The Wish

by Nicholas Sparks

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m still trying to absorb what you just told me.”

  “My story so far isn’t quite what you expected, is it?”

  “I’m not sure what I expected,” he admitted. “What happened next?”

  “I’m a bit too tired to go into the rest of it just now.”

  Mark raised a hand. “I get it. But still…wow. When I was sixteen, I doubt I could have handled a crisis like that.”

  “I didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

  “Still…” He absently scratched an ear. “Your aunt Linda seems interesting.”

  Maggie couldn’t help smiling. “For sure.”

  “Do you still keep in touch?”

  “We used to. She and Gwen visited me in New York a few times and I saw her in Ocracoke once, but mainly we wrote letters and chatted on the phone. She passed away six years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I still miss her.”

  “Did you keep the letters?”

  “Every single one.”

  He gazed off to the side before coming back to Maggie. “Why did your aunt stop being a nun? Did you ever ask?”

  “Not back then. I would have been uncomfortable asking her, and besides, I was too wrapped up in my own problems for the question to have even crossed my mind. It took me years to broach the subject, but when I did, I didn’t get an answer that I really understood. I think I was hoping for more of a smoking gun or something.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that life was about seasons, and that the season had changed.”

  “Huh. That is a bit mysterious.”

  “I’m guessing she got tired of dealing with all those pregnant teens. Speaking from experience, we can be a moody bunch.”

  He chuckled before growing contemplative. “Do convents still take in pregnant teenagers?”

  “I have no idea, but I sort of doubt it. Times change. A few years ago, when I caught the ‘I wonder’ bug, I searched for the Sisters of Mercy on the internet and learned that they’d closed more than a decade earlier.”

  “Where was her convent? Before she left, I mean.”

  “Illinois, I think. Or maybe it was Ohio. Somewhere in the Midwest, anyway. And don’t ask me how she ended up there in the first place. Like my dad, she was from the West Coast.”

  “How long was she a nun?”

  “Twenty-five years or so? Maybe a little less or more, I’m not really sure. Gwen too. I think Gwen took her orders even before my aunt did.”

  “Do you think they were…?”

  When he paused, Maggie lifted an eyebrow. “Lovers? I honestly don’t know that either. As I got older, I sort of thought they might be, since they were always together, but I never saw them kiss or hold hands or anything like that. One thing I know for certain, though: they loved each other deeply. Gwen was at my aunt Linda’s bedside when she passed away.”

  “Do you keep in touch with her, too?”

  “I was closer to my aunt, of course, but after she passed, I made sure to call Gwen a few times a year. But not so much lately. She has Alzheimer’s and I’m not sure she even remembers who I am anymore. She does remember my aunt, though, and that makes me happy.”

  “It’s hard to believe that you’ve never told Luanne any of this.”

  “It’s a habit. Even my parents still pretend that it never happened. Morgan too.”

  “Have you heard from Luanne? Since she left for Hawaii?”

  “I haven’t told her what the doctor said, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  He swallowed. “I hate that this is happening to you,” he said. “I really do.”

  “You and me both. Do yourself a favor and never get cancer, especially when you’re supposed to be in the prime of life.”

  He bowed his head and she knew he was at a loss for words. If joking about death helped her keep other, darker feelings at bay, the downside was that no one ever knew exactly how to respond. Finally, he looked up.

  “I got a text from Luanne today. She said she’d texted you but that you didn’t get back to her.”

  “I haven’t checked my phone today. What did it say?”

  “It said to remind you to open your card if you haven’t already.”

  Oh yeah. Because there’s a gift inside. “It’s probably still on the desk somewhere if you want to help me find it.”

  He got up and started going through her inbox while Maggie rummaged in the top drawer of the desk. As she sorted, Mark pulled an envelope from a stack of invoices and handed it over.

  “Is this it?”

  “It is,” she said, taking a second to examine it. “I hope she’s not giving me a sexy Polaroid of herself.”

  Mark’s eyes widened. “That doesn’t sound like her…”

  She laughed. “I’m teasing. I just wanted to see how you’d react.” She opened the envelope; inside was an elegant card with a standard greeting, along with a short note from Luanne thanking Maggie for being a “pleasure with whom to work.” Luanne was always a stickler when it came to correct grammar and verbiage. Enclosed were two tickets to the New York City Ballet’s Nutcracker at Lincoln Center. The show was on Friday evening, two nights away.

  She removed the tickets, showing them to Mark. “It’s a good thing you reminded me. They’re about to expire.”

  “What a great gift. Have you seen it?”

  “I’ve always talked about going but never quite made it. How about you?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Would you like to join me?”

  “Me?”

  “Why not? It can be a reward since you’ve had to work late.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Great.”

  “I also enjoyed your story, even if you left it with a cliff-hanger.”

  “What cliff-hanger?”

  “About you, the rest of your pregnancy. The fact that you were beginning to forge a relationship with your aunt. Bryce. I know you agreed that he could be your tutor, but how did it go? Did he help? Or did he let you down?”

  As soon as Mark said the name, she felt a stab of disbelief that nearly a quarter century had passed since the months she’d spent in Ocracoke.

  “Are you really interested in the rest of it?”

  “I am,” he admitted.

  “Why?”

  “Because it helps me understand a bit more about you.”

  She took another drink of her melting smoothie, and suddenly flashed on her most recent discussion with Dr. Brodigan. One moment, she observed cynically, you’re having a pleasant conversation with someone, and the next, all you can think about is the fact that you’re dying. She tried and failed to push the realization away before suddenly wondering if Mark was mirroring her thoughts. “I know you speak with Abigail every day. You’re welcome to tell her about my prognosis.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. That’s…your business.”

  “Does she watch the videos?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she’ll find out anyway. I was planning on posting about this latest development after I tell my parents and my sister.”

  “You haven’t told them yet?”

  “I’ve decided to wait until after Christmas.”

  “Why?”

  “If I told them now, they’d probably either want me to immediately fly back to Seattle—which I don’t want to do—or they’d insist on coming out here, and I don’t want that, either. They’d stress and need to wrestle with their grief, and it would be harder for all of us. As an added bonus, it would ruin all their future Christmases. I’d rather not do that.”

  “It’s going to be hard no matter when you tell them.”

  “I know. But my family and I have a…unique relationship.”

  “How so?”

  “I haven’t exactly lived the kind of life my parents anticipated. I always had the feeling that I was born into the wrong family somehow, and I learned a long
time ago that our relationship works best when we maintain some distance between us. They haven’t understood my choices. As for my sister, she’s more like my parents. She did the whole marriage, kids, suburbs thing, and she’s still as beautiful as ever. It’s hard to compete with someone like that.”

  “But look at all you’ve done.”

  “In my family, I’m not sure that matters.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” In the silence that followed, Maggie suddenly yawned and Mark cleared his throat. “Why don’t you go ahead and take off if you’re tired,” he said. “I’ll make sure everything is logged properly and handle all the shipments.”

  In the past, she would have insisted on staying. Now she knew it wouldn’t serve any purpose. “Are you sure?”

  “You’re taking me to the ballet. It’s the least I can do.”

  After she bundled up, Mark followed her to the door and pulled it open, ready to lock up behind her. The wind was harsh, biting her cheeks.

  “Thanks again for the smoothie.”

  “Do you want me to get you an Uber or a cab? It’s cold out there.”

  “It’s not that far. I’ll be fine.”

  “See you tomorrow?”

  She didn’t want to lie; who knew how she would feel? “Maybe,” she said.

  When he nodded, his lips a grim line, she could see he understood.

  * * *

  By the time she reached the corner, Maggie knew she’d made a mistake. It wasn’t just biting outside; it felt arctic, and she was shivering hard even after entering her apartment. Feeling as if a block of ice were lodged in her chest, she huddled on the couch beneath a blanket for nearly half an hour before she summoned the energy to move again.

  In the kitchen, she made chamomile tea. She thought about taking a warm bath as well, but it was too much effort. Instead, she went to her bedroom, slipped into a pair of thick flannel pajamas, a sweatshirt, two pairs of socks, and a nightcap to keep her head warm, and crawled under the covers. After finishing half a cup of the tea, she dozed off and slept for sixteen hours.

  * * *

  She woke feeling awful, as though she’d just pulled an all-nighter. Worse, pain seemed to radiate from various organs, sharpening with every beat of her heart. Steeling herself, she was somehow able to rise from bed and make it to the bathroom, where she kept the painkillers Dr. Brodigan had prescribed.

  She washed two of the pills down with water, then sat on the edge of the bed, still and concentrating, until she was sure she would keep them down. Only then was she ready to start her day.

  Drawing a bath because showering now felt like being stabbed, she soaked in the warm, soapy water for nearly an hour. Afterward she texted Mark, letting him know that she wouldn’t make it to the gallery today but would touch base tomorrow regarding the time and place to meet for the ballet.

  After dressing in comfy clothing, she made breakfast, even though it was already afternoon. She forced down an egg and half a piece of toast, both of which tasted like salted cardboard, and then—as had become a habit in the last week and a half—she settled onto the couch to watch the world outside her window.

  There were snow flurries, the tiny flakes flickering against the glass, the movements hypnotic. Catching a glimpse of poinsettias in an apartment window across the street, she recalled her first Christmas back in Seattle after she’d returned from Ocracoke. Though she’d wanted to be excited for the holiday, she’d spent much of December simply going through the motions. Even on Christmas morning, she remembered opening her gifts with feigned enthusiasm.

  She knew that part of that had to do with getting older. Gone were the beliefs from her childhood, and she’d reached the stage where even smelling a cookie meant calculating calories. But it was more than that. Her months in Ocracoke had turned her into someone she no longer recognized, and there were times when Seattle no longer felt like home. In retrospect, she understood that even back then, she’d been counting the days until she could finally leave for good.

  Then again, she’d been feeling that way for months by that point. Not long after returning to Seattle, once she began to feel vaguely back to normal, Madison and Jodie had been eager to pick up where they had left off. On the surface, not much had changed. Yet the more time she spent with them, the more she felt like she’d grown up while they’d stayed exactly the same. They had the same interests and insecurities they’d always had, the same sorts of crushes on boys, felt the same thrill at hanging out in the food court at the mall on Saturday afternoons. They were familiar and comfortable, and yet, little by little, Maggie began to understand they would eventually drift from her life entirely, in the same way Maggie sometimes felt as though she were drifting through her own.

  She’d also spent much of those first few months back at home thinking about Ocracoke and missing it more than she’d imagined. She’d thought about her aunt and the desolate, windswept beach, the ferry rides and garage sales. It amazed her when she reflected on all that had happened while she was there, so much so that even now it sometimes took her breath away.

  * * *

  Maggie watched a drama on Netflix—something starring Nicole Kidman, though she couldn’t remember the title—took a late-afternoon nap, and then ordered two smoothies for delivery. She knew she wouldn’t be able to finish both, but she felt bad ordering only one, since the check was so small. And really, what did it matter if she threw one away?

  She also debated whether to have a glass of wine. Not now, but later, maybe before bedtime. She hadn’t had a drink in months, even counting the little get-together at the gallery in late November, when she’d pretty much simply held the glass for show. While she was undergoing chemotherapy, the thought of alcohol had been nauseating, and after that, she simply hadn’t been in the mood. She knew there was a bottle in the refrigerator, something from Napa Valley she’d purchased on a whim, and though it sounded like a good idea now, she suspected that later, the desire would fade and all she’d want to do would be to sleep. Which might, she admitted, be for the best. Who knew how the wine would affect her? She was taking painkillers and ate so little that even a couple of sips might leave her either passed out or rushing to the bathroom to make an offering to the porcelain gods.

  Call it a quirk, but Maggie never wanted anyone to see or hear her vomit, including the nurses who’d watched over her during chemotherapy. They would help her to the bathroom, where she’d shut the door and try to be as quiet as possible. Aside from the morning her mom had found her in the bathroom, as far as she could remember, there’d only been one other instance when someone had seen her throw up. That had been when she’d gotten seasick while photographing from a catamaran off Martinique. The nausea had come on fast, like a tidal wave; she’d felt her stomach immediately beginning to turn, and she barely made it to the railing in time. She retched nonstop for the next two hours. It was the most miserable experience she’d ever had while working, so over-the-top that she hadn’t cared in the slightest whether anyone was watching. It had been all she could do to take any photographs that evening—only three out of more than a hundred were any good at all—and in between shots, she’d done her best to remain as still as possible. Morning sickness—hell, even chemotherapy sickness—couldn’t compare, and she’d wondered why she’d whined so much back when she was sixteen.

  Who had she really been back then? She’d tried to re-create the story for Mark, especially how terrible those first weeks in Ocracoke had been for a lonely, pregnant sixteen-year-old. At the time, her exile had seemed eternal; in retrospect, all she could think was that her months there had passed too quickly.

  Though she’d never said as much to her parents, she’d longed to return to Ocracoke. The feeling was especially strong in those first two months she was back in Seattle; in certain moments, the desire was almost overwhelming. While the passage of time diminished her longing, it never completely went away. Years ago, in the travel section of the New York Times, someone had written an account of
their journeys in the Outer Banks. The writer had been hoping to see the islands’ wild horses and had finally spotted them near Corolla, but it was her description of the austere beauty of those low-slung barrier islands that struck a chord in Maggie. The article summoned the smell of Aunt Linda and Gwen making biscuits for fishermen early in the mornings, and the quiet solitude of the village on blustery winter days. She remembered clipping the article and sending it to her aunt, along with a few prints of some recent photographs she’d taken. As always, Aunt Linda had responded by mail, thanking Maggie for the article and raving about the photographs. She ended the letter by telling Maggie how proud she was of her and how much she loved her.

  She’d told Mark that she and Aunt Linda had grown closer over the years, but she hadn’t elaborated fully. With her endless letters, Aunt Linda became a more constant presence in Maggie’s life than the rest of Maggie’s family combined. There was something comforting in the knowledge that someone out there loved and accepted her for the person she was; to Maggie it was the months they’d spent together that taught her the meaning of unconditional love.

  A few months before Aunt Linda died, Maggie had confessed to her that she had always wanted to be more like her. It was on her first and only visit to Ocracoke since the day she’d departed as a teenager. The village hadn’t changed much and her aunt’s house triggered a flood of bittersweet memories. The furniture was the same, the smells were the same, but the passage of time had slowly taken its toll. Everything was a bit more worn, faded, and tired, including Aunt Linda. By then, the lines on her face had deepened into wrinkles and her white hair had thinned to reveal her scalp in places. Only her eyes had remained the same, with that forever recognizable gleam. At the time, the two women were seated at the same kitchen table where Maggie had once done her homework.

  “Why would you want to be more like me?” Aunt Linda had asked, taken aback.

  “Because you’re…wonderful.”

  “Oh, honey.” Aunt Linda had reached over with a hand so birdlike and frail that it nearly broke Maggie’s heart. She gently squeezed Maggie’s fingers. “Don’t you realize that I could say exactly the same thing about you?”