Chapter 84 - Allison Ruiz Said Goodbye First
Allison died at ninety-two.
Not suddenly.
Not violently.
No scandal.
Cancer.
Pancreatic.
By the time doctors found it, treatment offered months.
She rejected aggressive chemotherapy.
This time, nobody argued.
Different illness.
Different choice.
“I've already had enough bonus years,” she said.
Leo moved into her apartment temporarily.
Grandchildren visited.
Meredith Grace brought food nobody ate.
Maya came from Washington.
I visited every day I could.
Julian sometimes understood who Allison was.
Sometimes not.
One afternoon, he looked at her and whispered:
“You were mean to Meredith.”
Allison laughed until she coughed.
“Yes.”
“Stop.”
“I did. Fifty years ago.”
“Good.”
Then he forgot.
Allison looked at me.
“Your husband holds grudges beyond memory.”
“Talent.”
Near the end, she asked me to stay overnight.
Same ritual.
Different sister.
“You know what’s funny?” she asked.
“No.”
“I spent my first thirty years terrified you were better than me.”
“I was.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Still awful.”
“I’m comforting.”
“You’re failing.”
We laughed.
Then silence.
“I hated you because Dad compared us.”
“I know.”
“And you hated me because he chose me.”
“Yes.”
“He didn't really choose me.”
I looked at her.
“He used you differently.”
“Yes.”
She stared at the ceiling.
“We lost so much time.”
“Yes.”
Again, I would not lie.
“But we got some back.”
“A lot.”
She took my hand.
“Do you remember the empty townhouse?”
“Yes.”
“I thought that was the worst day of my life.”
“It was unpleasant.”
“It was the first honest one.”
Maybe.
“I had no husband. No money. No status. No family willing to rescue me.”
“You had a dental job.”
“Exactly.”
She smiled.
“Best thing that happened to me.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“Don't give pain credit.”
My own words coming back.
“Fine.”
“What was the best thing?”
“I chose what happened after.”
Better.
Allison died two days later.
Leo held one hand.
I held the other.
Her last clear words were:
“Tell Daniel I eventually learned to make coffee.”
Then she smiled.
And was gone.
I cried differently for Allison than Robert.
No unfinished war.
No apology still needed.
Just absence.
At her memorial, there were no speeches about wealth.
People from the dental clinic came.
Phoenix Court residents.
Meredith House staff.
Daniel’s old friends.
Children Allison had helped anonymously.
Apparently she had spent years paying orthodontic bills for families who could not afford them.
Nobody knew.
Typical.
She left me her green suit from the Phoenix board hearing.
It did not fit.
I kept it anyway.
She left Julian a note.
IF YOU OUTLIVE ME, THIS IS RIDICULOUS.
He did.
When I read it aloud, he laughed even though he did not entirely understand why.
Then I realized I was the last Campbell sister.
For most of childhood, that would have sounded like victory.
At ninety-eight, it sounded lonely.
Meredith Grace sat beside me.
“You still have us.”
“I know.”
Not replacement.
Continuation.
May you like
Different.
Enough.
