I Promise

The ashes of the lit cigarette fall like acid drops upon my sheet of crumpled notebook paper, yellowed and scarred by a full pen’s worth of black ink. Bits of words burn away under the shriveling heat. I find myself amused at the words written on the page, things like “Drink more water” and “Find more time for yourself”. I nearly chuckle but find I don’t have the energy. 

"So you're burning the resolutions I wrote for you?"

I jump in my seat. Christina is leaning over the leather recliner I'm sitting in, the nice one she says I'm not to have a cigarette around. She knows I'll never listen, but she still makes the rules anyway. Who knew older sisters were such a drag?

I lean forward in the Lazyboy so she loses her balance and nearly falls. "You don't need to make the rules for me, Chrissy."

"Don't call me Chrissy," My sister snaps. "I'm trying to help you. I care about you. By the way . . ."

"What?"

Christina sits on the arm of the chair, not moving when I try to push her off. She snatches my cigarette with an angry huff and tosses it into the trash can across the room.

"Christina!" I shout. She laughs. "Why did you do that?"

She pulls me from the chair, which groans when I stand. "You need to stop smoking. See? Look."

I follow her finger and read the words "Stop smoki" on the page. The rest of the letters in "smoking" have been replaced by a black burn spot.

My sister runs her fingertip along the whole page. She even touches the burn spots, which have cooled. Each time she pushes her fingernail forward, I read the resolution written. Sometimes she reads them out loud, or says something along the lines of, "That's supposed to say happiness". It bores me until the hoods of my eyes droop downward.

"All of this, Astrid? It's for you," Christina says.

I sigh. "I know."

"But do you really? I wrote all of this for you to read and try to oblige. It's not that hard to drink water, or jog a bit, or--"

"I KNOW!"

The words fly out of my mouth louder than I was expecting. Christina's black eyes grow wide, and she steps away tentatively. She drops the burned notepad to the ground.

"I . . . I know . . . that you know," she whispers, avoiding eye contact. "But I also know that what you're doing . . . it's not--"

"Healthy," I finish.

She looks up, and that's when I see that her eyes are brimming with tears. I hate to see her like that. It makes my heart flare with guilt to see her crying, especially when I'm the reason.

I don't talk until we meet eyes. Her fingers drum against her thighs. Christina hates confrontation, and would rather do anything than bark at me about my smoking. But I know it's not fair to smoke in her house when she forbids it, and I know that I'm lucky to even have her house me for a while.

"I don't know if you're going to be able to stay if you . . . if you keep doing this. Whatever it is."

I'm silent.

"'Cause, I mean, Abel hates it. His mom died from lung cancer."

Wow, aren't those some interesting carpet stains. Is that coffee?

"I guess I'm doing this for him, almost, but a lot of it's for you. I want you to be happy. I think drinking water and running and maybe even getting a pet could help you quit, you know?"

I force myself to nod. She's right, and I don't need to be on the street.

"You know it's because I love you, right?"

"Mmm-hmm."

I don't move from my spot and nearly jump out of my skin when I feel my sister hugging me. So I hug back, as tight as I can. She is my rock right now.

Christina whispers from my shoulder, "I need you to try. Please try."

For the first time in a million years, Christina needs something from me instead of the other way around. Maybe doing all of these over 2020 can help me pay off my tab of sorts.

I never promise anything if I can help it. I find it to be a really demanding thing to do and shoves a lot of responsibility upon a person. But right now, I know this responsibility is what I want. Moreover, it's what I need. So as I hold her close for as long as she'll let me, I respond with the two words I try to keep out of my mouth as much as possible.

"I promise."