The Choice - Nicholas Sparks [82]
He set the flowers on the sill, wishing he had remembered to bring a vase. He had chosen a winter bouquet, and the burnt orange and violet colors seemed muted, almost mournful. The florist considered himself an artist of sorts, and in all the years Travis had used him, he’d never been disappointed. The florist was a good man, a kind man, and sometimes Travis wondered how much the florist knew about their marriage. Over the years, Travis had purchased bouquets on anniversaries and birthdays; he’d purchased them as apologies or on the spur of the moment, as a romantic surprise. And each time, he’d dictated to the florist what he wanted written on the card. Sometimes he’d recited a poem he’d either found in a book or written on his own; at other times, he’d come straight to the point and simply said what was on his mind. Gabby had saved these cards in a tiny bundle held together by a rubber band. They were a kind of history of Travis and Gabby’s life together, described in tiny snippets.
He took a seat in the chair by the bed and reached for her hand. Her skin was pale, almost waxy, her body seemed smaller, and he noted the spidery lines that had begun to form at the corners of her eyes. Still, she was as remarkable to him as she had been the first time he’d ever seen her. It amazed him that he’d known her almost eleven years. Not because the length of time was extraordinary, but because those years seemed to contain more . . . life than the first thirty-two years without her. It was the reason he’d come to the hospital today; it was the reason he came every day. He had no other choice. Not because it was expected—though it was—but because he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. They spent hours together, but their nights were spent apart. Ironically, there was no choice in that, either, for he couldn’t leave his daughters alone. These days, fate made all his decisions for him.
Except for one.
Eighty-four days had passed since the accident, and now he had to make a choice. He still had no idea what to do. Lately he’d been searching for answers in the Bible and in the writings of Aquinas and Augustine. Occasionally he would find a striking passage, but nothing more than that; he would close the cover of the book and find himself staring out the window, his thoughts blank, as if hoping to find the solution somewhere in the sky.
He seldom drove straight home from the hospital. Instead, he would drive across the bridge and walk the sands of Atlantic Beach. He would slip off his shoes, listening as the waves crashed along the shore. He knew his daughters were as upset as he was, and after his visits to the hospital, he needed time to compose himself. It would be unfair to subject them to his angst. He needed his daughters for the escape they afforded him. When focusing on them, he didn’t focus on himself, and their joy still held an unadulterated purity. They still had the ability to lose themselves in play, and the sound of their giggling made him want to laugh and cry at the same time. Sometimes as he watched them, he was struck by how much they resembled their mother.
Always they asked about her, but usually he didn’t know what to tell them. They were mature enough to understand that Mommy wasn’t well and had to stay in the hospital; they understood that when they visited, it would seem as if Mommy were asleep. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell them the truth about her condition. Instead, he would cuddle with them on the couch and tell them how excited Gabby had been when she’d been pregnant with each of them or remind them about the time the family played in the sprinklers for an entire afternoon. Mostly, though, they would thumb through the photo albums Gabby had assembled with care. She was old-fashioned that way, and the