Page 25 of The Price of a Promise

“Of course.”My fingers trembled as I reached out to take the pages she handed me.My father’s nostrils flared, and he cleared his throat.

“You have a lot to think about.You’ll leave for the airport at ten tomorrow morning.”

“Good night, Cora.”My mother pressed a small kiss to the top of my head, and my parents stood, leaving me in the soft white light of the dinette.Swimming in anxiety.Flush with the scent of roses.The true markers of home.

I walked to my bedroom on shaky legs.Chris had taken his own life six years ago, when he was in the thick of business school, headed for the greatness my father had always intended for him.

There was just one small problem.Chris didn’t conform toallof my father’s expectations.I’m as gay as the day is long, he’d always say with a sad smile and a horrible southern accent that he used just because he knew it would make me giggle.It didn’t matter that Chris kept his inclinations private.It didn’t matter that we had a gay uncle (who the family also rejected).It didn’t matter that we lived in “this day and age.”

My father had expectations.Those expectations bred rules.Those rules became tight as a vice.

And after so many years in a vice, he could no longer breathe.

Texts from Axel lit up my phone as I settled into my bedroom.Through the big bay windows, the Hudson River sparkled in front of the glowing horizon.I toed off my heels, simultaneously shooting back a reply.

CORA: I’m home.Everything’s okay, I guess.My parents just had some heavy news.

AXEL: What news?

CORA: I’m still finding out.I’ll let you know.

I nibbled on my upper lip, looking at the faded yellow legal pad sheets, trying to imagine Chris writing this.Had he been crying?Did he write them and save them in advance of his suicide, or had he scribbled them out in a manic fit right before pulling the trigger?What bothered me most was not knowing the details of his final moments.Not being able to ascertain his lucidity.

My mom hadn’t been lying.Chris and I had been practically twins, three years removed.We palled around in everything—even from our earliest times, when Chris was too eager for my parents’ liking to join me in tea parties with my dolls.What started as tea party besties blossomed into the Dynamic Duo.I was the only one who could talk him down on his darkest days.I was the only one who knew where hereallywent on Thursday nights when my parents thought he was at investment club (hint: gay spa).I was the only one who knew how sensitive the caverns of his heart truly were.

I was the only one who could have stopped him from pulling the trigger.

The tears had pooled in the lap of my black dress before I realized I was crying.I just needed to read this and be done with it.The sadness was exhausting.I’d been exhausted for so long.

I drew a shaky breath and plunged in.

Chris had written three whole pages.There was no date, but it read like a living will.Except he wasn’t dispersing personal objects.He was dispersing his plans for the rest of us.

For my mother:Plant me in a garden.Keep my memories in your blooms and just think of me with a smile.That’s all I want.

For my father:Find happiness in the next head of Margulis Realty.I’m sorry that it couldn’t be me, but we both know I would have just disappointed you.

For me:Give our father what I can’t.You’re made for this, Corky.How amazing of a CEO will you be?You won’t just step up, you’ll step in, and make history along the way.

His words landed like bittersweet medicine on my tongue.I’d wanted more from him since the day we laid him to rest, but to see how he envisioned the future felt like a shove in the wrong direction.

I reread everything a second time, then a third.It didn’t take a genius to figure out why my parents had shown me this now.But what really pestered me was wondering how long they’d been sitting on this letter.Sometimes their words were more of what they wanted the story to be.The most convenient truth for their agenda.

I’d have been suspicious of this letter if it weren’t absolutely dripping with Chris’s beautiful chicken scratch.

I set the pages aside with a heavy heart, dark dots of tears on my mauve comforter.

Chris wants you to do the job he couldn’t.

It was one detail—the request of a person no longer here.

But Chris pulsated with life inside my heart every single day.His spirit zoomed through my mind, punctuated the particular successes and horrors of Fashion Week every year, asked me if Ireallywanted pickle on my deli meat sandwich like I’d ordered (the answer was always yes, Spirit Chris).

If I didn’t do what he wanted, I’d fucking hear about it.

I couldn’t think about it anymore though.This was too much; it was too heavy.My father wanted a decision, and this letter practically made it for me.Even on our bad days, I would have done anything Chris asked of me.And now this?

Salty tears found the crease of my lips.I drew a shuddery breath and lay the pages on the makeup-cluttered surface of my vanity.As I did, I caught a glimpse of the frightening state of my face.Dark rivulets of mascara down my cheeks.Smeared lipstick.Puffy, red eyes that still had tears after six years of weeping for my brother.

---