houses away, unable to tell from the darkened interior of the truck whether Luke was in there at all. Marcia’s screams cut the air again, angry this time. “This is stupid, Brian! Just forget about him!”

Three houses to go. She watched as Brian and his friend yanked open the door on the driver’s side and reached in. A scuffle began and she screamed just as Luke was pulled from the truck.

“Leave him alone!” Sophia shouted.

“You’ve got to stop, Brian!” Marcia chimed in. Brian—either buzzed or drunk—ignored them both.

Off balance, Luke stumbled into the arms of Jason and Rick, the same two who had been with Brian at the rodeo in McLeansville. Four others crowded around, surrounding Luke.

Panicked, Sophia ran down the center of the street just as Brian reeled back and threw a punch, which sent Luke’s head whipping back. Sophia felt a sudden flash of hard-formed terror as she remembered the video . . .

As Luke went wobbly, Rick and Jason released him, and he toppled onto the snow-covered asphalt. Finally closing in, still terrified, she watched for movement, not seeing any . . .

“Get up!” Brian shouted at him. “I told you it wasn’t over!”

Sophia saw Marcia jump in front of Brian.

“Just stop!” she screamed at him, trying to hold him back. “You’ve got to stop!”

Brian ignored her as Sophia saw Luke finally beginning to struggle to all fours, trying to get to his feet.

“Get up!” Brian shouted again. By then, Sophia was able to break through the circle, elbowing past two frat boys to insert herself between Brian and Luke, next to Marcia.

“It’s over, Brian!” she yelled. “Knock it off!”

“It’s not over yet!”

“It is now!” Sophia responded.

“Come on, Brian,” Marcia pleaded, reaching for Brian’s hands. “Let’s just go. It’s cold out here. I’m freezing.”

By then, Luke had risen to his feet, the bruise on his cheekbone evident. Brian was breathing hard, and, surprising Sophia, he shoved Marcia to the side. It wasn’t a violent push, but Marcia hadn’t expected it and she stumbled, falling to the ground. Brian didn’t seem to notice. He took a menacing step forward, preparing to shove Sophia out of the way, too. Stepping aside, she whipped her phone from her pocket. By the time Brian grabbed Luke, Sophia was already pushing buttons and raising the phone.

“Go ahead! I’ll record the whole thing! Go to jail for all I care! Get kicked off the team! You can all get kicked off for all I care!”

She continued to back away, recording, panning over everyone present. She was zooming in on their shocked and anxious expressions when Brian lunged at her, tearing the phone from her grasp and smashing it to the ground.

“You’re not recording anything!”

“Maybe not,” Marcia said from the opposite side of the circle, holding up her phone. “But I am.”

+++

“I guess I probably deserved that,” Luke said. “After what I did to him, I mean.”

They’d climbed into the truck, Luke behind the wheel, Sophia beside him. The threats had worked. It was Jason and Rick who eventually convinced Brian to return with them to the frat house, where Brian was no doubt reliving the punch that had sent Luke crumpling to the ground. Marcia didn’t go with them; instead, she retreated to the sorority house and Sophia had watched the light go on in their room.

“You didn’t deserve it,” she said. “As I recall, you never hit Brian. You just kind of . . . pinned him to the ground.”

“In the dirt. Facedown.”

“There was that,” she admitted.

“Thanks for stepping in, by the way. With your phone. I’ll buy you a new one.”

“You don’t have to. It was getting old anyway. Why didn’t you answer?”

“Battery died on the drive home and I forgot to bring the car charger. I only packed the regular one. I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal.”

“Did you at least text your mom?”

“Yeah,” he said. If he wondered how she’d known about his habit of doing that, he didn’t ask. Sophia folded her hands in her lap.

“I guess you know what I’ll ask next, right?”

Luke squinted at her. “Why am I here?”

“You shouldn’t have come. I don’t want you here. Especially right after you get back from an event. Because—”

“You can’t live like this.”

“No,” she said. “I can’t.”

“I know,” he said. He sighed before turning sideways in his seat to face her. “I came here to tell you that I can’t either. As of tonight, I’m retired. For good, this time.”

“You’re quitting?” she asked, disbelief in her voice.

“I’ve already quit.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond. Should she congratulate him? Sympathize? Express her relief?

“I also came by to ask if you were doing anything this weekend. Or if you had anything pressing on Monday? Like tests or papers.”

“I have a paper due next Thursday, but other than that, just a couple of classes. What did you have in mind?”

“Just a little break to get my head straight. Before my battery died, I called and talked to my mom about it, and she thinks it’s a good idea.” He let out a long breath. “I was thinking of driving up to the cabins, and I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

She still had trouble absorbing everything he’d just said or figuring out whether to believe it. Could he be telling the truth? Had he really given up riding for good?

With his eyes fixed on her, she whispered, “Okay.”

+++

Upstairs in their room, she found Marcia packing a duffel bag.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to drive home tonight. I just need to sleep in my own bed, you know? I’ll be out of here in a minute or two.”

“It’s okay,” Sophia said. “It’s your room, too.”

Marcia nodded, continuing to throw items into her bag. Sophia shifted from one foot to the other. “Thanks for texting me. And for what you did with the phone down there.”

“Yeah, well, he deserved it. He was acting . . . crazy.”

“It was more than that,” Sophia said.

Marcia looked up for the first time. “You’re welcome.”

“He probably won’t remember much of it.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if you like him.”

Marcia debated that for an instant before shaking her head. Sophia had the sense she’d come to some sort of conclusion even if she wasn’t quite sure what it was.

“Is Luke gone yet?”

“He went to get some gas and to pick up some supplies. He’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Seriously? I hope he keeps the doors locked this time.” She zipped up her bag and then focused on Sophia again. “Wait . . . why’s he coming back? I thought you said you broke up with him.”

“I did.”

“But?”

“How about we talk about it next week—when you get back. Because right now, I’m not completely sure what’s happening with us.”

Marcia accepted that, then started toward the door before stopping again.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, “and I have the sense that everything is going to work out between you two. And if you want my opinion, I think that’s a good thing.”

+++

In the mountains, the snowfall had been heavy and the roads were icy in places, which meant they didn’t reach the cabins until nearly four in the morning. The grounds resembled a pioneer camp, long since abandoned. Despite the absence of light anywhere, Luke unerringly guided his truck to a stop in front of the same cabin where they’d stayed before, the key dangling from the lock.

Inside, the cabin was frigid, the thin plank walls doing little to keep the cold at bay. He’d told her to pack both a hat and mittens, and she wore them along with her jacket while Luke got the fireplace and the woodstove burning. The skidding, slipping drive had kept her on edge all night, but now that they had arrived, she felt exhaustion catching up with her.

They went to bed fully clothed in their jackets and hats, falling asleep within minutes. When Sophia woke hours later, the house had warmed considerably, though not enough for her to walk around without several layers of clothing. She reasoned that a cheap motel would have been more comfortable, but when she took in the scene outside the window, she was struck again by how beautiful it was here. Icicles hung from the branches, glittering in the sunlight. Luke was already in the kitchen, and the aroma of bacon and eggs filled the air.

“You’re finally awake,” he observed.

“What time is it?”

“It’s almost noon.”

“I guess I was just tired. How long have you been up?”

“A couple of hours. Trying to keep this place warm enough to be habitable isn’t as easy as you think.”

She didn’t doubt that. Gradually, her attention was drawn toward the window. “Have you ever been here during the winter?”

“Just once. I was little, though. I spent the day building snowmen and eating roasted marshmallows.”

She smiled at the image of him as a boy before growing serious. “Are you ready to talk yet? About what made you change your mind?”

He forked a piece of bacon and removed it from the pan. “Nothing, really. I guess I just finally got around to listening to common sense.”

“That’s it?”

He set down the fork. “I drew Big Ugly Critter in the short go. And when it came time to actually ride . . .” He shook his head, not finishing the thought. “Anyway, afterwards, I knew that it was time to hang up the spurs. I realized I was done with it. It was killing my mom little by little.”

And me, she wanted to say. But didn’t.

He glanced over his shoulder, as if hearing her unspoken words. “I also realized that I missed you.”

“What about the ranch?” she asked

He scooped the scrambled eggs onto two plates.

“We’ll lose it, I guess. Then try to start over again. My mom’s pretty well-known. I’m hoping she’ll land on her feet. Of course, she told me not to worry about her. That I should be more concerned with what I’m going to do.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet.” He turned and brought both plates to the table. A pot of coffee was waiting, along with the utensils. “I’m hoping that this weekend is going to help me figure that out.”

“And you think we can pick up right where we left off?”

“Not at all,” he said. He arranged the plates on the table and pulled out her chair. “But I was hoping that we could maybe start over.”

+++

After they ate, they spent the afternoon building a snowman, just as he once did as a child. While they rolled the sticky snowballs into ever-larger boulders, they caught each other up on their lives. Luke described the events in Macon and South Carolina and what was happening at the ranch. Sophia explained that the state of affairs with Marcia had driven her to spend all her time at the library, leaving her so far ahead in her reading that she doubted she’d have to study for the next two weeks.

“That’s one of the good things about trying to avoid your roommate,” she commented. “It improves your study habits.”

“She surprised me last night,” Luke remarked. “I wouldn’t have thought she’d do something like that. Based on the circumstances, I mean.”

“I wasn’t surprised,” Sophia said.

“No?”

She thought about it, wondering how Marcia was doing. “Okay. Maybe I was a little surprised.”

+++

That evening, as they snuggled on the couch beneath a blanket, the fireplace roaring, Sophia asked, “Are you going to miss riding?”

“Probably a little,” he said. “Not enough to do it again, though.”

“You sound so sure of that.”

“I’m sure.”

Sophia turned to study his face, mesmerized by the reflection of firelight in his eyes. “I’m kind of sad for your mom,” she said. “I know she’s relieved that you stopped, but . . .”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sad, too. But I’ll make it up to her somehow.”

“I think having you around is all she really wanted.”

“That’s what I told myself,” he said. “But now, I’ve got a question for you. And I want you to think about it before you answer. It’s important.”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you busy next weekend? Because if you’re free, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” she asked.

“I’m trying to start over. That’s what you do, right? Ask someone out?”

She leaned up, kissing him for the first time that day. “I don’t think we have to start all the way over, do we?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“I love you, Luke.”

“I love you, too, Sophia.”

+++

They made love that night, then again on Monday morning, after sleeping in late. They had a leisurely brunch, and after taking a walk, Sophia watched Luke load up the truck from the warmth of the cabin, sipping her coffee. They weren’t the same as they once had been. She reflected that in the few months they’d known each other, their relationship had evolved into something deeper, something she hadn’t anticipated.

They hit the road a few minutes later and settled into the drive, making their way down the mountain. The sun reflected against the snow and produced a harsh glare that caused Sophia to turn away, leaning her head against the truck’s window. She glanced over at Luke in the driver’s seat. She still wasn’t sure what was going to happen when she graduated in May, but for the first time, she began to wonder whether Luke might be free to follow her. She hadn’t voiced those thoughts to him, but she wondered whether her plans had played a role in his decision to walk away from his career.

She was musing over these questions in a warm and peaceful haze, on the verge of dozing, when Luke’s voice broke the silence.

“Did you see that?”

She opened her eyes, realizing that Luke was slowing the truck.

“I didn’t see anything,” she admitted.

Surprising her, Luke slammed on the brakes and pulled his truck to the side of the highway, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. “I thought I saw something,” he said. He put the truck into gear and shut off the engine, flicking on the flashers. “Give me a second, will you?”

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure. I just want to check something out.”

He grabbed his jacket from behind his seat and hopped out of the truck, pulling it on as he walked toward the rear of the truck. Over her shoulder, she noted that they’d just rounded a curve. Luke checked in both directions, then jogged to the other side of the road, approaching the guardrail. Only then did she realize that it was broken.

Luke peered down the steeply sloping embankment, then quickly swiveled his head toward her. Even from a distance, she could sense the urgency in his expression and body language. Quickly, she hopped out of the truck.

“Grab my phone and call 911!” he shouted. “A car went off the road here, and I think someone’s still in it!”

And with that, he climbed through the broken section of the guardrail, vanishing from sight.

Chapter 30

Sophia

Later, she would recall the events that followed in a series of quick-flash images: Making the emergency call and then watching Luke descend the steep embankment. Running back to the truck in panic for a bottle of water after Luke said he thought the driver was still moving. Clinging to bushes and branches as she scrambled down the wooded incline and then noting the state of the wreck—the crumpled hood, quarter-panel nearly sheared off, the jagged cracks in the windshield. Watching Luke struggle to open the jammed driver’s-side door while trying to keep his balance on the steep slope, a slope that became a sheer cliff face only several feet from the front of the car.

But most of all, she remembered her throat catching at the sight of the old man, his bony head pressed against the steering wheel. She noted the wisps of hair covering his spotted scalp, the ears that seemed too big for him. His arm was bent at an unnatural angle. A gash in his forehead, his shoulder cocked wrong, lips so dry they’d begun to bleed. He had to be in terrible pain, yet his expression was oddly serene. When Luke was eventually able to wrench the door open, she found herself moving closer, struggling to keep her balance on the slippery incline.

“I’m here,” Luke was saying to the old man. “Can you hear me? Can you move?”

Sophia could hear the panic in Luke’s voice as he reached over, gently touching the man’s neck in search of a pulse. “It’s weak,” he said to her. “He’s in really bad shape.”

The old man’s moan was barely audible. Luke instinctively reached for the water bottle and poured some water into the cap, then tilted it to the man’s mouth. Most spilled, but the drops were enough to wet his lips and he was able to choke down a swallow.

“Who are you?” Luke inquired gently. “What’s your name?”

The man made a sound that came out in a wheeze. His half-open eyes were unfocused. “Ira.”

“When did this happen?”

It took a long moment for the word to come. “atur . . . day . . .”

Luke glanced at Sophia in disbelief before focusing on Ira again. “We’re getting you help, okay? The ambulance should be here soon. Just hold on. Do you want some more water?”

At first, Sophia wasn’t sure Ira had heard Luke, but he opened his mouth slightly and Luke poured another capful, dribbling in a small amount. Ira swallowed again before mumbling something unintelligible. Then, with a slow rasp, the words separated by breaths: “Edder . . . Fo . . . I . . . ife . . . Roof . . .”

Neither Sophia nor Luke could make sense of it. Luke leaned in again.

“I don’t understand. Can I call someone for you, Ira? Do you have a wife or kids? Can you tell me a phone number?”

“Edder . . .”

“Better?” Luke asked.

“No . . . Edd . . . edder . . . in . . . car . . . roof . . .”

Luke turned to Sophia, uncertain. Sophia shook her head, automatically running through the alphabet . . . getter, jetter, letter . . .

Letter?

“I think he’s talking about a letter.” She bent closer to Ira, could smell illness on his faint breath. “Letter? That’s what you meant, right?”

“Ess . . . ,” Ira wheezed, his eyes closing again. His breaths rattled like pebbles in a jar. Sophia scanned the interior of the car, her gaze falling on several items strewn on the floor beneath the caved-in dashboard. Clinging to the side of the car, she worked herself around to the rear, making for the other side.

“What are you doing?” Luke called out.

“I want to find his letter . . .”

The passenger side was less damaged and Sophia was able to pull open the door with relative ease. On the floor lay a thermos and a misshapen sandwich. A small plastic bag filled with prunes. A bottle of water . . . and there, up in the corner, an envelope. She reached in, her feet sliding before she caught herself. She extended her reach with a grunt, grasping the envelope between two fingers. From across the car, she held it up, noting Luke’s incomprehension.

“A letter for his wife,” she said, closing the door and making her way back to Luke. “That’s what he was saying earlier.”

“When he was talking about the roof?”

“Not roof,” Sophia said. She turned the envelope around so Luke could read it before sliding it into her jacket pocket. “Ruth.”

+++

An officer with the highway patrol was the first to arrive. After scrambling down the slope, he and Luke agreed that it was too risky to move Ira. But it took forever for the EMTs and ambulance to arrive, and even when they did, it was clear that there wasn’t a safe way to get him out of the car and up the snowy slope on a stretcher. They would have needed triple the manpower, and even then it would have been a challenge.

In the end, a large tow truck was called, which increased the delay. When it arrived and moved into the proper place, a cable was rolled out and hooked to the car’s rear bumper while the EMTs—improvising with the seat belts—secured Ira in place to minimize any jostling. Only then was the car winched slowly up the slope and finally onto the highway.

While Luke answered the officer’s questions, Sophia remained near the EMTs, watching while Ira was loaded onto the stretcher and given oxygen before he was rolled into the ambulance.

A few minutes later, Luke and Sophia were alone. He took her in his arms, pulling her close, both of them trying to draw strength from each other, when Sophia suddenly remembered that she still had the letter in her pocket.

+++

Two hours later, they waited in the crowded emergency room of the local hospital, Luke holding Sophia’s hand as they sat beside each other. In her other hand, she held the letter, and every now and then she’d study it, noting the shaky scrawl and wondering why she’d given the nurse their names and asked to be updated on Ira’s condition, instead of simply handing over the letter to be placed with Ira’s belongings.

It would have allowed them to continue the trip back to Winston-Salem, but when she recalled the look on Ira’s face and the urgency he obviously felt about finding the letter, Sophia felt compelled to make sure the letter didn’t get lost in the hustle and bustle of the hospital. She wanted to hand it to the doctor, or better yet, to Ira himself . . .

Or that was what she told herself, anyway. All she really knew was that the almost peaceful expression Ira had been wearing when they found him made her wonder what he’d been thinking or dreaming about. It was miraculous that he’d survived his injuries given his age and frail state. Most of all, she wondered why, to this point, no friends or family had come bursting through the doors of the emergency room, frantic with worry. He’d been conscious when they’d wheeled him in, which meant Ira probably could have told them to call someone. So where were they? Why weren’t they here yet? At a time like this, Ira needed someone more than ever, and—

Luke shifted in his seat, interrupting her thoughts. “You know that we’re probably not going to be able to see him, right?” he asked.

“I know,” she said. “But I still want to know how he’s doing.”

“Why?”

She turned over the letter in her hands, still unable to put the reasons into words. “I don’t know.”

+++

Another forty minutes passed before a doctor finally emerged from behind the swinging doors. He went first to the desk and then, after the nurse pointed them out, approached them. Luke and Sophia stood.

“I’m Dr. Dillon,” he said. “I was told that you’ve been waiting for a chance to visit Mr. Levinson?”

“Do you mean Ira?” Sophia asked.

“You’re the ones who found him, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask what your interest is?”

Sophia almost told the doctor about the letter then but didn’t. Luke sensed her confusion and cleared his throat. “I guess we just want to know that he’s going to be okay.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t discuss his condition since you’re not family,” he said.

“But he’s going to be okay, right?”

The doctor looked from one to the other. “By all rights, you shouldn’t even be here. You did the right thing by calling the ambulance. And I’m glad you found him when you did, but you don’t have any further responsibility. You’re strangers.”

Sophia looked at the doctor, sensing he had more to say, watching as he finally sighed.

“I don’t really know what’s going on here,” Dr. Dillon said, “but for whatever reason, when Mr. Levinson heard you were here, he asked to see you. I can’t tell you anything about his condition, but I must ask that you keep the visit as short as possible.”

+++

Ira appeared even smaller than he had in the car, as though he’d shrunk in the last few hours. He lay in the partially reclined hospital bed, his mouth agape, his cheeks hollow, IV lines snaking out of his arm. A machine next to his bed was beeping in rhythm to his heart.

“Not too long,” the doctor warned, and Luke nodded before the two of them entered the room. Hesitating, Sophia moved to the side of the bed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Luke pull a chair away from the wall and slide it toward her before stepping back again. Sophia took a seat by the bed and leaned into his field of vision.

“We’re here, Ira,” she said, holding the letter in front of him. “I have your letter for you.”

Ira inhaled with some effort, slowly rolling his head. His eyes went first to the letter and then to her. “Ruth . . .”

“Yes,” she said. “Your letter to Ruth. I’m going to put it right here beside you, okay?”

At her comment, he stared without focus, uncomprehending. Then his face softened, becoming almost sad. He moved his hand slightly, trying to reach hers, and on instinct, she reached over and took it.

“Ruth,” he said, tears beginning to form. “My sweet Ruth.”

“I’m sorry . . . I’m not Ruth,” she said softly. “My name is Sophia. We’re the ones who found you today.”

He blinked, then blinked again, his confusion evident.

“Ruth?”

The plea in his tone made her throat tighten.

“No,” she said quietly, watching as he moved his hand and inched it toward the letter. She understood what he was doing and slid the letter toward him. He took it, lifting it as though it were an enormous weight, pushing it toward her hand. Only then did she notice Ira’s tears. When he spoke, his voice sounded stronger, the words clear for the first time. “Can you be?”

She fingered the letter. “You want me to read this? The letter you wrote to your wife?”

His gaze met her eyes, a tear spilling down his shrunken cheek. “Please, Ruth. I want you to read it.”

He exhaled a long breath, as if the effort of speaking had worn him out. Sophia turned toward Luke, wondering what she should do. Luke pointed toward the letter.

“I think you should read it, Ruth,” he said to her. “It’s what he wants you to do. Read it aloud, so he can hear you.” Sophia stared at the letter in her hands. It felt wrong. Ira was confused. It was a personal letter. Ruth was supposed to read this, not her . . .

“Please,” she heard Ira say, as if reading her mind, his voice weakening again.

With trembling hands, Sophia studied the envelope before lifting the seal. The letter was a single page long, written in the same shaky scrawl she’d noticed on the envelope. Though still uncertain, she found herself moving the letter into better light. And with that, she slowly began to read:

My darling Ruth,

It is early, too early, but as always it seems I’m unable to go back to sleep. Outside, the day is breaking in all its newfound glory and yet, all I can think about is the past. In this silent hour, I dream of you and the years we spent together. An anniversary is approaching, dear Ruth, but it is not the one we usually celebrate. It is, however, the one that set in motion my life with you, and I turn to your seat, wanting to remind you of this, even though I understand that you will not be there. God, with a wisdom I can’t claim to understand, called you home a long time ago, and the tears I shed that night have never seemed to dry.

Sophia stopped to look at Ira, noting the way his lips had come together, tears still leaking into the crevices and valleys of his face. Though she tried to remain poised, her voice began to crack as she went on.

I miss you this morning, just as I have missed you every day for the last nine years. I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of living without the sound of your laughter, and I despair at the thought that I can never hold you again. And yet it would please you to know that when these dark thoughts threaten to overtake me, I can hear your voice chiding me: “Do not be so gloomy, Ira. I did not marry a gloomy man.”

When I think back, there is so much to remember. We had adventures, yes? These are your words, not mine, for this is how you always described our lives together. You said this to me while lying beside me in bed, you said this to me on Rosh Hashanah, every single year. I always detected a satisfied gleam in your eye whenever you said this, and in those moments, it was your expression, more than your words, that always filled my heart with joy. With you, my life felt indeed like a fantastic adventure—despite our ordinary circumstances, your love imbued everything we did with secret riches. How I was lucky enough to share a life with you, I still cannot understand.

I love you now, just as I have always loved you, and I’m sorry that I’m not able to tell you. And though I write this letter in the hope that you’ll somehow be able to read it, I also know that the end of an era approaches. This, my darling, is the last letter I will write you. You know what the doctors have told me, you know that I’m dying, and that I will not visit Black Mountain in August. And yet, I want you to know that I’m not afraid. My time on earth is ending and I’m at peace with whatever comes. I’m not saddened by this. If anything, it fills me with peace, and I count the days with a sense of relief and gratitude. For every day that passes is one day closer to the moment I will see you again.

You are my wife, but more than that, you have always been my one true love. For nearly three- quarters of a century, you have given my existence meaning. It is time now to say good-bye, and on the cusp of this transition I think I understand why you were taken away. It was to show me how special you were and through this long process of grieving, to teach me again the meaning of love. Our separation, I now understand, has only been temporary. When I gaze into the depths of the universe, I know the time is coming when I will hold you in my arms once more. After all, if there is a heaven, we will find each other again, for there is no heaven with- out you.

I love you,

Ira

+++

Through a blur of tears, Sophia watched Ira’s face assume an expression of indescribable peace. Carefully, she reinserted the letter into the envelope. She slid it into his hand and felt him take it back. By then, the doctor was standing at the door and Sophia knew it was time to go. She rose from the chair and Luke returned it to its place against the wall, then slipped his hand into hers. As he turned his head on the pillow, Ira’s mouth fell open, and his breathing became labored. Sophia turned to the doctor, who was already on his way to Ira’s side. With one last glance back at Ira’s frail figure, Sophia and Luke started down the corridor, on their way home at last.

From The Longest Ride by Nicholas Sparks. Copyright © 2013 by Willow Holdings, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Grand Central Publishing, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc., New York, NY, U.S.A. All rights reserved.

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