25
Khimairal Ink
And then one day at the very same supermarket where we met, I see Ada with a thirty-ish Asian woman—a stunning, statuesque creature. They are holding hands and are lost in their own world. Ada looks happy. And younger. I have no intention of saying hello, but Ada calls out before I can slink away. “Rach! How are you?” “Fine,” I muster. “I’m . . . yeah. Fine. How are you?” Ada indicates the Asian woman. “This is Kim.” Ada goes on to explain that she and Kim met six months ago and they’re engaged. Ada has not spent her year moping. I manage a few decent words of congratulations and stumble out of the store. I run to my car and cry and cry. I have let the best thing in my life get away. And why? Why? Because she was old? So what? My excuses seem silly, so pointless now.
L
ife goes on. Time goes on, but it doesn’t necessarily heal all wounds. Ten years after I ran into Ada and Kim in the grocery store, I still mourn Ada, though the raw pain has ebbed into a dull ache. I have dated here and there. I simply can’t get over the woman I let escape. I simply can’t forgive myself for my stupidity and my fear. I wonder every day how Ada is, if she and Kim are happy. And, yes, with guilt, I wonder if Ada still lives. I scour the newspaper obituaries religiously, but I never see her name. My father dies of a heart attack, and my mother runs off with the twenty-year-old pool boy. Jessica, who moved out soon after my breakup with Ada, marries the woman of her dreams. Everyone is either dead or happy, except for me. I spend my days drowning in the sea of muck that is my life. Then I see Ada in the snack foods aisle again, and my fog lifts. Only for a minute, though. It is obvious Ada is dying. She is a gaunt, a shell of her former self, but she still manages to be impossibly beautiful. Willing myself not to cry, I say hello. Something floods her features— recognition, love, happiness, relief? “Rach,” she creaks. Her voice is a rasp, unlike her eyes, which are as full of life as ever. “Rachel.”
A few tears escape me, and I wipe them away with the back of my hand. “How are you? How’s Kim?” Ada snorts. “Kim left me nine years ago for some young’un.” I blink. “Wow. I’m sorry. You two looked so in love.” “How are you?” “I’m all right.” “Seeing anyone?” My gaze slumps to a shelf. “No. I haven’t really dated since you. I was stupid.” “Oh, Rachel,” Ada says sadly. “Life’s too short to keep flogging yourself. We all make mistakes.” I meet Ada’s eyes. “I wish I’d known about you and Kim. Nine years ago! Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve . . .” “It wasn’t my place to go to you. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now, does it? Cancer. Found out last month. Yes, yes, don’t tell me, I should’ve gone to the doctor sooner. I have three months, maybe four. Won’t be able to walk by next week, probably.” I know in that instant what I want to do. What I have yearned to do for the past eleven years. I only hope Ada will let me. “Please,” I implore her. “Let me ...” I fumble, searching for the right words. Ada understands, and she smiles. “I’ll tell everybody. Everybody. Jessica, my mother, her pool-boy lover. I’ll shout it from the rooftops! I love you, I love you, this wonderful woman, and I want nothing more than to make you happy. Please?” Tears shimmer in Ada’s eyes, mirroring my own. “I still have two things uncrossed on the list. Find the love of my life and die happy. I’m glad that I can cross them both out.” I take Ada in my arms and kiss her.
T
he next four months are the best and the worst of my life. I take care of Ada, and she takes care of me, even as her health deteriorates and she is reduced to little more than a vegetable. I do not care. Above all, I am determined that she will die happy. And she does, in my arms, with a kiss on her lips and that eternal smile in her eyes.