Binding Agreement

Chapter 15





LESS THAN AN hour after Robert left my office Mr. Costin came to see me, in my office, further contaminating a place that was only an hour earlier a place of passion and love. He told me that Mr. Dade had come to see him. He assured Mr. Costin that he wouldn’t be taking business away from the firm just because of my departure. Mr. Dade told him that this was due to me and my altruism and that if I so much as hinted that I was unhappy with how I was being treated during my final days on the job, all bets were off.

Mr. Costin then spent about twenty minutes showering me with praise, kissing my ass, and making sure I was happy.

I can’t wait to get out of this place.

* * *

DAYS PASS AND I don’t hear from Robert. I don’t expect to. It’s the way it needs to be.

It breaks my heart.

But there are plenty of distractions. None of them, pleasant. Over the weekend I go to see my parents. I go to tell them the truth about everything. I sit in their living room, my hands clasped in my lap, my head bent, the picture of contrition.

I tell them I cheated on Dave, that we’re through. I tell them that I’ve been hiding this breakup from them for well over a month now.

I sit on their rose-patterned couch, inside their cream-colored walls, and I wait for the comparisons. The comparisons to Melody.

They come quickly from my father. I’m a disgrace, a disappointment . . . a slut. Just like her.

My mother doesn’t speak but her quiet tears say it all.

And then something odd happens as my father continues to grill me. Something ugly. It occurs as he questions me about the man who I betrayed Dave with, “this Robert Dade fellow.” As it becomes clear that Robert is rich, a power player, a man who had much more than a passing interest in me, it’s then that my father’s tone softens. Can I make it work with Robert? Will he marry me?

And all of a sudden my father thinks that Dave wasn’t such a great guy after all. He never thought he was right for me. I shouldn’t sell myself short, aim high; that’s what he always says. If this Mr. Dade can make an honest woman out of me—

“Stop,” I say. I don’t shout the word but it comes out with enough force to bring my father to silence. My mother is by my side, the tears drying on her cheeks. She looks at me curiously.

“It doesn’t matter if Robert Dade puts a ring on my finger or not,” I say quietly. “The man who helped me deceive another can never make me honest.”

“All right, but what I’m saying—” my father begins, his brown eyes still glittering with hope and ambition.

But again I interrupt. “What you’re saying is that it’s okay to cheat and deceive as long as I get something good out of it. Something that will last. I wanted to believe that, too, but I don’t.”

My mother puts a hand on my knee, gives it a comforting squeeze. “Kasie, don’t be so hard on yourself.”

I stare at her, at her hand wrinkled but soft due to an excess of lotion. My father’s hands aren’t much bigger. Neither of them have a single callous.

I used to think these were hands of virtue, that like the scales of justice they could weigh the weight of another’s guilt and come up with a fitting sentence. My sister had deserved to be rejected, hated, cut off. She deserved it because my parents said so. If I took that path I’d deserve it, too.

But now, sitting here on this couch, confessing my sins, an idea is dawning. It’s an idea that changes everything.

“She needed help.” I say the words slowly, tasting them.

“Who?” My father asks.

I look at him with new eyes. I note the way his stomach hangs a little over his pants, his receding hairline, the gray carefully coated with light brown dye. I look down at his shoes. My mother and I are barefoot, to protect the carpet. But not once has my mother ever asked my father to take off his shoes upon entering the house even as she asked the rest of us to.

I never thought about why that was before. I suppose I just assumed he was the king of the castle and was therefore granted certain privileges.

But now that I think about it, perhaps he wears shoes because when he’s the only one who isn’t barefoot, it gives him the illusion of height.

“Melody,” I finally answer. “My sister. When you caught my sister with that boy in her room, having sex, doing drugs . . . she needed help.”

My mother’s hand quickly pulls away; my father reddens with anger. “Do not mention that person’s name in this house.”

“That person?” I ask, incredulously. “That person was your daughter. She was my sister and she needed help.”

“Kasie, please,” my mother breathes. The tears are fresh again. “Let’s not relive this. You are not your sister.”

“No, I’m not. I used to worry I’d become her. I worried that I’d make a horrible mistake and you’d cut me off, exile me from the family just like you did with her. I think I worried about it as recently as yesterday,” I say with a bitter laugh. “I know my role. I know I’m supposed to help you live the illusion. I’m the accomplished, well-behaved daughter who will marry well. You can point to me and prove to the world that anything that happened with Melody was a fluke. None of it was our fault. Her death wasn’t the consequence of our rejection. It wasn’t because we refused to acknowledge that she was sick, that she needed psychiatric help!”

“She was a dirty whore,” my father says, his eyes now glued to his elevating shoes. “She rejected discipline, had no moral center . . . I swear sometimes I wonder how a woman like that could share my genes!” He raises his eyes to my mother, flashes her an accusing glare. “You know she didn’t look anything like me—”

“Oh for God’s sake, she was yours!” I snap, raising myself to my feet. “You don’t get to just invent new ways to deny her! She was your flesh and blood, your responsibility, she was more than you were ready to handle and you f*cked up.”

“Kasie!” my mother cries as my father mutters something about my language.

“You f*cked up!” I say again. “We all did. We didn’t know anything about mental illness or addiction. We were confused, disoriented, and most of all we were afraid. So we made a whole slew of mistakes and now she’s dead.”

“Kasie!” This again from my mother. “You can’t blame your father for her death!”

I give her a withering look. “This isn’t about blame, but if it was, I wouldn’t just be blaming him.”

“Kasie!” this time from my father.

“This is about living with consequences. We made mistakes with Melody. Maybe if we can accept that, we can work through it. Maybe we can stop denying that she existed! I came here because I accept my mistakes, the mistake of accepting Dave’s ring, the mistake of getting involved with someone else before ending it with him . . . oh, and I’ve made so many mistakes in the way I’ve handled myself with Robert Dade. I f*cked up and it’s affected every aspect of my life. I quit my job because of all the mistakes I’ve made.”

“Wait a minute,” my father says, his anger quickly switching to concern. “That’s the top consulting firm in the country! Unless they’re demanding your resignation—”

“They’re not but I can’t stay. Everyone there knows what I’ve done; they don’t trust me, don’t respect me, and don’t want to work with me. That’s the consequence of my actions. And maybe it’s not fair but that’s life. I want to live life, Dad,” I say, my voice breaking ever so slightly. “I want to live life the way it actually is. I’m so, so tired of illusions.”

My mother reaches for me again. “Sweetie, you’re overwrought. If this Mr. Dade fellow is as successful as you make him sound, and if he does care for you, well maybe you could make a go of it. No one needs to know how it all began. And you wouldn’t even have to work! You could get involved in a charity! You could say it was a choice you made because . . .”

She keeps speaking but I can’t hear her anymore. She’s just painting another pretty picture, a portrait of me that skips over my flaws . . . my strengths, too, for that matter. I stare at the mantel above the fireplace. There are pictures of me, of them, of my grandparents. . . .

There will never be a picture of Melody there. No one in this room is equipped to teach me how to face up to reality. I look at my mother as she speaks, my father as he stews . . . there’s no point in being angry. It won’t get me anywhere.

I let go of my mother’s hand and take a deep, cleansing breath to help me regain my composure before I kiss my father on the cheek. “Thank you for letting me talk,” I say quietly, resignedly. I lean down and give my mother a kiss as well. “I love you,” I say to both of them.

I gather up my purse, head to the foyer where my shoes wait for me. My mother makes a little cry of confusion but it’s only my father who follows me.

I sit down on their quilted leather armchair and fasten the buckles of my heels.

“It wasn’t our fault, you know,” he says, his voice soft but determined. “She simply refused to listen. A psychiatrist couldn’t have helped us with that. I tell you, there’s nothing we could have done differently. Not a damn thing that would have helped. If there was . . . I would have known. I wouldn’t just . . . I would have known. Nothing to be done.” Each word is a little meeker, a bit more desperate.

I stand up, give him a hug that’s a bit too hard and lasts a moment too long.

“Of course not,” I say. “You did everything you could.” And then I kiss him again and say good-bye.

Because I can’t change him. And because this is an illusion he wears as a life vest and I don’t have it in me to take it away just to see him drown.