A Bend in the Road

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

A Bend in the Road By Nicholas Sparks

CHAPTER 1

On the morning of August 29, 1988, a little more than two years after his wifehad passed away, Miles Ryan stood on the back porch of his house, smoking acigarette, watching as the rising sun slowly changed the morning sky from duskygray to orange. Spread before him was the Trent River, its brackish waterspartially hidden by the cypress trees clustered at the water's edge.

The smoke from Miles's cigarette swirled upward and he could feel the humidityrising, thickening the air. In time, the birds began their morning songs, thetrill whistles filling the air. A small bass boat passed by, the fishermanwaved, and Miles acknowledged the gesture with a slight nod. It was all theenergy he could summon.

He needed a cup of coffee. A little java and he'd feel ready enough to face theday—getting Jonah off to school, keeping rein on the locals who floutedthe law, posting eviction notices throughout the county, as well as handlingwhatever else inevitably cropped up, like meeting with Jonah's teacher later inthe afternoon. And that was just for starters. The evenings, if anything, seemedeven busier. There was always so much to do, simply to keep the householdrunning smoothly: paying the bills, shopping, cleaning, repairing things aroundthe house. Even in those rare moments when Miles found himself with a littlefree time on his hands, he felt as if he had to take advantage of it right awayor he'd lose the opportunity. Quick, find something to read. Hurry up, there'sonly a few minutes to relax. Close your eyes, in a little while there won't beany time. It was enough to wear anyone down for a while, but what could he doabout it?

He really needed the coffee. The nicotine wasn't cutting it anymore, and hethought about throwing the cigarettes out, but then it didn't matter whether hedid or not. In his mind, he didn't really smoke. Sure, he had a few cigarettesduring the course of the day, but that wasn't real smoking. It wasn't as thoughhe burned through a pack a day, and it wasn't as if he'd been doing it his wholelife, either; he'd started after Missy had died, and he could stop anytime hewanted. But why bother? Hell, his lungs were in good shape—just last week,he'd had to run after a shoplifter and had no trouble catching the kid. Asmoker couldn't do that.

Then again, it hadn't been as easy as it was when he'd been twenty-two. But thatwas ten years ago, and even if thirty-two didn't mean it was time to startlooking into nursing homes, he was getting older. And he could feel it,too—there was a time during college when he and his friends would starttheir evenings at eleven o'clock and proceed to stay out the rest of the night.In the last few years, except for those times he was working, eleven o'clock waslate, and if he had trouble falling asleep, he went to bed anyway. Hecouldn't imagine any reason strong enough to make him want to stay up.Exhaustion had become a permanent fixture in his life. Even on those nights whenJonah didn't have his nightmares—he'd been having them on and off sinceMissy died—Miles still awoke feeling ... tired. Unfocused. Sluggish, as ifhe were moving around underwater. Most of the time, he attributed this to thehectic life he lived; but sometimes he wondered if there wasn't something moreseriously wrong with him. He'd read once that one of the symptoms of clinicaldepression was "undue lethargy, without reason or cause." Of course, he did havecause....

What he really needed was some quiet time at a little beachfront cottage down inKey West, a place where he could fish for turbot or simply relax in a gentlyswaying hammock while drinking a cold beer, without facing any decision moremajor than whether or not to wear sandals as he walked on the beach with a nicewoman at his side.

That was part of it, too. Loneliness. He was tired of being alone, of waking upin an empty bed, though the feeling still surprised him. He hadn't felt that wayuntil recently. In the first year after Missy's death, Miles couldn't even beginto imagine loving another woman again. Ever. It was as if the urge for femalecompanionship didn't exist at all, as if desire and lust and love were nothingmore than theoretical possibilities that had no bearing on the real world. Evenafter he'd weathered shock and grief strong enough to make him cry every night,his life just felt wrong somehow—as if it were temporarily offtrack but would soon right itself again, so there wasn't any reason to get tooworked up about anything.

Most things, after all, hadn't changed after the funeral. Bills kept coming,Jonah needed to eat, the grass needed to be mowed. He still had a job. Once,after too many beers, Charlie, his best friend and boss, had asked him what itwas like to lose a wife, and Miles had told him that it didn't seem as if Missywere really gone. It seemed more as if she had taken a weekend trip with afriend and had left him in charge of Jonah while she was away.

Time passed and so eventually did the numbness he'd grown accustomed to. In itsplace, reality settled in. As much as he tried to move on, Miles still found histhoughts drawn to Missy. Everything, it seemed, reminded him of her. EspeciallyJonah, who looked more like her the older he got. Sometimes, when Miles stood inthe doorway after tucking Jonah in, he could see his wife in the small featuresof his son's face, and he would have to turn away before Jonah could see thetears. But the image would stay with him for hours; he loved the way Missy hadlooked as she'd slept, her long brown hair spread across the pillow, one armalways resting above her head, her lips slightly parted, the subtle rise andfall of her chest as she breathed. And her smell—that was something Mileswould never forget. On the first Christmas morning after her death, whilesitting in church, he'd caught a trace of the perfume that Missy used to wearand he'd held on to the ache like a drowning man grasping a life preserver untillong after the service was over.

He held on to other things as well. When they were first married, he and Missyused to have lunch at Fred & Clara's, a small restaurant just down the streetfrom the bank where she worked. It was out of the way, quiet, and somehow itscozy embrace made them both feel as if nothing would ever change between them.They hadn't gone much once Jonah had been born, but Miles started going againonce she was gone, as if hoping to find some remnant of those feelings stilllingering on the paneled walls. At home, too, he ran his life according to whatshe used to do. Since Missy had gone to the grocery store on Thursday evenings,that's when Miles went, too. Because Missy liked to grow tomatoes along the sideof the house, Miles grew them, too. Missy had thought Lysol the best all-purposekitchen cleaner, so he saw no reason to use anything else. Missy was alwaysthere, in everything he did.

But sometime last spring, that feeling began to change. It came without warning,and Miles sensed it as soon as it happened. While driving downtown, he caughthimself staring at a young couple walking hand in hand as they moved down thesidewalk. And for just a moment, Miles imagined himself as the man, and that thewoman was with him. Or if not her, then someone ... someone who wouldlove not only him, but Jonah as well. Someone who could make him laugh, someoneto share a bottle of wine with over a leisurely dinner, someone to hold andtouch and to whisper quietly with after the lights had been turned off. Someonelike Missy, he thought to himself, and her image immediately conjured upfeelings of guilt and betrayal overwhelming enough for him to banish the youngcouple from his mind forever.

Or so he assumed.

Later that night, right after crawling into bed, he found himself thinking aboutthem again. And though the feelings of guilt and betrayal were still there, theyweren't as powerful as they had been earlier that day. And in that moment, Milesknew he'd taken the first step, albeit a small one, toward finally coming toterms with his loss.

He began to justify his new reality by telling himself that he was a widowernow, that it was okay to have these feelings, and he knew no one would disagreewith him. No one expected him to live the rest of his life alone; in the pastfew months, friends had even offered to set him up with a couple of dates.Besides, he knew that Missy would have wanted him to marry again. She'd said asmuch to him more than once—like most couples, they'd played the "what if"game, and though neither of them had ever expected anything terrible to happen,both had been in agreement that it wouldn't be right for Jonah to grow up withonly a single parent. It wouldn't be right for the surviving spouse. Still, itseemed a little too soon.

As the summer wore on, the thoughts about finding someone new began to surfacemore frequently and with more intensity. Missy was still there, Missy wouldalways be there ... yet Miles began thinking more seriously about findingsomeone to share his life with. Late at night, while comforting Jonah in therocking chair out back—it was the only thing that seemed to help with thenightmares—these thoughts seemed strongest and always followed the samepattern. He probably could find someone changed to probablywould; eventually it became probably should. At this point,however—no matter how much he wanted it to be otherwise—his thoughtsstill reverted back to probably won't.

The reason was in his bedroom.

On his shelf, in a bulging manila envelope, sat the file concerning Missy'sdeath, the one he'd made for himself in the months following her funeral. Hekept it with him so he wouldn't forget what happened, he kept it to remind himof the work he still had to do.

He kept it to remind him of his failure.

A few minutes later, after stubbing out the cigarette on the railing and headinginside, Miles poured the coffee he needed and headed down the hall. Jonah wasstill asleep when he pushed open the door and peeked in. Good, he still had alittle time. He headed to the bathroom.

After he turned the faucet, the shower groaned and hissed for a moment beforethe water finally came. He showered and shaved and brushed his teeth. He ran acomb through his hair, noticing again that there seemed to be less of it nowthan there used to be. He hurriedly donned his sheriff's uniform; next he tookdown his holster from the lockbox above the bedroom door and put that on aswell. From the hallway, he heard Jonah rustling in his room. This time, Jonahlooked up with puffy eyes as soon as Miles came in to check on him. He was stillsitting in bed, his hair disheveled. He hadn't been awake for more than a fewminutes.

Miles smiled. "Good morning, champ."

Jonah looked up from his bed, almost as if in slow motion. "Hey, Dad."

"You ready for some breakfast?"

He stretched his arms out to the side, groaning slightly. "Can I have pancakes?"

"How about some waffles instead? We're running a little late."

Jonah bent over and grabbed his pants. Miles had laid them out the night before."You say that every morning."

Miles shrugged. "You're late every morning."

"Then wake me up sooner."

"I have a better idea—why don't you go to sleep when I tell you to?"

"I'm not tired then. I'm only tired in the mornings."

"Join the club."

"Huh?"

"Never mind," Miles answered. He pointed to the bathroom. "Don't forget to brushyour hair after you get dressed."

"I won't," Jonah said.

Most mornings followed the same routine. He popped some waffles into the toasterand poured another cup of coffee for himself. By the time Jonah had dressedhimself and made it to the kitchen, his waffle was waiting on his plate, a glassof milk beside it. Miles had already spread the butter, but Jonah liked to addthe syrup himself. Miles started in on his own waffle, and for a minute, neitherof them said anything. Jonah still looked as if he were in his own little world,and though Miles needed to talk to him, he wanted him to at least seem coherent.

After a few minutes of companionable silence, Miles finally cleared his throat.

"So, how's school going?" he asked.

Jonah shrugged. "Fine, I guess."

This question too, was part of the routine. Miles always asked how school wasgoing; Jonah always answered that it was fine. But earlier that morning, whilegetting Jonah's backpack ready, Miles had found a note from Jonah's teacher,asking him if it was possible to meet today. Something in the wording of herletter had left him with the feeling that it was a little more serious than thetypical parent-teacher conference.

"You doing okay in class?"

Jonah shrugged. "Uh-huh."

"Do you like your teacher?"

Jonah nodded in between bites. "Uh-huh," he answered again.

Miles waited to see if Jonah would add anything more, but he didn't. Milesleaned a little closer.

"Then why didn't you tell me about the note your teacher sent home?"

"What note?" he asked innocently.

"The note in your backpack—the one your teacher wanted me to read."

Jonah shrugged again, his shoulders popping up and down like the waffles in thetoaster. "I guess I just forgot."

"How could you forget something like that?"

"I don't know."

"Do you know why she wants to see me?"

"No ..." Jonah hesitated, and Miles knew immediately that he wasn't telling thetruth.

"Son, are you in trouble at school?"

At this, Jonah blinked and looked up. His father didn't call him "son" unlesshe'd done something wrong. "No, Dad. I don't ever act up. I promise."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know."

"Think about it."

Jonah squirmed in his seat, knowing he'd reached the limit of his father'spatience. "Well, I guess I might be having a little trouble with some of thework."

"I thought you said school was going okay."

"School is going okay. Miss Andrews is really nice and all, and I likeit there." He paused. "It's just that sometimes I don't understand everythingthat's going on in class."

"That's why you go to school. So you can learn."

"I know," he answered, "but she's not like Mrs. Hayes was last year. The workshe assigns is hard. I just can't do some of it."

Jonah looked scared and embarrassed at exactly the same time. Miles reached outand put his hand on his son's shoulder.

"Why didn't you tell me you were having trouble?"

It took a long time for Jonah to answer.

"Because," he said finally, "I didn't want you to be mad at me."

After breakfast, after making sure Jonah was ready to go, Miles helped him withhis backpack and led him to the front door. Jonah hadn't said much sincebreakfast. Squatting down, Miles kissed him on the cheek. "Don't worry aboutthis afternoon. It's gonna be all right, okay?"

"Okay," Jonah mumbled.

"And don't forget that I'll be picking you up, so don't get on the bus."

"Okay," he said again.

"I love you, champ."

"I love you, too, Dad."

Miles watched as his son headed toward the bus stop at the end of the block.Missy, he knew, wouldn't have been surprised by what had happened this morning,as he had been. Missy would have already known that Jonah was having trouble atschool. Missy had taken care of things like this.

Missy had taken care of everything.