Promise Me

Locked away in jewelry boxes, hidden in my closet, are two necklaces. They are gifts from two different men. Both of these necklaces are beautiful, both of them are valuable and I wear neither of them, but for entirely different reasons—one because of a promise broken, the other because of a promise kept.

As you read my story, there is something I want you to understand. That in spite of all the pain—past, present and that still to come—I wouldn’t have done anything differently. Nor would I trade the time I had with him for anything—except for what, in the end, I traded it for.

Beth Cardall’s Diary

When I was a little girl, my mother told me that everyone has a secret. I suppose she was right. My name is Beth and this is the story of my secret. This is not where my story begins. Nor is this where it ends. This is, hopefully, where it is fulfilled.

It is Christmas Eve of 2008. The evening sky is flocked with wisps of snowflakes that meander indecisively from the sky like the floating seeds of cottonwoods. Our beautiful home in the canyon is aglow, lit in golden hues and decorated both inside and out for the season. It is cozy inside. There is a blazing flame in the living room fireplace beneath a dated family portrait, and a carved, wooden mantel crowded with our collection of German Steinbach Nutcrackers.

The smell of pine needles, scented candles and wassail fills the house along with the smells of Kevin’s cooking. Kevin is my husband and on Christmas Eve it is his kitchen—a tradition begun seven Christmases ago that hopefully will never end.

The sweet, familiar peace of Christmas hymns provide a soundtrack to the evening. Everything is in place. Everything is perfect. It has to be. I’ve waited eighteen years for this night. We are waiting to be joined by our evening’s guests, our old friends Roxanne and Ray Coates, and our daughter Charlotte and her husband.

While Kevin finishes the last of his preparations, I’m upstairs in the master bathroom trying to compose myself, hoping that no one will notice that I’ve been crying.

Alone with my thoughts, I take down an old, cedar jewelry box from the top back shelf of my closet. I don’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve opened the box, but it is covered with dust. I set it on the bathroom counter and pull back its lid to expose the crushed red velvet interior and the single piece of jewelry inside—a delicate cameo pendant with the profile of an elegant woman carved into shell. The image is set in a gold bezel on a fine gold chain. I lift the necklace from the box. It’s been many years since I’ve looked at it—many more since he gave it to me. There’s a reason I don’t wear the necklace. It holds so many feelings it would be like carrying an anvil around my neck. Already, just looking at it, I feel that weight as it opens a part of my mind I have kept closed: the evening in Capri when he kissed me and softly draped it around my neck. It was a different time, a different world, but the tears fall down my cheeks now just as they did then.

I fasten the necklace and look at myself in the mirror. I’m much older than I was the first time I wore it. It’s hard to believe that eighteen years have passed.

For all those years I have carried a secret that I couldn’t share with anyone. No one would believe me if I told them. No one would understand. No one except the man I share my secret with. For eighteen years even he hasn’t remembered. Tonight that may change. Tonight time has caught up to itself. I know this doesn’t make sense to you now, but it will.

My story actually began in 1989. There are years of our lives that come and go and barely leave an imprint, but, for me, 1989 wasn’t one of them. It was a hard year, and by hard I don’t mean a day at the DMV, I mean Siberian Winter hard, one I barely survived and would never forget, as much as I wanted to.

It was the end of a decade and an era. It was a year of contrasts, of Field of Dreams and Satanic Verses. There were remarkable historic events that closed out the decade—the falling of the Berlin Wall and the Tiananmen Square massacre. There were a few notable passings as well: Lucille Ball, Bette Davis, and Irving Berlin died. My first husband, Marc, died as well, but that’s all I’ll say about that now. You’ll understand why later.

I have loved three men in my life. I was married to Marc for seven years and I’ve been married to Kevin for twelve. But there was a man in between—a man I will always love—but a love that could never be. It was a little more than two months after Marc’s death, on Christmas Day, that he came into my life and changed nearly every reality of my existence. How he came into my life and where he went is not easy to explain, but I’ll do my best.

I’ve heard it said that reality is nothing but a collective dream. My story may challenge what you believe about heaven and earth. Or not. The truth is, you probably won’t believe my story. I don’t blame you. In the last eighteen years I’ve had plenty of time to think this over and honestly, had I not experienced it myself, I’m pretty certain that I wouldn’t believe it either.

No matter. Tonight the silence may end. Tonight someone may share the secret with me, and even if no one else will ever know or believe what I’ve lived through, it’s enough that I don’t have to carry this alone. Maybe. Tonight, in just a few hours, I’ll know for sure.