* * *
After Maggie opened her gift, she asked me countless questions—how I’d found her, details about my life and my parents. She also asked me whether I wanted to meet my biological father. She might, she speculated, be able to offer enough information to get me started on a search, if that’s what I wanted. Though my curiosity had originally been piqued because of my rare-ish blood type, I realized that finding J didn’t interest me in the slightest. Meeting and getting to know Maggie had been more than enough, but I was nonetheless touched by her offer.
In time, Maggie grew so exhausted that I accompanied her on her cab ride home. After helping her inside, I didn’t hear from her again until midafternoon. We spent the rest of Christmas Day together at her apartment, and I finally got to see the photo of the lighthouse firsthand.
“This photo changed both our lives,” she mused out loud. I could only agree.
But in the days and weeks after Christmas, I realized that Maggie didn’t really know how to be my mother and I didn’t know how to be her son, so for the most part we simply became closer friends. Though I’d called her Mom when I gave her the teddy bear, I reverted to Maggie after that, which felt more comfortable to both of us. She was nonetheless thrilled about meeting Abigail, and the three of us had dinner together twice while she was in town. They got along well, but when Abigail enveloped Maggie in a goodbye hug, I noted that Maggie was growing smaller with each passing day, the cancer stealing away her substance and heft.
Right before the new year, Maggie posted the video that updated her prognosis, and then contacted her family. As she’d anticipated, her mom pleaded with Maggie to return to Seattle, but Maggie was unequivocal about her intentions.
Once Luanne returned from Maui, Maggie filled her in regarding both her prognosis and my identity. Luanne, who insisted she’d known something was up all along, informed Maggie that we needed to spend as much time together as possible, so she promptly scheduled my vacation. As the new manager—both Maggie and Trinity agreed she was the obvious choice—it was her decision, and it allowed Maggie and me the time we needed to fill in any blanks we hadn’t yet shared about our lives.
My parents came to New York in the third week of January. Maggie wasn’t bedridden yet, and she asked to speak to the two of them privately as she sat on the couch in her living room. Afterward, I asked my parents what they’d discussed.
“She wanted to thank us for adopting you,” my mom said with barely restrained emotion. “She said that she felt blessed.” My mom, toughened by the confessions associated with her profession, seldom cried, but in that instant she was overcome, her eyes brimming with tears. “She wanted to tell us that we were wonderful parents, and that she thought our son was extraordinary.”
When my mom leaned in to hug me, I knew what had touched her most was that Maggie had referred to me as their son. For my parents, my decision to come to New York had been more difficult than I’d realized, and I wondered how much secret turmoil I’d caused them.
“I’m glad you were able to meet her,” my mom murmured, still holding me tight.
“Me too, Mom.”
* * *
After my parents’ visit, Maggie never made it to the gallery again, nor was she able to leave her apartment. Her pain medication had been increased, administered by a nurse who came by three times a day. She sometimes slept up to twenty hours at a stretch. I sat with her during many of those hours, holding her hand. She lost even more weight and her breathing was ragged, a wheeze that was painful to listen to. By the first week of February she was no longer able to rise from her bed, but in the moments she was awake, she still found a way to smile. Usually, I did most of the talking—it was too much effort on her part—but every now and then, she would tell me something I didn’t know about her.
“Do you remember when I told you that I wanted a different ending to the story of Bryce and me?”
“Of course,” I said.
She gazed up at me, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “With you, I got the ending that I wanted.”
* * *
Maggie’s parents came to stay in February, settling in at a boutique hotel not far from Maggie’s apartment. Like me, her mom and dad simply wanted to be close to her. Her dad remained quiet, deferring to his wife; most of the time, he sat in the living room with the television tuned to ESPN. Maggie’s mom occupied the chair near the bed and wrung her hands compulsively; whenever the nurse arrived, she demanded explanations for every adjustment to Maggie’s pain medicine, as well as other aspects of her care. When Maggie was awake, her mom’s constant refrain was that what was happening wasn’t fair, and she repeatedly reminded Maggie to pray. She insisted the oncologists in Seattle might have been able to do more and that Maggie should have listened to her; she knew someone who knew someone who knew someone else who also had stage IV melanoma but was still in remission after six years. She sometimes lamented the fact that Maggie was alone and had never gotten married. Maggie, for her part, endured her mother’s anxious nattering patiently; it was nothing she hadn’t heard her entire life. When Maggie also thanked her parents and told them that she loved them, her mom seemed nonplussed that Maggie felt she’d needed to say those words at all. Of course you love me! I could picture her thinking. Look at all I’ve done for you, despite the choices you made in your life! It was easy to understand why Maggie found her parents draining.
Her parents’ relationship with me was more complicated. For nearly a quarter of a century, they’d been able to pretend that Maggie had never been pregnant at all. They treated me warily, like a dog that might bite, and kept both physical and emotional distance. They asked me little about my life but overheard quite a bit when Maggie and I were talking, since her mom tended to hover whenever Maggie was awake. When Maggie asked to speak to me alone, Mrs. Dawes always left the room in a huff, which only made Maggie roll her eyes.
Because her children were young, it was harder for Morgan to visit, but she made it out on two separate weekends. On her second visit in February, Maggie and Morgan spoke for twenty minutes. After Morgan left, Maggie briefed me on their conversation, cracking a wry smile despite her now-constant pain.
“She said that she’d always been jealous of the freedom and excitement of my life.” Maggie gave a weak laugh. “Can you believe that?”
“Absolutely.”
“She even claimed that she often wished we could trade places.”
“I’m glad the two of you were able to talk,” I said, squeezing her birdlike hand.
“You know what’s craziest, though?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“She said it was hard for her growing up because our parents always favored me!”
I had to laugh. “She doesn’t really believe that, does she?”
“I think she does.”
“How could she?”
“Because,” Maggie said, “she’s more like my mom than she realizes.”
* * *
Other friends and acquaintances visited Maggie in the final weeks of her life. Luanne and Trinity came by regularly, and she gave them both the same gift she’d given me. Four different photo editors also swung by, along with her printer and someone from the lab, and during these visits I heard more stories about her adventures. Her first boss in New York and two former assistants made appearances, along with Maggie’s accountant and even her landlord. For me, though, all of those visits were painful to watch. I could see her friends’ sadness as they entered the room, could sense their fear of saying the wrong thing as they approached the bed. Maggie had a way of making all of them feel welcome, and she went out of her way to tell them how much they’d meant to her. To each of them, she introduced me as her son.
Somehow, in the few periods I wasn’t around her apartment, she also made arrangements for a gift for Abigail and me. Abigail had flown out again in the middle of February, and as we sat on the bed, Maggie said that she’d prepaid for a safari to Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Kenya for Ab
igail and me, a trip that would last more than three weeks. Both of us insisted it was too much, but she waved off our concerns.
“It’s the very least I can do.”
We both hugged and kissed and thanked her, and she squeezed Abigail’s hand. When we asked her what we might expect to see, she regaled us with stories of exotic animals and camps located in the wilderness, and as she spoke, there were moments when she seemed exactly like her old self.
Still, as the month wore on, there were times when her illness was unbearable for me, and I’d need to leave the apartment and go for a walk to clear my head. As grateful as I was to get to know her, part of me felt greedy for more. I wanted to show her around my hometown in Indiana; I wanted to dance with her at my wedding to Abigail. I wanted a photograph of her holding my son or daughter, joy shining in her eyes. I hadn’t known her long, but at some level I felt as though I knew her as intimately as I knew Abigail or my parents. I wanted more time with her, more years, and in the stretches when she slept, I sometimes broke down and wept.
Maggie must have sensed my grief. When she woke, she offered a tender smile.
“This is hard for you,” she croaked out.
“It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through,” I admitted. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“Do you remember what I said to Bryce about that? Not wanting to lose someone has its roots in fear.”
I knew she was right, but I wasn’t willing to lie to her. “I am afraid.”
“I know you are.” She reached for my hand; hers was covered in bruises. “But never forget that love is always stronger than fear. Love saved me, and I know it will save you, too.”
They were her very last words.
* * *
Maggie passed away later that night, near the end of February. For her parents’ sake, she’d arranged for a service to be held at a nearby Catholic church, even though she’d insisted on being cremated. She met the priest only once before she passed, and per her instructions, he kept the service brief. I delivered a short eulogy, though my legs seemed so weak that I felt like I would topple over. For the music, she chose “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life,” from the movie Dirty Dancing. Her parents didn’t understand the choice, but I did, and as the song played, I tried to picture Bryce and Maggie sitting on the couch together on one of her final nights in Ocracoke.
I knew what Bryce looked like, just as I knew how Maggie had looked as a teenager. Before she passed, she’d given me the photographs that had been taken so long ago. I saw Bryce holding the plywood as he was about to board up a window; I saw Maggie kissing Daisy’s nose. She wanted me to have them because she thought that I, more than anyone, would appreciate how precious they were to her.
Strangely, they were almost as precious to me.
* * *
Abigail and I arrived in Ocracoke on the morning ferry, and after getting directions, we rented a golf cart and visited some of the places Maggie had described in her story. We saw the lighthouse and the British Cemetery; we drove past fishing boats in the harbor and the school that neither Maggie nor Bryce had attended. After asking around, I even found the site of the shop where Linda and Gwen once made biscuits; it now sold tourist trinkets. I didn’t know where either Linda or Bryce had lived, but I drove every street and knew I must have passed by both of their houses at least once.
Abigail and I had lunch at Howard’s Pub, then eventually made our way to the beach. In my arms, I carried an urn containing some of Maggie’s ashes; in my pocket was a letter that Maggie had written to me. Most of her remains, in another urn, were with her parents in Seattle. Before she’d passed away, Maggie had asked me if I would be willing to do her a favor, and there was no way I could say no.
Abigail and I walked down the length of the beach; I thought of the many times Maggie and Bryce had been there together. Her description had been accurate; it was austere and undeveloped, a stretch of shore untouched by modernity. Abigail held my hand, and after a while, I brought us to a halt. Though there was no way to be certain, I wanted to pick a place where Bryce and Maggie might have had their first date, a place that somehow felt right to me.
I handed the urn to Abigail and pulled the letter from my pocket. I had no idea when she’d written it; all I knew for sure was that it was on the small table beside her bed when she’d passed away. On the outside of the envelope she had scrawled instructions, asking me to read it when I was in Ocracoke.
Opening the flap, I pulled out the letter. It wasn’t long, though the writing was scratchy and sometimes difficult to decipher, a consequence of medication and weakness. I felt something else fall out as well, catching it in my hand just in time—yet another gift to me. I took a deep breath and began to read.
Dear Mark,
First, I want to thank you for finding me, for becoming my wish somehow made true.
I want you to know how special you are to me, how proud I am of you, and that I love you. I’ve told you all of these things before, but you must know that you’ve given me one of the most beautiful gifts I’ve ever received. Please thank your parents and Abigail for me again, for allowing you the time we needed to get to know, and love, each other. They, like you, are extraordinary.
These ashes represent what’s left of my heart. Symbolically, anyway. For reasons I don’t have to explain to you, I want them spread in Ocracoke. My heart, after all, has always remained there. And, I’ve come to believe, Ocracoke is an enchanted place, where the impossible sometimes becomes real.
There’s something more I’ve been longing to tell you, though I know it will seem crazy at first. (Maybe I am crazy at the present time; cancer and drugs wreak havoc on my thoughts.) Yet I do believe what I’m about to tell you, no matter how far-fetched it sounds, because it’s the only thing that seems intuitively true right now.
You remind me of Bryce in more ways than you know. In your nature and your gentleness, in your empathy and charm. You look a little like him, and—perhaps because you were both athletes—you also move with the same fluid grace. Like Bryce, you are mature beyond your years, and as our relationship has deepened, these similarities have become even more apparent to me.
This, then, is what I’ve chosen to believe: somehow, through me, Bryce became part of you. When he took me in his arms, you absorbed a piece of him; when we spent our sweetest days together in Ocracoke, you somehow inherited his unique qualities. You are a child, then, of both of us. I know such a thing is impossible, but I choose to believe that the love Bryce and I felt for each other somehow played a role in producing the remarkable young man I’ve come to know and love. To my mind, there’s no other explanation.
Thank you for finding me, my son. I love you.
Maggie
* * *
After finishing the letter, I slipped it back into the envelope and eyed the necklace she had enclosed. She’d shown it to me before, and on the back of the seashell pendant I noted the words Ocracoke Memories. The pendant felt strangely heavy, as though it held their entire relationship, a lifetime of love condensed into a few short months.
When I was ready, I put the pendant and letter back into my pocket and gently took the urn from Abigail. The tide was going out and moving in the same direction as the wind. I stepped into damp sand, my feet beginning to sink, and thought about Maggie on the ferry, meeting Bryce for the first time. The waves were steady and rhythmic, and the ocean stretched toward the horizon. Its vastness felt incomprehensible, even as I imagined lighted kites floating in the nighttime sky. Above me, the sun was at half-mast and I knew that darkness was coming early. In the distance, a lone truck was parked on the sand. A pelican skimmed the breakers. I closed my eyes and saw Maggie standing in a darkroom next to Bryce or studying at a battered kitchen table. I imagined a kiss when, at least for a moment, everything in Maggie’s world seemed perfect.
Now Bryce and Maggie were both gone, and I felt an overwhelming sadness wash through me. I twisted the lid, opening the urn, and tipped it,
allowing the ashes to scatter in the outgoing tide. I stood in place, recalling flashes of The Nutcracker and ice skating and decorating a Christmas tree before suddenly swiping at unbidden tears. I remembered her rapt expression when she had lifted Maggie-bear from the box and knew I would always believe that love was stronger than fear.
Taking a long breath, I finally turned, walking slowly toward Abigail. I kissed her gently, clasping her hand in mine, and the two of us walked in silence back up the beach together.
Travel Photos from Nicholas Sparks
I’ve always loved international travel and all the new experiences and inspiration that come with it. I hope you enjoy these photos from my travels that I kept beside me while I wrote The Wish.
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Also by Nicholas Sparks
The Return
Every Breath
Two by Two
See Me
The Longest Ride
The Best of Me
Safe Haven
The Last Song
The Lucky One
The Choice
Dear John
At First Sight
True Believer
Three Weeks with My Brother
The Wedding
The Guardian
Nights in Rodanthe
A Bend in the Road
The Rescue
A Walk to Remember
Message in a Bottle
The Notebook
The Wish Page 34
