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.