Read Online Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas by James Patterson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Patterson
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Matt had unofficially taken over most of the ball playing with Gus.
Two hours later the vet came out. It seemed like an eternity before she spoke. Now I knew how my own patients must feel when
I hesitate or am at a loss for words. Their faces seem calm but their bodies convey something else. They beg to be relieved
of their anxiety with good news,
only good news.
“Suzanne, Matt . . . ,” Dr. Pugatch finally said. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Gus didn’t make it.”
I began to cry, and my whole body was shaking uncontrollably. Gus had always been there with me, for me. He was my good buddy,
my roommate, my jogging partner, my confidant. We had been together for fourteen years.
Bad stuff does happen sometimes, Nicholas. Always remember that, but remember that you have to move on, somehow.
You just pick your head up and stare at something beautiful like the sky, or the ocean, and you move the hell on.
Nicholas,
An unexpected letter arrived in the mail for me the next day.
I don’t know why I didn’t rip it open and read it. I just stood there wondering why Matt Harrison had written me a letter
when he could easily have picked up the phone or come over.
I stood at the end of the driveway in front of the weatherbeaten, off-white mailbox. I opened the letter carefully and held
it tight so it wouldn’t be blown away by the ocean wind.
Rather than try to paraphrase what the letter said, Nicky, I’m enclosing it in the diary.
Dear Suzanne,
You are the explosion of carnations
in a dark room.
Or the unexpected scent of pine
miles from Maine.
You are a full moon
that gives midnight its meaning.
And the explanation of water
For all living things.
You are a compass,
a sapphire,
a bookmark.
A rare coin,
a smooth stone,
a blue marble.
You are an old lore,
a small shell,
a saved silver dollar.
You are a fine quartz,
a feathered quill,
and a fob from a favorite watch.
You are a valentine
tattered and loved and reread a hundred times.
You are a medal found in the drawer
of a once sung hero.
You are honey
and cinnamon
and West Indies spices,
lost from the boat
that was once Marco Polo’s.
You are a pressed rose,
a pearl ring,
and a red perfume bottle found near the Nile.
You are an old soul from an ancient place
a thousand years, and centuries
and millenniums ago.
And you have traveled all this way
just so I could love you.
I do.
Matt
What can I say, Nicholas, that your good, sweet father cannot say better? He is a stunningly good writer, and I’m not even
sure he knows it.
I love him so much.
Who wouldn’t?
Nicky,
I called Matt very early the next morning, as soon as I dared, about seven. I had been up since a little past four, thinking
that I had to call him, even rehearsing what I should say and how I should say it. I don’t really know how to be dishonest
or manipulate people very well. It puts me at a great disadvantage sometimes.
This was hard.
This was impossible.
“Matt, hi. It’s Suzanne. Hope I’m not calling too early. Can you come by tonight?” was all I could manage.
“Of course I can. In fact, I was going to call you and ask for a date.”
Matt arrived at the house a little past seven that night. He was wearing a yellow plaid shirt and navy blue trousers—kind
of formal for him.
“You want to take a walk on the beach, Suzanne? Take in the sunset with me?”
It was exactly what I wanted to do. He’d read my mind.
As soon as we crossed the beach road and had our bare feet in the still-warm sand, I said, “Can I talk? There’s something
I have to tell you.”
He smiled. “Sure. I always like the sound of your voice.”
Poor Matt. I doubted that he was going to like the sound of what was coming next.
“There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a while. I keep putting it off. I’m not even sure how to broach the subject
now.”
He took my hand, swung it gently in rhythm with our strides.
Matt had unofficially taken over most of the ball playing with Gus.
Two hours later the vet came out. It seemed like an eternity before she spoke. Now I knew how my own patients must feel when
I hesitate or am at a loss for words. Their faces seem calm but their bodies convey something else. They beg to be relieved
of their anxiety with good news,
only good news.
“Suzanne, Matt . . . ,” Dr. Pugatch finally said. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Gus didn’t make it.”
I began to cry, and my whole body was shaking uncontrollably. Gus had always been there with me, for me. He was my good buddy,
my roommate, my jogging partner, my confidant. We had been together for fourteen years.
Bad stuff does happen sometimes, Nicholas. Always remember that, but remember that you have to move on, somehow.
You just pick your head up and stare at something beautiful like the sky, or the ocean, and you move the hell on.
Nicholas,
An unexpected letter arrived in the mail for me the next day.
I don’t know why I didn’t rip it open and read it. I just stood there wondering why Matt Harrison had written me a letter
when he could easily have picked up the phone or come over.
I stood at the end of the driveway in front of the weatherbeaten, off-white mailbox. I opened the letter carefully and held
it tight so it wouldn’t be blown away by the ocean wind.
Rather than try to paraphrase what the letter said, Nicky, I’m enclosing it in the diary.
Dear Suzanne,
You are the explosion of carnations
in a dark room.
Or the unexpected scent of pine
miles from Maine.
You are a full moon
that gives midnight its meaning.
And the explanation of water
For all living things.
You are a compass,
a sapphire,
a bookmark.
A rare coin,
a smooth stone,
a blue marble.
You are an old lore,
a small shell,
a saved silver dollar.
You are a fine quartz,
a feathered quill,
and a fob from a favorite watch.
You are a valentine
tattered and loved and reread a hundred times.
You are a medal found in the drawer
of a once sung hero.
You are honey
and cinnamon
and West Indies spices,
lost from the boat
that was once Marco Polo’s.
You are a pressed rose,
a pearl ring,
and a red perfume bottle found near the Nile.
You are an old soul from an ancient place
a thousand years, and centuries
and millenniums ago.
And you have traveled all this way
just so I could love you.
I do.
Matt
What can I say, Nicholas, that your good, sweet father cannot say better? He is a stunningly good writer, and I’m not even
sure he knows it.
I love him so much.
Who wouldn’t?
Nicky,
I called Matt very early the next morning, as soon as I dared, about seven. I had been up since a little past four, thinking
that I had to call him, even rehearsing what I should say and how I should say it. I don’t really know how to be dishonest
or manipulate people very well. It puts me at a great disadvantage sometimes.
This was hard.
This was impossible.
“Matt, hi. It’s Suzanne. Hope I’m not calling too early. Can you come by tonight?” was all I could manage.
“Of course I can. In fact, I was going to call you and ask for a date.”
Matt arrived at the house a little past seven that night. He was wearing a yellow plaid shirt and navy blue trousers—kind
of formal for him.
“You want to take a walk on the beach, Suzanne? Take in the sunset with me?”
It was exactly what I wanted to do. He’d read my mind.
As soon as we crossed the beach road and had our bare feet in the still-warm sand, I said, “Can I talk? There’s something
I have to tell you.”
He smiled. “Sure. I always like the sound of your voice.”
Poor Matt. I doubted that he was going to like the sound of what was coming next.
“There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a while. I keep putting it off. I’m not even sure how to broach the subject
now.”
He took my hand, swung it gently in rhythm with our strides.
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