“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.