She Wouldn't Change a Thing

by Sarah Adlakha

  She snatched her coat from the chair in the kitchen but stopped in the doorway of the den and watched her husband as he surfed through channels on the television, thinking about the fortune she’d been granted in life. You’ve been lucky in love, her mother used to say, and she was right.

  “You ready?” he said, switching off the television. Elizabeth nodded as she placed her hand in his and examined the wrinkles that folded together over their skin, wondering what people would say about them when it was their time.

  The service hall was almost full by the time Elizabeth got there, and her sister, Georgia, was dutifully shaking hands and doling out hugs in the welcoming line, not angered by Elizabeth’s tardiness. In fact, she had expected nothing less.

  “Sorry I’m a little late,” Elizabeth said, leaning in for a quick hug.

  “It’s okay,” Georgia replied. “She’s not going anywhere.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “That was morbid and tasteless. Mom would have loved it.”

  “Just as much as she would have loved the fact that you were late for her funeral.” Georgia winked at her sister before continuing. “You got your speech ready?”

  “It’s all in here,” Elizabeth said, tapping her forehead with her finger.

  The greeting line was unending as the sisters exchanged words and hugs with family and friends, most of whom they’d never met, and before long an elderly woman, well into her eighties, stopped in front of them. She had thinning white hair and deep blue eyes, and though Elizabeth didn’t recognize her, the woman wore a beaming smile. “You look just like your mother,” she said, slipping her hands into Elizabeth’s.

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll take that as a compliment. And how did you know my mother?”

  “She saved my life,” the woman replied. “Many years ago, well before you were even born.”

  “Were you a patient of hers?”

  “Oh, no.” The smile faded from the woman’s lips, but her eyes still shined as she recalled her past with Maria Fontaine. “She visited me once in Ohio, when I was a very young girl. It was such a long time ago, but it still feels like yesterday. She was so beautiful. For a while after she left, I wasn’t even sure she had been real. We wrote to each other a couple of times over the years, but I guess life and time just got in the way. Your mom and my brother, they had such a special connection. They lost touch not too long after that visit, but William used to talk about her all the time.”

  Elizabeth’s mind flashed back to the letter she didn’t have time to read that morning, the one postmarked from Ohio. “Is your brother here?” she asked.

  “Oh, no,” the woman said. “William passed away many years ago, shortly after his wife died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be, my dear. He had a wonderful life. In part because of sacrifices your mother made for him. We may never fully understand our purpose, but there’s a reason for everything. Your mom wrote that to me once. I’ve never forgotten it.”

  It wasn’t until the woman squeezed Elizabeth’s fingers that she realized they were still holding hands, and when the woman finally let go and disappeared into the crowd, a blanket of peace surrounded Elizabeth.

  “Are you ready?”

  Elizabeth jumped at her sister’s voice. The guests had been seated, and as a hush spread over the crowd, she made her way to the front.

  “Yes,” she whispered to herself. “I’m ready.”

  * * *

  “Thank you all for coming today to remember my mother, Maria Fontaine, and to celebrate her life. My sister, Georgia, and I have spent a lot of time together over the past few days, reliving events that we hadn’t thought of in decades. There was a lot of laughing, a lot of crying, and a lot of wine. Ninety-five years is a long time to live, so, as I’m sure you can imagine, there were a lot of memories. Some of them we weren’t even alive for, but when you hear your parents repeat the same stories year after year at the dinner table, those memories somehow take shape in your head as if they were your own.

  “I thought I would come up here today and relate one of those memories with you, a story that stuck out in my mind and got to the essence of who my mother was, but there were so many that it was too hard to pick just one. And who the essence of my mother was, or is, is impossible to pin down. She was a mom when I needed nurturing, a comedian when I needed cheering up, a confidante when I needed support. She was everything to me. So, instead of narrowing her down to one story, today I’m going to talk about what it was like to be the daughter of Maria Fontaine.

  “No regrets. Yesterday, while Georgia and I were going through my mom’s stuff, we decided that if Maria Fontaine was ever to get a tattoo, it would have read, ‘No regrets.’ Not that she skated through life without ever looking back and shaking her head, because there was a lot of head shaking in her life, but if you knew my mother, then you know she wasn’t the one sitting on the sidelines letting life pass her by. She once told me, ‘Elizabeth, if you must have regrets in life, let them be for the things you’ve done and not the things you wish you’d done.’ I was thirteen when she told me that, having second thoughts about auditioning for the dance team at school. I didn’t make the team. I was a horrible dancer. But I never regretted that audition, because the only dancer there with worse rhythm than me ended up being one of my dearest friends for life.

  “She was always full of sage advice like that, and never too busy to spare a moment. It didn’t matter what was going on, if I brought her a book or a game or a problem, she’d drop whatever she was doing just to spend time with me. The people my mother loved in life always came first, and she was quick to remind me that it’s not the things we remember in our lives, and sometimes it’s not even the places we go, it’s the way those things and places and people make us feel. It’s the emotions that are attached to them that make us remember them.

  “I don’t remember much about my prom dress from high school, but I kept a torn-up swatch of it in a keepsake trunk for years because I couldn’t bear to part with it. I don’t know if it had spaghetti straps or sequins or bows, but I do remember how it made me feel when I danced in the rain with my parents, on the pier behind our house, when I got home from prom that night. I was crying when my date dropped me off, about God knows what, but what stuck with me most from that night was my parents coaxing me out the back door and through the soggy grass, in our bare feet. The stereo blaring country music from my dad’s old pickup truck. My parents laughing hysterically as they pulled me onto the pier with them and tried to teach me the Macarena.

  “I didn’t realize then what a gift it was to have my parents. How their relationship taught me to love my husband, and be loved in return. How the respect they had for each other would carry into my own marriage and help forge it into something that could stand for eternity. How their friendship demonstrated that a life shared, even with its struggles, is more beautiful than one lived alone.

  “But it wasn’t just their dedication to each other and their family that made them special. It was also the thousands of people they helped throughout their lives. I know many of you here today were coworkers or even patients of my mother’s, and you’ve probably heard this before, but in case you haven’t, her advice to you would be this: Wear your scars proudly. Let them be a testament to where you’ve been and what you’ve survived. They are the road map of your life. They are what made you who you are.

  “I’m so thankful and immensely proud to have had Maria Fontaine as my mother, and I know Georgia is, too. We learned so many lessons from her, but one of the most important, and the one that will stay even if all the others leave me, is this: Not only should we lead our lives with moral integrity, but we should hold that integrity unfaltering, even when the stakes are high. Especially when the stakes are high.

  “My mother used to tell me that my name, Elizabeth, was a constant reminder to her that the most difficult choices in life, the ones that involve the most sacrifice, would bring the gr
eatest rewards. I never met the woman I was named after, and my mother didn’t like to talk about her too much, but I’m grateful for the lesson she passed on to us.

  “I’m grateful, too, for the life I was granted and the family I was blessed with. I couldn’t have asked for more. But the greater the love, the greater the loss, and the end is always hard. When she left us, she was ready to go. She had no fear of death, promising we’d meet again. I’m taking her word for that, and if you’re watching from heaven, Mom, standing with Dad by your side, I hope you can see how loved you are. Not only by me, but by everyone in this room and everyone you have ever touched.”

  Despite the sniffles spreading through the crowd when the clapping ceased, Elizabeth managed to slip out of the service hall with her composure intact. She wound her way into the lobby, where drinks and appetizers were being served. Her mouth was parched and her hands were trembling before she swallowed down a cup of orange juice and nibbled on a turkey sandwich. The stragglers rushing through the door nodded in her direction, and when she’d finished her sandwich and tossed the plate in the trash, the door to the service hall opened behind her. The man who entered was tall and lean and about her age. The suit he wore was made of fine Italian wool, and his eyes were the most beautiful cobalt blue she’d ever seen.

  “That was a wonderful tribute to your mother,” he said. “Thank you for sharing it.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. “And thanks for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

  There was a familiarity to the man that nagged at her like a persistent itch, as if their lives had once been stitched together but the seams had since been torn. “And how did you know my mother?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I never actually got to meet her,” the man replied, pulling an envelope from the breast pocket of his suit. “But my mother made me promise to deliver this to you upon her death.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Jennifer Fuller. She was the founder and CEO of Fuller Industries. We’re an organization that invests in companies that harness natural energy. But our philanthropy work mostly involves women’s rights issues throughout the world.”

  “Everyone knows what Fuller Industries is. I saw the news of your mother’s death on the television a couple years ago. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” he said, handing her the envelope. “This is for the Fontaine Institute. It’s a donation that we hope will keep the doors open now that your parents are both gone.”

  Elizabeth took the envelope with tentative hands. “Why would she donate to us?”

  “Your parents were pivotal to her success,” he said. “I don’t imagine they ever shared this with you, but when my mother was in college in New Orleans, back in the late eighties and early nineties, there was an anonymous donor who paid for her tuition. As well as her room and board. It took me years—and quite a bit of bribing, I’m ashamed to admit—to uncover the identity of the donors. But I did it.”

  His words drummed through the air as Elizabeth sat transfixed by the blue of his eyes. They were so penetrating and familiar that she couldn’t quite focus on his words. “What do you mean?” she said. “Are you saying that my parents paid for her college education?”

  “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I’m sure it was your parents. And they went to such great lengths to conceal their identities that my mother didn’t think it right to out them. Before she died, though, she put it in her will that upon your mother’s death, the Fontaine Institute would receive this donation.”

  Elizabeth eased her finger beneath the seal of the envelope and sliced it open, careful not to tear the check inside. She gasped when she saw the amount and had to reread it a few times before she could speak. “I can’t take this,” she said. It was more than the foundation had made in its entire existence, and more than they would need to keep it running for twenty years. “This is too much.”

  “It’s not enough, Elizabeth. There’s not enough money in the world to repay your parents for what they did.” Applause spilled through the service hall doors as another speaker finished his eulogy. “You better get back to your guests,” he said, holding his hand out to her. “It was an honor to meet you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I never got your name.” His hand was soft in hers, his fingers long and deft like those of a concert pianist, and when the warmth of his skin reached her, she felt certain she had known him forever.

  “Blaise,” he said, a boyish smile breaking across his face. “My name is Blaise.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d be remiss if I did not start with my agent, Stephanie Rostan. Thank you, Steph, for taking a chance on me all those years ago, for your kindness and grace and patience. This story wouldn’t have made its way out into the world without you, and I still don’t know what I did to deserve you. To Sarah Bedingfield and Courtney Paganelli at LGR. Thank you for being champions of this story and for seeing its promise long before it was polished. Your insights and recommendations contributed not only to this book but also to my abilities as a writer.

  To my editor, Kristin Sevick, I don’t know how you do it. Thank you for always being on and available, even during a global pandemic, and somehow keeping me on track through it all. You are a treasure, and I am so thankful to have you in my corner. Bess Cozby, I adore you. Thank you for your tireless pursuit in turning my novel into the best version of itself. I wish our time together wasn’t so brief. To the rest of the Tor/Forge publishing team, thank-you isn’t enough. I see each and every one of you, and I will forever be thankful that I am a part of this family.

  Katie Klimowicz, you are a genius. Your cover design captured Maria so perfectly and left me breathless the first time I saw it. Thank you for that.

  To my early readers—Carrie Niolet, Katy Roberts, and Damon Denaburg—thank you for slogging through draft after draft with me. I hope you’re all well rested and ready for another go-around.

  To my two biggest cheerleaders, Phil and Anne Festoso, whose opinions of me are completely inflated and biased, thank you for your love and support and confidence. I am honored to be your daughter.

  To my own daughters, I can’t tell you how many times the mere act of writing this novel left me in tears at the thought of ever losing you. Mari, I cherish your beautiful mind and your sensitive nature. Late-night hugs from you are the best. Keep sneaking out of your room for midnight snacks; you know I’ll be there typing away. Vidy, I am in awe of you every day. Your work ethic and your drive and your commitment to your dreams are rivaled by no one. I treasure our time together at the barn, and I hope you always know that your dreams are my dreams, too. Jiya, my darling, thank you for teaching me that love is limitless, that bleak beginnings can have beautiful endings, and that there is truly no ownership in this universe. I still can’t figure out how that little body holds all that laughter and joy. You are a blessing to the world.

  And, finally, to the love of my life, my confidant, my partner in crime: Where would I be without you, Sati Adlakha? Thank you for your overconfidence in me and for all the times you said yes to my crazy ideas. You deserve some kind of participation trophy for sticking it out with me. Maybe for your birthday; we’ll see. The world is a more beautiful place with you in it, and anyone who has ever known you can attest to that. I can’t imagine doing this life with anyone else. I would never have the strength to let you go.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SARAH ADLAKHA is a native of Chicago and a practicing psychiatrist who now lives along the Gulf Coast of Mississippi with her husband and their three daughters. This is her first novel.

  Vist her online at sarahadlakha.com, or sign up for email updates here

  Facebook: @adlakhabooks

  Twitter: @SarahAdlakha

  Instagram: sarahadlakha

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part I

  Chapter One: Maria

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five: Jenny

  Chapter Six: Maria

  Chapter Seven: Jenny

  Part II

  Chapter Eight: Maria

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve: Jenny

  Chapter Thirteen: Maria

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen: Jenny

  Chapter Sixteen: Maria

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty: Jenny

  Chapter Twenty-One: Maria

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Jenny

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Maria

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Jenny

  Part III

  Chapter Thirty: Maria

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four