A Perfect Day (29 page)

I took a deep breath. “I spent all night thinking about what I really wanted from this second chance. I realized that if I could spend my next life with anybody, it would be you.” I looked into her eyes. “It doesn’t matter where we live or what the world thinks of me or even if I ever sell another book, just as long as I’m with you. I want to grow old with you. And when the day comes that this life really is over for me, I want to leave this world with you by my side.” I looked down while I gathered the courage to proceed. “If you let me come back, I promise you that you will never again doubt that you are the most important person or thing in my life. I know I’m asking a lot after hurting you. But I’m asking. Do you think . . .” I paused from emotion. Then I looked back up, my eyes looking into hers. “Is there any way that you could let me back in your heart?”

There’s always that moment whenever a proposal is made—the climactic, excruciating instant when time seems to stand still while the name is pulled from an envelope or the jury files in with their verdict. For me no moment has ever seemed so long. Allyson just looked down; then she walked over and sat next to me on the couch. She looked into my eyes. “You never left it.”

A YEAR LATER.

I
t’s hard to believe that it’s been a whole year since I went home to my family. It’s been a good year. I’ve been true to the promise I made to Allyson. I’ve been true to myself. I like myself again.

I’ve been back to see my father. On most of those visits I took Carson and Allyson with me. Our visits were awkward at first—especially for my father—but they’re getting easier. He’s no longer Chuck to me, but Dad. Even this took some getting used to. In our visits I have seen glimpses of a man I never knew. He’s old, and I don’t suppose there’s much time left for us, certainly not enough to fill in the pages of a lost story, but I’ve left the past to its own demons. There isn’t time for regret. There never is.

The other day, while reading the paper, I came across a bookstore’s advertisement for author M. Stanford Hillenbrand. I stared at the picture of him for a long time. He has a new book out, his first novel. It’s called
The Reaper’s Wife
, or something like that. He had a signing at a bookstore not far from my home. I considered paying him a visit. I even drove to the store, but I never made it inside. I suppose a part of me still wants to believe that he is an angel. Who’s to say that he’s not? God works in mysterious ways. Or maybe He’s just pragmatic. Why send a burning bush when an e-mail will do?

My next book is scheduled to come out sometime this fall. Allyson’s very excited about it. It’s the story of a man who believes he has just a few months left to live. I’m just pleased that it has a happy ending.

I’m back with Camille. Things are good between us. I can laugh about everything now, which is certain proof that time is the greatest of all comedians.

Darren stopped calling sometime in January. His last message was a terse rebuke predicting for me a life of obscurity. I found his prediction vaguely amusing. It was like predicting nightfall. In the end obscurity is everyone’s destination. On the bright side I did get one more joke out of him. It goes like this: “What did Hemingway say when he was asked, ‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’ Answer: ‘To die. In the rain. Alone.’ ”

 

A month ago I had a peculiar dream. I dreamt of my own funeral. As the mourners filed past to pay their respects, I stood next to my body, unseen, watching them. Though I spoke to everyone, I was unable to make them hear me. Except for Allyson. Somehow Allyson knew my thoughts as if they were her own—as if we were bound by some force that transcends death itself.

It has made me wonder if perhaps there is more to our relationships than mortality portends. If perhaps some things are forever in another realm, where clocks stop and nothing remains but the bonds we have forged through love. That and the lessons we’ve learned.

Perhaps. The lessons do remain. I learned much last year. I learned that the measure of life is revealed in the quality of our relationships: with God, our families, our fellow men.

I’ve learned that the greatest threat to love is not circumstance but the absence of attention. For we do not neglect others because we have ceased to love; rather we cease to love others because we have neglected them.

I’ve learned that each day is a miracle unearned.

I’ve learned that while life is ephemeral—a vapor—love is not. In short, I have learned what matters and what does not.

I don’t know what my future holds or even in whose hands it lies, but I know where I am and what I have, and it’s enough. I’ve lived twice and loved once, and that’s more than any man should ask for. And through it all, the woman I love is still by my side.

 

It’s been a good year indeed.

Visit Richard Paul Evans’s Web site to read the
essay mentioned in
A Perfect Day: Conversations with
the Reaper
by M. Stanford Hillenbrand.

 

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