The Choice - Nicholas Sparks [104]
Travis let her words sink in.
“So what’s next?” she asked. “You need help burning the living will?”
Despite the tension, he laughed. “Maybe later.”
“And the lawyer? He won’t come back to haunt you, right?”
“I haven’t heard from him in years.”
“See, that’s another sign you did the right thing.”
“I guess.”
“What about nursing homes?”
“She’ll be transferred next week. I just have to make the arrangements.”
“Need help?”
He massaged his temples, feeling unbearably tired. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”
“Hey—” She gave him a little shake. “You made the right decision. Don’t feel guilty about a single thing. You did the only thing you could do. She wants to live. She wants the chance to get back to you and the girls.”
“I know. But . . .”
He couldn’t finish his sentence. The past was gone and the future had yet to unfold, and he knew he should focus his life on the present . . . yet his day-to-day existence suddenly struck him as endless and unbearable.
“I’m scared,” he finally admitted.
“I know,” she said, pulling him close. “I’m scared, too.”
Epilogue
June 2007
The muted landscape of winter had given way to the lush colors of late spring, and as Travis sat on the back porch, he could hear birds. Dozens, maybe hundreds, were calling and chirping, and every so often a flock of starlings would break from the trees, flying in formations that nearly seemed choreographed.
It was a Saturday afternoon, and Christine and Lisa were still playing on the tire swing that Travis had hung the week before. Because he wanted a long, slow arc for the girls—something different from the regular swing set—he’d cut a few of the low branches before securing the rope as high in the tree as possible. He’d spent an hour that morning pushing the swing and listening to his daughters squeal in delight; by the time he’d finished, the back of his shirt was slick with perspiration. And still the girls wanted more.
“Let Daddy rest for a few minutes,” he’d wheezed. “Daddy’s tired. Why don’t you push each other for a while.”
Their disappointment, etched so clearly on their faces and in the droop of their shoulders, lasted only moments. Soon they were squealing again. Travis watched them swing, his mouth curling into a slight smile. He loved the musical sound of their laughter, and it warmed his heart to see them playing so well together. He hoped they would always remain as close as they were now. He liked to believe that if he and Stephanie were any indication, they would grow even closer in later years. At least that was the hope. Hope, he’d learned, was sometimes all a person had, and in the past four months, he’d learned to embrace it.
Since he’d made his choice, his life had gradually returned to a kind of normalcy. Or at least a semblance thereof. Along with Stephanie, he’d toured half a dozen nursing homes. Prior to those visits, his preconceptions of nursing homes were that they were all dimly lit, filthy places where confused, moaning patients wandered the halls in the middle of the night and were watched over by orderlies who bordered on the psychotic. None of which turned out to be true. At least, not in the places he and Stephanie visited.
Instead, most were bright and airy, run by thoughtful, reflective middle-aged men or women in suits who went to great pains to prove their facilities were more hygienic than most homes and that the staff was courteous, caring, and professional. While Travis spent the tours wondering whether Gabby would be happy in a place like this or whether she’d be the youngest patient in the nursing home, Stephanie asked the hard questions. She asked about background