Romance with Ray

Christopher James Bollinger

 She stands there glowing under the Southern California sun. A quick 
breeze lifts her sunhat to reveal her face in half-shadow. The red brick of  Royce 
Hall looms behind her. I take a photograph that will bring me joy and sorrow in 
equal measure. 

 “Live forever!” Ray cried. We were enraptured, watching my hero sit in 
his wheelchair raising up his gnarled hand in the air, providing both blessing and 
benediction to the crowd. The energy in the room was intoxicating, we all hung 
on his every word, this frail looking old man with his hidden, tenacious power. He 
pulled us by hidden marionette strings—one way to laughter, one way to tears. I 
looked at her with tears in my eyes, tears of  love for the man, tears of  love for the 
life I was so fortunate to live. 

 The night before we came to see him speak, I read to her “The Last 
Night of  the World.” The husband and wife finishing one last, quiet night before 
the literal ending of  the world. We both cried. I remember lying next to her in 
our big California King-size bed, her warmth and her scent so powerful in that 
space lingering after sadness. We spoke a bit of  our fears about the end, about 
death. I didn’t have any sense of  it. I felt too young, too assured of  a long life that 
death was only a concept, one that sometimes kept me awake if  I thought about 
it before falling into sleep. But she had opinions. 

 “Death is not the end,” she said, “but the beginning of  the soul’s jour-
ney.” She seemed very sure. I know her fiancé had passed only a few months 
before I had met her. She alluded to messages from beyond. I was a callous atheist 
with very little tolerance for nonsense then. “Well, I’m not too sure of  a soul. 
I think that when we go, we go. What we leave behind us is what’s important. 
Things that people will remember.” She looked at me with bemusement—maybe 
pity. “You know Christopher, I know exactly how I am going to die.” My eyes 
opened wide. “Tell me,” I implored her. But she shook her head no. She looked 
into the distance and I could see in her eyes that she believed she knew how, if  not 
when.

 “Let’s play Scrabble.” The distraction tactic. I gave in and pulled out the 
board, a nice game (I would let her win), we would make love, and go to sleep. 
Drive out that morning to UCLA and see Ray Bradbury speak. It would turn 
out to be a lovely day. Walking through the campus talking. Telling her about 
how Ray wrote Fahrenheit 451 in the basement of  the library, stuffing dimes into 
rent-a-typewriters. Of  course, he would tell the story himself  on stage later. But 
she loved to see me passionate. She leaned in and gave me a big kiss that made 
me blush, like every kiss she gave made me blush. 

 I was a shutterbug. I took pictures of  everything, of  fascinating faces, 
or architectural details. Of  Ray on stage. It was serendipity that I was able to 

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capture her in that fantastic light. I showed her the photo on the computer later 
that night, and she told me she looked fat. Of  course she looked radiant. I kept 
it as the wallpaper on my cellphone for years. When we moved from Southern 
California to the Pacific Northwest to endure seemingly endless rain, just seeing 
her smiling face would make me smile no matter the weather. But eventually new 
photos took its place. New memories crowded out that one specific moment.

 Then she wasn’t feeling so good. She put off going to the doctor. I told 
her it could be appendicitis. When we finally went to see her PCP, the urgent CT 
scan showed she had cancer. I remember sitting in the little room as he showed 
us the images, I remember how my heart sank into the center of  the earth. How 
I knew from working in healthcare for years that there was no way out of  this. I 
could see her face through my tears, taking it in. She was optimistic to the end, 
and I pretended so well that she thought I was too.

 She wanted to be cremated so I could keep her close to me. Her sister 
had been buried in Colorado and no one took care of  her grave. “Promise me 
you’ll keep me close.” She passed on a couple of  days after my birthday. She left 
me as I told her it was ok to go, that I would be ok. Her favorite song played at 
that moment and I knew, knew without doubt, that her soul would go on. She sent 
me messages only I would know. 

 I had bought a carved, rosewood urn with a spot for a photograph on 
its face. I was so distracted with all of  the aftermath that I forgot about it. When 
the funeral home called me to let me know she was ready…I wasn’t. I looked 
for a photograph that would capture her, capture her love, her beauty, her heart, 
the other half  of  my soul. And then I saw it there, stored as computer data, that 
moment in time after we had seen Ray Bradbury: that smile shining in the light 
I missed so much. Her holding on to her hat so that it wouldn’t blow away. A 
moment of  romance with Ray. 

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