The Longest RideKindle

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The Longest Ride By Nicholas Sparks, Ron McLarty, January LaVoy, Hachette Audio

CHAPTER 1

Early February 2011

Ira

I sometimes think to myself that I'm the last of my kind.

My name is Ira Levinson. I'm a southerner and a Jew, and equally proud to havebeen called both at one time or another. I'm also an old man. I was born in1920, the year that alcohol was outlawed and women were given the right to vote,and I often wondered if that was the reason my life turned out the way it did.I've never been a drinker, after all, and the woman I married stood in line tocast a ballot for Roosevelt as soon as she reached the appropriate age, so itwould be easy to imagine that the year of my birth somehow ordained it all.

My father would have scoffed at the notion. He was a man who believed in rules."Ira," he would say to me when I was young and working with him in thehaberdashery, "let me tell you something you should never do," and then he wouldtell me. His Rules for Life, he called them, and I grew up hearing myfather's rules on just about everything. Some of what he told me was moral innature, rooted in the teachings of the Talmud; and they were probably the samethings most parents said to their children. I was told that I should never lieor cheat or steal, for instance, but my father—a sometimes Jew, he calledhimself back then—was far more likely to focus on the practical. Never goout in the rain without a hat, he would tell me. Never touch a stove burner, onthe off chance it still might be hot. I was warned that I should never count themoney in my wallet in public, or buy jewelry from a man on the street, no matterhow good the deal might seem. On and on they went, these nevers, butdespite their random nature, I found myself following almost every one, perhapsbecause I wanted never to disappoint my father. His voice, even now, follows meeverywhere on this longest of rides, this thing called life.

Similarly, I was often told what I should do. He expected honesty andintegrity in all aspects of life, but I was also told to hold doors for womenand children, to shake hands with a firm grip, to remember people's names, andto always give the customer a little more than expected. His rules, I came torealize, not only were the basis of a philosophy that had served him well, butsaid everything about who he was. Because he believed in honesty and integrity,my father believed that others did as well. He believed in human decency andassumed others were just like him. He believed that most people, when given thechoice, would do what was right, even when it was hard, and he believed thatgood almost always triumphed over evil. He wasn't naive, though. "Trust people,"he would tell me, "until they give you a reason not to. And then never turn yourback."

More than anyone, my father shaped me into the man I am today.

But the war changed him. Or rather, the Holocaust changed him. Not hisintelligence—my father could finish the New York Times crosswordpuzzle in less than ten minutes—but his beliefs about people. The world hethought he knew no longer made sense to him, and he began to change. By then hewas in his late fifties, and after making me a partner in the business, he spentlittle time in the shop. Instead, he became a full-time Jew. He began to attendsynagogue regularly with my mother—I'll get to her later—and offeredfinancial support to numerous Jewish causes. He refused to work on the Sabbath.He followed with interest the news regarding the founding of Israel—andthe Arab-Israeli War in its aftermath—and he began to visit Jerusalem atleast once a year, as if looking for something he'd never known he'd beenmissing. As he grew older, I began to worry more about those overseas trips, buthe assured me that he could take care of himself, and for many years he did.Despite his advancing age, his mind remained as sharp as ever, but unfortunatelyhis body wasn't quite so accommodating. He had a heart attack when he wasninety, and though he recovered, a stroke seven months later greatly weakenedthe right side of his body. Even then, he insisted on taking care of himself. Herefused to move to a nursing home, even though he had to use a walker to getaround, and he continued to drive despite my pleas that he forfeit his license.It's dangerous, I would tell him, to which he would shrug.

What can I do? he would answer. How else would I get to the store?

My father finally died a month before he turned 101, his license still in hiswallet and a completed crossword puzzle on the bed-stand beside him. It had beena long life, an interesting life, and I've found myself thinking about him oftenof late. It makes sense, I suppose, because I've been following in his footstepsall along. I carried with me his Rules for Life every morning as Iopened the shop and in the way I've dealt with people. I remembered names andgave more than was expected, and to this day I take my hat with me when I thinkthere's a chance of rain. Like my father, I had a heart attack and now use awalker, and though I never liked crossword puzzles, my mind seems as sharp asever. And, like my father, I was too stubborn to give up my license. Inretrospect, this was probably a mistake. If I had, I wouldn't be in thispredicament: my car off the highway and halfway down the steep embankment, thehood crumpled from impact with a tree. And I wouldn't be fantasizing aboutsomeone coming by with a thermos full of coffee and a blanket and one of thosemovable thrones that carried the pharaoh from one spot to the next. Because asfar as I can tell, that's just about the only way I'm ever going to make it outof here alive.

I'm in trouble. Beyond the cracked windshield, the snow continues to fall,blurry and disorienting. My head is bleeding, and dizziness comes in waves; I'malmost certain my right arm is broken. Collarbone, too. My shoulder throbs, andthe slightest twitch is agonizing. Despite my jacket, I'm already so cold thatI'm shivering.

I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't afraid. I don't want to die, and thanks tomy parents—my mother lived to ninety-six—I long assumed that I wasgenetically capable of growing even older than I already am. Until a few monthsago, I fully believed I had half a dozen good years left. Well, maybe notgood years. That's not the way it works at my age. I've beendisintegrating for a while now—heart, joints, kidneys, bits and pieces ofmy body beginning to give up the ghost—but recently something else hasbeen added to the mix. Growths in my lungs, the doctor said. Tumors.Cancer. My time is measured in months now, not years ... but even so,I'm not ready to die just yet. Not today. There is something I have to do,something I have done every year since 1956. A grand tradition is coming to anend, and more than anything, I wanted one last chance to say good-bye.

Still, it's funny what a man thinks about when he believes death to be imminent.One thing I know for sure is that if my time is up, I'd rather not go out thisway—body trembling, dentures rattling, until finally, inevitably, my heartjust gives out completely. I know what happens when people die—at my age,I've been to too many funerals to count. If I had the choice, I'd rather go inmy sleep, back home in a comfortable bed. People who die like that look good atthe viewing, which is why, if I feel the Grim Reaper tapping my shoulder, I'vealready decided to try to make my way to the backseat. The last thing I want isfor someone to find me out here, frozen solid in a sitting position like somebizarre ice sculpture. How would they ever get my body out? The way I'm wedgedbehind the wheel, it would be like trying to get a piano out of the bathroom. Ican imagine some fireman chipping away at the ice and wobbling my body back andforth, saying things like "Swing the head this way, Steve," or "Wiggle the oldguy's arms that way, Joe," while they try to manhandle my frozen body out of thecar. Bumping and clunking, pushing and pulling, until, with one last big heave,my body thumps to the ground. Not for me, thanks. I still have my pride. So likeI said, if it comes to that, I'll try my best to make my way to the backseat andjust close my eyes. That way they can slide me out like a fish stick.

But maybe it won't come to that. Maybe someone will spot the tire tracks on theroad, the ones heading straight over the embankment. Maybe someone will stop andcall down, maybe shine a flashlight and realize there's a car down here. Itisn't inconceivable; it could happen. It's snowing and people are alreadydriving slowly. Surely someone's going to find me. They have to find me.

Right?

Maybe not.

The snow continues to fall. My breath comes out in little puffs, like a dragon,and my body has begun to ache with the cold. But it could be worse. Because itwas cold—though not snowing—when I started out, I dressed forwinter. I'm wearing two shirts, a sweater, gloves, and a hat. Right now the caris at an angle, nose pointed down. I'm still strapped into the seat belt, whichsupports my weight, but my head rests on the steering wheel. The air bagdeployed, spreading white dust and the acrid scent of gunpowder throughout thecar. It's not comfortable, yet I'm managing.

But my body throbs. I don't think the air bag worked properly, because my headslammed into the steering wheel and I was knocked unconscious. For how long, Ido not know. The gash on my head continues to bleed, and the bones in my rightarm seem to be trying to pop through my skin. Both my collarbone and my shoulderthrob, and I'm afraid to move. I tell myself it could be worse. Though it issnowing, it is not bitterly cold outside. Temperatures are supposed to dip intothe mid-twenties tonight but will climb into the high thirties tomorrow. It'salso going to be windy, with gusts reaching twenty miles an hour. Tomorrow,Sunday, the winds will be even worse, but by Monday night, the weather willgradually begin to improve. By then, the cold front will have largely passed andthe winds will be almost nonexistent. On Tuesday, temperatures are expected toreach the forties.

I know this because I watch the Weather Channel. It's less depressing than thenews, and I find it interesting. It's not only about the expected weather; thereare shows about the catastrophic effects of weather in the past. I've seen showsabout people who were in the bathroom as a tornado ripped the house from itsfoundation, and I've seen people talk about being rescued after being swept awayby flash flooding. On the Weather Channel, people always survive catastrophe,because these are the people who are interviewed for the program. I like knowingin advance that the people survived. Last year, I watched a story about rush-hour commuters who were surprised by a blizzard in Chicago. Snow came down sofast, the roads were forced to close while people were still on them. For eighthours, thousands of people sat on highways, unable to move while temperaturesplummeted. The story I saw focused on two of the people who'd been in theblizzard, but what struck me while watching was the fact that neither of themseemed prepared for the weather. Both of them became almost hypothermic as thestorm rolled through. This, I must admit, made no sense to me. People who livein Chicago are fully aware that it snows regularly; they experience theblizzards that sometimes roll in from Canada, they must realize it gets cold.How could they not know these things? If I lived in such a place, I would havehad thermal blankets, hats, an additional winter jacket, earmuffs, gloves, ashovel, a flashlight, hand warmers, and bottled water in the trunk of my car byHalloween. If I lived in Chicago, I could be stranded by a blizzard for twoweeks before I began to worry.

My problem, however, is that I live in North Carolina. And normally when Idrive—except for an annual trip to the mountains, usually in thesummer—I stay within a few miles of my home. Thus, my trunk is empty, butI'm somewhat comforted by the fact that even if I had a portable hotel in mytrunk, it would do me no good. The embankment is icy and steep, and there's noway I could reach it, even if it held the riches of Tutankhamun. Still, I'm notaltogether unprepared for what's happened to me. Before I left, I packed athermos full of coffee, two sandwiches, prunes, and a bottle of water. I put thefood in the passenger seat, next to the letter I'd written, and though all of itwas tossed about in the accident, I'm comforted by the knowledge that it's stillin the car. If I get hungry enough, I'll try to find it, but even now Iunderstand that there's a cost to eating or drinking. What goes in must go out,and I haven't yet figured out how it will go out. My walker is in the backseat,and the slope would propel me to my grave; taken with my injuries, a call ofnature is out of the question.

About the accident. I could probably concoct an exciting story about icyconditions or describe an angry, frustrated driver who forced me off the road,but that's not the way it happened. What happened was this: It was dark and itbegan to snow, then snow even harder, and all at once, the road simply vanished.I assume I entered a curve—I say assume, because I obviouslydidn't see a curve—and the next thing I knew, I crashed through theguardrail and began to careen down the steep embankment. I sit here, alone inthe dark, wondering if the Weather Channel will eventually do a show about me.

I can no longer see through the windshield. Though it sends up flares of agony,I try the windshield wipers, expecting nothing, but a moment later they push atthe snow, leaving a thin layer of ice in their wake. It strikes me as amazing,this momentary burst of normalcy, but I reluctantly turn the wipers off, alongwith the headlights, though I'd forgotten they were even on. I tell myself thatI should conserve whatever is left of the battery, in case I have to use thehorn.

I shift, feeling a lightning bolt shoot from my arm up to my collarbone. Theworld goes black. Agony. I breathe in and out, waiting for the white-hot agonyto pass. Dear God, please. It is all I can do not to scream, but then,miraculously, it begins to fade. I breathe evenly, trying to keep the tears atbay, and when it finally recedes, I feel exhausted. I could sleep forever andnever wake up. I close my eyes. I'm tired, so tired.

Strangely, I find myself thinking of Daniel McCallum and the afternoon of thevisit. I picture the gift he left behind, and as I slip away, I wonder idly howlong it will be until someone finds me.

"Ira."

I hear it first in my dream, slurry and unformed, an underwater sound. It takesa moment before I realize someone is saying my name. But that is not possible.

"You must wake up, Ira."

My eyes flutter open. In the seat beside me, I see Ruth, my wife.

"I'm awake," I say, my head still against the steering wheel. Without myglasses, which were lost in the crash, her image lacks definition, like a ghost.

"You drove off the highway."

I blink. "A maniac forced me off the road. I hit a patch of ice. Without mycatlike reflexes, it would have been worse."

"You drove off the road because you are blind as a bat and too old to bedriving. How many times have I told you that you are a menace behind the wheel?"

"You've never said that to me."

"I should have. You didn't even notice the curve." She pauses. "You arebleeding."

Lifting my head, I wipe my forehead with my good hand and it comes back red.There is blood on the steering wheel and the dash, smears of red everywhere. Iwonder how much blood I've lost. "I know."

"Your arm is broken. And your collarbone, too. And there is something wrong withyour shoulder."

"I know," I say again. As I blink, Ruth fades in and out.

"You need to get to the hospital."

"No argument there," I say.

"I am worried about you."

I breathe in and out before I respond. Long breaths. "I'm worried about me,too," I finally say.

My wife, Ruth, is not really in the car. I realize this. She died nine yearsago, the day I felt my life come to a full stop. I had called to her from theliving room, and when she didn't answer, I rose from my chair. I could movewithout a walker back then, though it was still slow going, and after reachingthe bedroom, I saw her on the floor, near the bed, lying on her right side. Icalled for an ambulance and knelt beside her. I rolled her onto her back andfelt her neck, detecting nothing at all. I put my mouth to hers, breathing inand out, the way I had seen on television. Her chest went up and down and Ibreathed until the world went black at the edges, but there was no response. Ikissed her lips and her cheeks, and I held her close against me until theambulance arrived. Ruth, my wife of more than fifty-five years, had died, and inthe blink of an eye, all that I'd loved was gone as well.