The Longest Ride(122)

The body is not meant to survive nearly a century. I speak from experience when I say this. Two years after Ruth died, I suffered a minor heart attack – I was barely able to dial for help before I fell to the floor, unconscious. Two years after that, it became difficult to maintain my balance, and I purchased the walker to keep from toppling into the rosebushes whenever I ventured outside.



Caring for my father had taught me to expect these kinds of challenges, and I was largely able to move past them. What I hadn’t expected, however, was the endless array of minor torments – little things, once so easy, now rendered impossible. I can no longer open a jar of jelly; I have the cashier at the supermarket do it before she slips it into the bag. My hands shake so much that my penmanship is barely legible, which makes it difficult to pay the bills. I can read only in the brightest of lights, and without my dentures in place, I can eat nothing but soup. Even at night, age is torturous. It takes forever for me to fall asleep, and prolonged slumber is a mirage. There is medicine, too – so many pills that I’ve had to tack a chart on the refrigerator to keep them straight. Medicine for arthritis and high blood pressure and high cholesterol, some taken with food and some without, and I’m told that I must always carry nitroglycerine pills in my pocket, in the event I ever again feel that searing pain in my chest. Before the cancer took root – a cancer that will gnaw at me until I’m nothing but skin and bones – I used to wonder what indignity the future would bring next. And God, in his wisdom, provided the answer. How about an accident! Let’s break his bones and bury him in snow! I sometimes think God has an odd sense of humor.



Had I said this to Ruth, she would not have laughed. She would say I should be thankful, for not everyone is blessed with a long life. She would have said that the accident was my fault. And then, with a shrug, she would have explained that I had lived because our story was not yet finished.



What became of me? And what will become of the collection?



I’ve spent nine years answering these questions, and I think Ruth would have been pleased. I’ve spent these years surrounded by Ruth’s passion; I have spent my years embraced by her. Everywhere I have looked, I’ve been reminded of her, and before I go to bed every night, I stare at the painting above the fireplace, comforted by the knowledge that our story will have precisely the kind of ending that Ruth would have wanted.





The sun rises higher, and I hurt even in the distant recesses of my body. My throat is parched and all I want is to close my eyes and fade away.



But Ruth will not let me. There is an intensity in her gaze that wills me to look at her.



“It is worse now,” she says. “The way you are feeling.”



“I’m just tired,” I mumble.



“Yes,” she says. “But it is not your time yet. There is more you must tell me.”



I can barely make out her words. “Why?”



“Because it is the story of us,” she says. “And I want to hear about you.”



My mind spins again. The side of my face hurts where it presses against the steering wheel, and I notice that my broken arm looks bizarrely swollen. It has turned purple and my fingers look like sausages. “You know how it ends.”



“I want to hear it. In your own words.”



“No,” I say.



“After sitting shiva, the depression set in,” she goes on, ignoring me. “You were very lonely. I did not want this for you.”



Sorrow has crept into her voice, and I close my eyes. “I couldn’t help it,” I say. “I missed you.”



She is silent for a moment. She knows I am being evasive. “Look at me, Ira. I want to see your eyes as you tell me what happened.”



“I don’t want to talk about this.”



“Why not?” she persists.



The ragged sound of my breath fills the car as I choose my words. “Because,” I finally offer, “I’m ashamed.”



“Because of what you did,” she announces.



She knows the truth and I nod, afraid of what she thinks of me. In time, I hear her sigh.



“I was very worried about you,” she finally says. “You would not eat after you sat shiva, after everyone went away.”



“I wasn’t hungry.”



“This is not true. You were hungry all the time. You chose to ignore it. You were starving yourself.”



“It doesn’t matter now —,” I falter.



“I want you to tell me the truth,” she persists.



“I wanted to be with you.”