The Longest Ride(32)

Even now, I can’t believe she’s come back. “I know it makes you sad —,” I begin.



“It does not make me sad,” she objects. “You are the one who is sad over this. You have carried this sadness with you ever since that night. I should never have said the things I did.”



“But you did.”



At this, she bows her head. Her hair, unlike mine, is brown and thick, rich with the possibilities of life.



“That was the first night I told you that I loved you,” she says. “I told you that I wanted to marry you. I promised that I would wait for you and that we would marry as soon as you returned.”



“But that’s not all you said…”



“It is the only thing that matters,” she says, lifting her chin. “We were happy, yes? For all the years we were together?”



“Yes.”



“And you loved me?”



“Always.”



“Then I want you to hear what I am saying to you, Ira,” she says, her impatience barely in check. She leans forward. “I never once regretted that we married. You made me happy and you made me laugh, and if I could do it all over again, I would not hesitate. Look at our life, at the trips we took, the adventures we had. As your father used to say, we shared the longest ride together, this thing called life, and mine has been filled with joy because of you. Unlike other couples, we did not even argue.”



“We argued,” I protest.



“Not real arguments,” she insists. “Not the kind that mean anything. Yes, I would become upset when you forgot to take out the garbage, but that is not a real argument. That is nothing. It passes like a leaf blown by the window. It is over and done and it is forgotten quickly.”



“You forget —”



“I remember,” she says, cutting me off, knowing what I was about to say. “But we found a way to heal. Together. Just as we always did.”



Despite her words, I still feel the regret, a deep-seated ache I’ve carried with me forever.



“I’m sorry,” I finally say. “I want you to know that I’ve always been sorry.”



“Do not say these things,” she says, her voice beginning to crack.



“I can’t help it. We talked for hours that night.”



“Yes,” she admits. “We talked about the summers we spent together. We talked about school, we talked about the fact that you would one day take over your father’s shop. And later that night, when I was at home, I lay awake in bed looking at the ring for hours. The next morning, I showed it to my mother and she was happy for me. Even my father was pleased.”



I know she’s trying to distract me, but it does no good. I continue to stare at her. “We also talked about you that night. About your dreams.”



When I say this, Ruth turns away. “Yes,” she says. “We talked about my dreams.”



“You told me that you planned to become a teacher and that we’d buy a house that was close to both of our parents.”



“Yes.”



“And you said that we would travel. We would visit New York and Boston, maybe even Vienna.”



“Yes,” she says again.



I close my eyes, feeling the weight of an ancient sorrow. “And you told me you wanted children. That more than anything, you wanted to be a mother. You wanted two girls and two boys, because you always wanted a home like that of your cousins, which was busy and noisy all the time. You used to love to visit them because you were always happy there. You wanted this more than anything.”



At this, her shoulders seem to sag and she turns toward me. “Yes,” she whispers, “I admit I wanted these things.”



The words nearly break my heart, and I feel something crumble inside me. The truth is often a terrible thing, and I wish again that I were someone else. But it is too late now, too late to change anything. I am old and alone and I’m dying a little more with each passing hour. I’m tired, more tired than I’ve ever been.



“You should have married another man,” I whisper.



She shakes her head, and in an act of kindness that reminds me of our life together, she inches closer to me. Gently, she traces a finger along my jaw and then kisses the top of my head. “I could never have another,” she says. “And we are done talking about this. You need to rest now. You need to sleep again.”



“No,” I mumble. I try to shake my head but can’t, the agony making it impossible. “I want to stay awake. I want to be with you.”



“Do not worry. I will be here when you wake.”