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1
CORA
Iwas ten years old the first time my parents dolled me up in concert black, a ridiculous string of obnoxious gaudy pearls, and had me perform for their friends. They were known for entertaining the upper echelon of the Upper East Side of New York City with their formal cocktail parties, sought-after chefs, and high-profile entertainment, and it only took less than two years for me to realize they didn’t do this because they were proud of me. They did this as their way of keeping me present while removing me at the same time.
Over the years, I’ve often thought about my childhood and tried to view the why of this from different vantage points. The first is that children do not attend dinner parties, so my parents gave me a role in the evening. It was a way for them to include me without me feeling left out. Even though my older brother was always present and allowed to mingle and eat the food.
Second, it’s not lost on me that I was a child prodigy cellist, and what parent wouldn’t want to show off their child’s talent to their friends? I started music lessons with the violin initially, but the instructor felt I would be better suited for the cello based on its size and position. The act of leaning over it and wrapping my arms around it required less discipline than being forced to sit upright while loose but flexible and keeping the violin tucked under my chin, against my collarbone, and parallel with the floor.
But third, the view that whispers to the part of my soul that says, “You know this is the real reason.” Even though my performances stunned anyone close enough to listen, I’ve never quite lived up to their strict expectations. This was their way of dealing with me without dealing with me.
Even now, at twenty-nine, I’m still only invited to their parties to perform. Never to socialize.
Unlike my brother, Winston.
The doorbell rings, and I’m again grateful that my condo does not open straight from the elevator. I know Winston was coming up because security called to announce him, but this door gives me one more barrier to collect myself before he storms in and stares at the boxes I’ve set in the foyer. While I didn’t tell anyone in my family that I had bought a house, I’m not surprised that they know or sent Winston to attempt to put me in my place.
Winston is three years older than me but acts like it’s a solid decade. We used to be close, and I would even dare say friends, but once he became a teenager, our relationship took a turn. Better for him, worse for me. I would watch him at those parties from my place in the corner, and he rarely was alone. Winston stood with our father, who kept his hand firmly planted on his shoulder, and he would tap Winston with approval every so often.
I’ve never gotten that tap, but I got the stern look telling me I had better behave.
It should be said here that I never misbehaved. I did everything I could to try to get the same gleaming appraisal from our parents that Winston got, but it rarely came. I honestly have no idea why I was treated the way I was.
Pausing in front of the mirror next to the door, I tuck away a few loose pieces of hair to look less like a mess, pull my shoulders back, take a deep breath, and open the door.
Winston immediately shoots me a disapproving glare as he storms past me into the living room. It’s a Saturday, and he’s dressed in a three-piece suit. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I saw him in anything other than a suit or a tux. He wears those frequently as well. With every year that passes, he looks more and more like our father and acts like him too. He’s cold, detached, and one hundred percent caught up in reputation and appearances.
Not for the first time, I can’t help but wonder how did I fall so far from the family tree? Maybe this is why I never received their approval. Even though I’ve always done just as they asked of me, they knew deep down I was different from them.
Instantly, I deflate. I know this look. It’s the one my parents are actually giving because they’ve sent him over to “deal with me.” Regardless of the fact I’m a grown woman, they still continue to treat me like an unruly child who’s the black sheep of the family. Again, I was never an unruly child—curious and clumsy describe me better—and to my knowledge, I’ve never done anything to outright embarrass our family.
What would it be like to have a sibling on my side? One who embraces my uniqueness, one who embraces me.
“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” he says, running his hand over the back of his neck but never through his hair because God forbid he messes it up.
“Why not?” I ask in a neutral tone, moving past him and stacking the bricks that belong strictly to my family around my heart. They shouldn’t be easy to stack, but unfortunately they are. I learned a long time ago that there’s no place for my emotions in our family. Having them means I’ve become irrational and more like the general population who are beneath us and less like the dignified lady they’ve raised me to be.
“Because it’s North Carolina,” he seethes.
Yep, not only do they know I bought a house, but they know where too. I wonder if our parents keep tabs on Winston like they do me?
My heart sinks as I take in his reaction, which makes no sense. Everyone we know has vacation homes. That’s right—homes, as in more than one. Why can’t I?
“Do you hear yourself right now? And what is wrong with North Carolina?”
I move past him to take down a large painting in my living room that I want to be moved to the house. I’m not sure exactly how much time I’ll spend in each location, New York and North Carolina, but this painting is modern Post-Impressionism of a garden and feels like it belongs there instead of here.
It’s my favorite painting and represents a dream I’ve always wanted.
“No one we know lives in North Carolina. It’s, it’s, southern.” He says this like it’s a dirty word or old gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “The Hamptons, Cape Cod, Aspen, literally anywhere else, that is where you live.”
I cut him a look filled with disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”
What’s also unbelievable is that he’s acting like this is some rash decision. I’ve been going to Horizons Valley with my friends for years. I love it there, and they know this. Maybe that’s the problem—they don’t like that I’ve chosen to spend more time with my friends and less with them.
“You know very well that the Rhodeses have a reputation to uphold. This reputation has always been the foundation of our grandfather’s business model. It’s what our parents have worked so hard to maintain, and quite frankly, it’s what has funded your life.” He throws his arms out and looks around my condo.
Reputation.
