Don't Forget to Write: A Novel(92)
He led the congregation in the Mourner’s Kaddish, then introduced me. I winced as he called me her great-niece, then rose and went to the bimah with my typed eulogy clasped tight in my hand.
“The first thing to know about Ada,” I began. But then I made the mistake of looking out into the sea of people, and my voice broke. I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t going to be able to make it through this.
I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself, and focused on a spot at the back of the sanctuary. But a woman moved in front of the door, and I startled.
She wore a turquoise Hermès scarf around her hair, a pair of cat eye sunglasses covering her eyes, her lips a shade of red I recognized at a glance. She lowered the glasses and winked at me.
She wasn’t really there. I knew that. And by the time I looked down at my notes and then back up at the door, she was gone. But her presence in that moment, real or imagined, gave me the strength to go on.
“The first thing to know about Ada,” I repeated, my voice strong now, “is that she would have dressed you down, regardless of who you were, Rabbi, for calling me her ‘great’ niece. Implying Ada was a day past thirty would earn you her scorn.” People stirred. “Go ahead and laugh,” I told them. “Ada despised anything maudlin and would have walked right up to the front if she were here and told you all to go home if you were going to be mopey. So we’re going to make this a celebration of her instead of a goodbye. Deal?”
“Deal,” a few people repeated. I glanced down at the front row and saw Dan next to my mother. He nodded at me, flashing me a discreet thumbs-up. I looked back at the door one more time, hoping to see her there, but my imagination could only produce her once.
“Ada was the most cantankerous person I’ve ever met in my life.” I turned to her urn. “You hear that? It’s true.” A few chuckles. “But she was also my best friend. Something I never expected to say about a seventy-fi—I mean, thirty-year-old.” More chuckles.
“I think even down here in Philadelphia, it’s common knowledge how I came to spend the summer with her. And I honestly thought it was a fate worse than death when I arrived. On the car ride back from the station, me holding on for dear life in the backseat—if you’ve ever jumped onto a curb to avoid falling victim to Ada’s driving, you know what I mean—Ada confiscated my lipstick. Apparently it made me look ‘like a tart.’ Which, quite honestly, was exactly the look I was going for. Not three minutes later, she was putting it on at a traffic light. She told me she could pull it off.”
I looked out again. People were smiling. “She could though. There was nothing she couldn’t make look effortless, from my lipstick to a fur stole in Atlantic City in ninety-degree heat. If Ada wore it, it was fashion. Plain and simple.
“She was a hypocrite to the last. A stickler for rules she never followed herself. The epitome of do as I say, not as I do. But the secret behind that was she delighted in being called out on it. Few dared. I was one of them. And by all rights, she should have sent me packing. But Ada valued wit and a wicked streak, both of which my family wish I had inherited far less of from her.” I looked down at my father. “Sorry, Daddy.” Genuine laughs this time.
“Ada’s business was love. I know that when you hear the word matchmaker, you think marriage, not love—or at least I did. But despite never marrying herself, Ada understood love better than anyone I’ve ever known.” I looked into the crowd at Thomas’s grandmother, who was nodding. “And that’s why her matches worked. She looked for what made people happy and helped them find more of that in another person. She encouraged me to write, and strong-armed me into giving the boy who got me banished down here a chance.” I held the back of my hand to the side of my mouth in the pose of a mock whisper. “You’re welcome, Daddy.” The crowd roared, and though he tried to hide it, I saw a smile creeping across my father’s face. “And you know what? She was right. About everything.”
I looked at the door one more time, closing my eyes briefly and seeing her there in my mind. “She was vain and mischievous and selfless and kind all in one. And if I live to be a hundred years old, I doubt I’ll meet anyone like her. But my challenge to you today echoes what the rabbi said. Remember her. Tell your best Ada stories to your children and grandchildren. And more than that, live your life the way that you want to. Not the way society or anyone else tells you to. Because you only get this one chance. That was something that Ada understood better than anyone. She did exactly what she wanted. She should have been miserable. A meddling spinster with a bad attitude. But she wasn’t. She was happy and free and lived and loved exactly how she was meant to. And I don’t think there’s much more that anyone can wish for.
“So instead of being sad tonight, drink a glass of champagne and raise it to Ada’s life and legacy. Because she would want you to celebrate instead of mourn.” I paused. “Okay, she would want you to mourn a little. She was vain after all.” I paused for laughs. “But then she would want you to pick yourself up and be happy. And that is what all of us”—I looked down at Lillian, then my mother and aunt, who were dabbing their tears, and Dan, who was smiling at me with shining eyes, and sought out Thomas, who was doing the same, his grandmother’s hand clasped in his—“who loved her most are going to try to do for the rest of our lives as well, despite the hole she leaves behind.”