“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.”
“But you were gone before.”
“I was not gone. I was here and I will always be here.”
“How can you be so sure?”
She kisses me again before answering. “Because,” she says, her voice tender, “I am always with you, Ira.”
6
Luke
G
etting out of bed had been painful earlier in the morning, and as he reached up to brush Horse’s neck and withers, he felt his back scream in protest. The ibuprofen had taken some of the pain’s sharp edge away, but he still found it difficult to lift his arm any higher than his shoulder. While he had been checking the cattle at dawn, even turning his head from side to side had made him wince, making him glad that José was there to help around the ranch.
After hanging the brush, he poured some oats in a pail for Horse and then started toward the old farmhouse, knowing that it would take another day or two before he recovered fully. Aches and pains were normal after any ride, and he’d certainly been through worse. It wasn’t a question of if a bull rider got injured, but rather when and how badly. Over the years, not counting his ride on Big Ugly Critter, he’d had his ribs broken twice and his lung collapsed, and he’d torn both his ACL and MCL, one in each knee. He’d shattered his left wrist in 2005, and both his shoulders had been dislocated. Four years ago, he’d ridden in the PBR World Championships – Professional Bull Riders – with a broken ankle, using a special-formed cowboy boot to hold the still-broken bones in place. And of course, he’d sustained his share of concussions from being thrown. For most of his life, however, he’d wanted nothing more than to keep riding.
Like Sophia said, maybe he was crazy.
Peering through the kitchen window above the sink, he saw his mom hurry past. He wondered when things would get back to normal between them. In recent weeks, she’d nearly finished her own breakfast before he showed up, in what was an obvious attempt to avoid talking to him. She was using his presence to demonstrate that she was still upset; she wanted him to feel the weight of her silence as she picked up her plate and left him alone at the table. Most of all, she wanted him to feel guilty. He supposed he could have had breakfast at his own place – he’d built a small house just on the other side of the grove – but he knew from experience that denying her those opportunities would have only made things worse. She’d come around, he knew. Eventually, anyway.