“You could do better than me,” is how I began the conversation. There were smarter and kinder men, wealthier and better-looking suitors, I went on. When Emily interrupted me to ask what this was about, I spilled everything: my conversations with Marge; my meeting with Vivian the day after the funeral; the realization that I needed to move to Atlanta. For London. Could she forgive me?
Standing, she put her arms around me. We were in her kitchen at the time, and in that moment, my eyes flashed to her studio, where she was working on yet another painting. It was one she intended to give to Liz. As she’d done with the image of London and me, Emily was painting a version of the photo taken of Marge and Liz beneath the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.
“I’ve known for a while that you were going to move to Atlanta,” she whispered into my ear. “Marge told me when I went to see her. Why do you think I put my house up for sale?”
Emily and I now live less than a mile from each other. We’re each renting for the time being, because we both know that it’s only a matter of time before we start shopping for rings. There are those who might think it’s too fast – my divorce was finalized only three months ago – but to this I would respond, How many people have the chance to marry their closest friend?
For London, knowing that Bodhi not only lives here but will go to the same school – there’s an excellent one nearby – has made her transition that much easier. Right after I watched London zip down the slide, I glanced toward the parking lot and saw Emily pulling in. Bodhi jumped out and made a beeline toward London, and when Emily smiled and waved, I knew with certainty that my day had gotten a whole lot better.
And by the way, if anyone’s interested: On Emily’s first night in Atlanta – she moved here a week after London and I did – we celebrated with champagne and ended up in bed. Ever since, I’ve felt as if I’ve finally come home.
It hasn’t been easy for my parents, or for Liz. On the weekends that Vivian has London, I make the drive to Charlotte, and I visit my parents. Liz is often there, and our conversations drift to Marge as a matter of course. These days, we no longer weep at the mention of Marge’s name, but the aching emptiness remains. I’m not certain that any of us will ever completely fill the void.
Yet there are glimmers of hope.
When Liz and I were chatting last weekend, she asked me in an offhanded way whether I thought she was too old to become a single mother. When I assured her to the contrary she merely nodded. I didn’t press her, but I could see that Marge’s gift to Liz was already bearing the fruit of possibility.
Later that same afternoon, my dad mentioned that the owner of the plumbing company was running it into the ground and he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to stick around to watch that happen. When my parents came to visit London and me in Atlanta earlier this week, I caught my mom looking through the real estate section of the newspaper.
As I mentioned before, my sister always had a plan.
As for me, Marge had known all along what I needed to do, and in the weeks following her funeral I often wondered why she hadn’t simply told me to move to Atlanta instead of letting me fumble my way to the answer on my own.
Only recently did I figure out why she’d held back: After a lifetime of looking to her for guidance, she knew I needed to learn to trust my own judgment. She knew that her little brother needed just one more push to become the man she always knew I could be – the man who finally had the confidence to act when it mattered most.
It was a year to remember and a year to forget, and I am not the man I was twelve months ago. In the end, I lost too much; the grief I feel about Marge is still too fresh. I will miss her always, and know that I couldn’t have weathered the past year without her. Nor can I imagine who I’d be today without London, and whenever I look at Emily, I clearly envision a future with her at my side. Marge, Emily and London supported me when I needed it most, in ways that now seem almost preordained.
But here’s the thing: With each of them, I was a different person. I was a brother and a father and a suitor, and I think to myself that these distinctions reflect one of life’s universal truths. At any given time, I am not the whole me; I am but a partial version of myself and each version is slightly different from the others. But each of these versions of me, I now believe, has always had someone by his side. I’d survived the year because I’d been able to march two by two with those I loved the most, and though I’ve never admitted it to anyone, there are moments, even now, when I feel Marge walking beside me. I’ll hear her whisper the answer when I’m confronted with a decision; I’ll hear her urging me to lighten up when the world is weighing heavily on me. This is my secret. Or rather, it is our secret, and I think to myself that I’ve been lucky, for no one should ever be forced to march through life alone.