Two by Two(101)

I held my mom for a moment, then walked down the hall to the bedroom. As  on Valentine's Day, Marge was wearing a pretty scarf, and I guessed  that she had asked Liz to put it on her before I came in.

I pulled a chair from the corner of the room and scooted it toward the  bed. Liz backed out of the room as I reached for my sister's hand. It  felt warm but lifeless in mine. Unmoving. I didn't know whether she  could even feel it, but I squeezed it anyway.

"Hi, Sis," I said to her softly.

At my voice, she blinked, then struggled to clear her throat.

"Read," she said, the word coming out garbled.

It took a moment for me to understand what she meant, but then I spotted  the envelope that Liz had placed on the bed stand, and I reached for  it. Opening it, I pulled out the single sheet of paper, took a deep  breath and began to read.

Marge,

It's late at night, and I am struggling to find the words that I wish  would come more easily. In truth, I'm not sure it's even possible to  convey in words how much you've always meant to me. I could tell you  that I love you, and that you're the greatest sister a guy could ever  have; I could admit that I've always looked up to you. And yet, because  I've said those things to you before, it feels painfully inadequate. How  can I say goodbye to the best person I've ever known, in a way she  truly deserves?

And then it occurred to me that all of what I need to say can be summed up in just two words.

Thank you.

Thank you for looking out for me all my life, for trying to protect me  from my own mistakes, for being a living example of the courage I so  desperately wish I owned. But most of all, thank you for showing me what  it means to truly love, and be loved, in return.

You know me: the maestro of grand romantic gestures, of candlelit  dinners and flowers on date night. But what I didn't understand until  recently was that those tender, orchestrated moments mean nothing unless  they occur with someone who loves you just the way you are.

For too long, I was in a relationship in which love always felt  conditional-I was forever trying, and failing, to become someone worthy  of true love. But in thinking about you and Liz and the way you are with  each other, it eventually dawned on me that acceptance is the heart of  true love, not judgment. To be fully accepted by another, even in your  weakest moment, is to finally feel at rest.

You and Liz are my heroes and my muses, because your love for each other  has always made room for your differences and celebrated everything you  had in common. And in these darkest hours, your example has been a  light that helped me find my way back to the things that matter most. I  only pray that someday I, too, will know the kind of love that you two  share.

I love you, my sweet sister-

Russ

My hands shook as I refolded the letter and placed it back in the  envelope. I didn't trust myself to speak, but Marge's wise gaze told me I  didn't need to.

"Emily," she wheezed. "You …  have …  that …  with …  her."

"I love her," I agreed.

"Don't …  let …  her …  go … "

"I won't."

"And …  don't …  cheat on …  her …  again … " and here she managed the ghost of a wicked smile, "or …  at least …  don't tell …  her … "

I couldn't help but laugh. My sister, even at death's doorstep, hadn't changed a bit. "I won't."

It took her a little bit to catch her breath. "Mom and …  Dad …  need to …  see London … . Be part …  of her life."

"They always will be. Just like Liz."

"Worried …  for …  them."

I thought of my mom and all the loved ones she'd lost; I thought of my dad, weeping in the car.

"Do …  it."

"I will. I promise."

"Love …  you."

I squeezed my sister's hand then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

"I love you more than you will ever know," I said. After offering a tender smile, she closed her eyes.

It was the last time I ever spoke to her.





My dad packed up his tool chest that night, and all of us kissed Liz goodbye. Now it was time for the two of them to be alone.

I don't know what, if anything, they said to each other over the next  couple of days-Liz never told us, other than to say that Marge enjoyed a  day of surprising lucidity before she finally slipped into a coma. I am  glad that Liz was there for that, and I pray that they both had a  chance to say most of what was left to be said.         

     



 

A day later, my sister died.





The funeral, at the gravesite, was a short affair. Marge had apparently  given strict instructions to that effect, but the brief ceremony  attracted dozens of mourners, all of them bundled up under the cold and  gloomy sky.

I gave an abbreviated eulogy, of which I have little memory, other than  that I spotted Vivian standing at the edge of the crowd, far from my  family, Liz and Emily.

Prior to the funeral, London had asked if she could dance for her Auntie  one last time. So after the mourners had dispersed, streaming away to  their cars, I helped London attach her gauzy wings. With no music, and  only me as an audience, London fluttered gracefully around the freshly  turned earth, like a butterfly flitting in and out of the shadows.

This much I know: Marge would have loved it.





EPILOGUE


At the park, I sit in the shade while London runs and climbs and plays  on the swing. It's been hot the last couple of weeks and the air is so  thick with humidity that I keep spare T-shirts in the trunk of my car to  change into at times like this. They don't stay dry for long, but I  suppose that's typical for late July.

In the past four months, the Phoenix Agency has signed three more legal  firms as clients, and now represents firms in three different states.  I've had to find a new office, and two months ago, I hired my first  employees. Mark had two years' experience with an Internet marketing  firm in Atlanta, and Tamara is a recent graduate from Clemson, with a  degree in film. Both of them are "digital natives," and text using both  their thumbs, as opposed to the hunt-and-peck method preferred by their  boss. They're intelligent and eager to learn, and they've made it  possible for me to spend time with London this summer.

Like last summer, my daughter is constantly on the go. Tennis, piano,  and art, along with dance at a different studio, one run by an  instructor who inspires hugs from the kids. I drive her to and from her  activities, and work while she's busy; in the afternoons, we can often  be found at the neighborhood pool or at the park, depending on her mood.  It amazes me to see how much she's changed since our first summer  together. She's taller and more confident, and when I'm driving her here  and there, I can often hear her sounding out the words she sees on  billboards.

My house isn't as large as my former home, but it's comfortable and both  of Emily's paintings-the one I'd bought at the show, and the one she'd  painted of London and me-grace the walls of the living room. Even though  I've been living there since late May, there are still boxes I haven't  yet unpacked, and I had to rent a storage unit for the furniture from my  previous home that I no longer needed. I'll probably sell most of it  eventually, but with all the recent changes in my life, I just haven't  had the time. I'm still getting used to living in Atlanta, after all.

Vivian and I met the day after the funeral, and in less than an hour, we  had worked everything out. Though I offered, she declined my offer of  alimony, and as for the property settlement, she asked for only half of  the equity in the house, savings, and investment accounts. She let me  keep the funds in our joint retirement account, but then again, money  for her was no longer the concern it once was. At that same meeting, she  revealed that she was secretly engaged to Spannerman-others would learn  of it after our divorce was finalized-and while I could have been hurt  by that, I found to my surprise that it didn't bother me at all. I was  in love with Emily, and like Vivian, I'd reached the point where I was  ready for a new chapter in my life.

However, money had never been the real bone of contention between  us-custody was. So I was both relieved and a bit skeptical when she  leaned over and said in an earnest voice, "I want to apologize for the  letter my attorney sent." She placed a hand over her heart. "I was  venting in her office, and didn't realize how my words would get  twisted. I know you would never do anything inappropriate with London,  and when I finally saw the letter my attorney had sent, I felt sick to  my stomach." She sighed. "I can't imagine what you must have been  thinking about me."

She closed her eyes, and in the moment, I chose to believe her. Part of  me longed for that; I didn't want to think she had ever been capable of  such things-but the truth is, I'll never know how things actually  transpired.