Sometimes promises can’t be kept.  That’s what Vincent told me the day Ellie died.  I didn’t believe him.  Ellie always kept her promises to me, as I did to her, so why would that change?  In fact, she was the only one who never, ever lied to me before we went Below.  But I didn’t know that then.  We were still so very new to tunnel life.

Promises were foundational to life Below.  When Catherine first took me to the tunnels, Father told me that there were promises I would have to make and keep—to give and receive help and support.  After receiving a new home, one full of kindness and compassion, it wasn’t hard for me or Ellie to help whenever we could.  Usually, the support we offered came with a great reward—the feeling of joy from knowing we had helped someone in need.

Until one day, it didn’t.  One day, someone sick came to the tunnels, and our reward for helping was the spread of his disease.  So many got sick and had to be quarantined.  And for the first time in our lives, I couldn’t go with Ellie and she couldn’t stay with me.  We were separated, and I couldn’t understand why.  All I knew was that she was leaving me, even though she had promised she would never leave me again.  We were orphans, after all, and we were all each other had.

But Ellie knew that love sometimes meant having to set aside your promises when keeping them would put those you loved in danger.

I hadn’t learned that, yet.  Mary tried to tell me, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying.  I was too afraid.  Mom and Dad had been sick.  They were taken away to get better, and they never came back.  And now Ellie was sick and she was going to be taken away, too, and I couldn’t stop this terrible thing from happening.

I said something to Ellie, the regret for which still haunts me sometimes.  I said that I didn’t love her.  I said that I hated her.

It wasn’t true, of course, but I thought it would make her stay with me. Instead, it only hurt her, and it was the last thing she ever heard me say.  I tried to make it right.  I begged to be allowed to see her, to no avail.  Vincent asked me if he could give her my message.  I’ve wondered so many times in the past ten years whether I should have let him.  There were nights when the wondering kept me up, awake in the dark, beside a forever-empty bed.  But I had wanted so badly to tell her myself. I had to tell her myself, to tell her I was sorry for what I had said.  I thought I would be able to.  I never thought she would die.

After all, she promised she would get better, and she never lied. So I stayed as close to her as I could, waiting, even sleeping outside the hospital chamber. I woke just before Vincent came to sit beside me. I thought he was finally going to let me see her. But he told me that she was gone.  My sister was dead.

And my world collapsed.

I raged against Vincent.  I raged, and then I ran.  I found myself in one of the tunnels not often used, with storage chambers filled with old, discarded things. But sitting alone in the silence was almost worse than being around others.  I couldn’t escape from my memories.  The last words I said to Ellie echoed so loudly in my mind.  What if she believed me when I told her I hated her?  What if she didn’t try hard enough to get better? What if it was my fault that she died?

I could no longer tell her I was sorry, and yet, I had to tell her.  I wasn’t sure what to do.  Would she hear me if I spoke to her aloud?  Maybe.  But I didn’t want anyone else to hear me.  My words were just for her.

I ran back to the school chamber, grabbed some tablet paper and a pen, and returned.  Grief is such a private thing.  A secret place, the land of tears, as Vincent once read to us from a book.  I scurried into an empty wardrobe and closed the door until only enough light came through to illumine my paper.  And I wrote to her.

I was on my second page when I heard footsteps.  I held my breath, hoping they wouldn’t find me, hoping they would just go away.

They did not.

“Eric? It’s Father. May I come in?”

I had been in the tunnels long enough to know that he wasn’t going to leave.  So I continued writing.  And I heard him come closer.  He told me I didn’t have to talk to him if I didn’t want to.

I didn’t.

And then he asked, “What are you writing?”

I didn’t want to answer him, but I had questions, and even though I was mad at him, I knew he usually had answers.  So I told him I was writing to Ellie and why.  If he thought it strange, he didn’t say so.  He told me to just tell her I was sorry, that she would understand.

I had told her I was sorry on the first page, the first paragraph.  But I told her so much more than that, things I couldn’t share with anyone else.  But I was still afraid.

“Will she be mad at me?”  I was scared to ask, but I had to know.

“No,” Father said.

I breathed a little easier.  But then came the scariest question of all.  “How am I gonna send it to her?”

He was silent.  Then he said he knew of a way, and that he wanted to write to Ellie, too.

He wasn’t the only one.  A lot of people wrote letters to Ellie.  We gathered at the mirror pool, where Mouse built a small fire.  We were going to burn our letters and the smoke and ash would rise to heaven where Ellie could read them.

I burned my letter first, so it would be the first one she received.  I stood back and watched as the others burned theirs in succession.  I stared at the cinders and flame and the burning letters more than the people. I wondered what they wrote. I heard Father ask Ellie to forgive him.  I didn’t understand why he said that.  I was the one who had done wrong to Ellie, not him.

When the ceremony was over, we dispersed. Everyone invited me to join them in whatever they had planned—food, games, reading, talking.  I didn’t want any of that.  I was tired.  I went to my chamber—our chamber.  Her bed was just as she had left it that morning before she was quarantined.  I hadn’t made it before, because that was part of her chores, and I had my own to do. And now, I didn’t want it made.  I wanted it to stay that way forever, a memory, a moment frozen in time before everything changed.  I cried myself to sleep that night, so sharply did I feel the emptiness and the realization that she was never coming back. Many nights I cried myself to sleep, sometimes beside her grave.  I didn’t understand how life could move forward without Ellie.

But it did, and so did I.  Slowly, at first, but forward nonetheless.  Whenever it grew difficult and I didn’t think I could go on, I would remember my letter to Ellie and the promises I made to her.  Most were vague—I would read more, study hard, make her proud of me.  But there were some tangible promises, too.  I would write a letter to her on her birthdays and tell her what I had done that past year.

There was one promise, however, I wouldn’t be able to keep until I turned eighteen, but it was the promise I cherished the most, and the one that drove me never to give up.

Shortly after we first arrived in the tunnels, we joined Elizabeth’s class.  She was teaching the children about art and there was a book with pictures that Ellie loved.  We sat in the back and Ellie nudged me about halfway through the class to look at the book.

There on the page was a portrait of two children, a boy and a girl.  The girl, who was older, had one arm around the boy, holding him close, protecting him. In her other hand, she held a book while he leaned against her.  They both looked profoundly sad, as if some great tragedy had befallen them, and they were alone in the world, with only each other for comfort.

Ellie pointed to the caption in the book below the picture. It read:  Brother and Sister (Mary and Gerald Thayer) by Abbott Handerson Thayer, 1889, oil on canvas, Smithsonian American Art Museum.

“They’re us,” she had whispered, and she put her arm around me and held me close.

Later that night—and so many times after that—she talked about that painting.  She told me that one day, she would see it for herself.

In my letter to her, I promised her that I would see it for her, and I had spent the last ten years preparing to keep my promise.  I worked hard and saved every penny I earned doing extra chores or errands (we had a very small allowance for those kinds of things), or from assisting our Helpers (sometimes, they gave coins or small bills to us children). Most of the money I saved came from finding it on the ground Above.  I kept it all secreted away in a box and once I turned eighteen, I counted it out and took it to the bus station.  I had enough for a round trip ticket to Washington, D.C., fare for the Metro, and even some extra for food.

I didn’t tell anyone what I had planned.  I still felt protective of Ellie and our relationship, even after ten years.  Father wouldn’t have approved of my going, not alone, and this was something I had to do alone. I planned to leave a note, explaining where I was going and when I would return.  I would take the bus that left at 3 a.m.  It would arrive in Washington around 9 o’clock, when the museums opened.  My return ticket would be for 6 p.m., and I would get back to New York around midnight.

The time finally came. It was harder than you might have thought to sneak out of the tunnels in the middle of the night. There were sentries posted, so I picked a night when Vincent wasn’t one of them—there was no getting past him—and when I was sure he wasn’t going to be out in the city.  I raided the kitchens for some bread and cheese and fruit and tucked it away in the small bag I carried, and slipped through the tunnels to the warm summer air outside.

It wasn’t my first time in the city at night, but I made sure to stay away from dark alleys and I chose an exit tunnel in one of the safer locations.  I made it to the station, bought my ticket, and boarded the bus.  There weren’t many others with me, and I was glad of that.  I settled into a window seat near the front, careful to conceal my bag in my coat.  The others on the bus pulled their hats over their eyes or otherwise nodded off, but I couldn’t.  I was too excited.  I had never been out of the city, and even though it was the middle of the night, I didn’t want to miss a thing.

The bus pulled out of the station and before I knew it, we left the city behind.

We made a few stops along the way.  For most of the trip, an older lady sat in the seat next to me.  We made polite conversation, and I offered to share some grapes with her, but she spent most of the ride napping.

By 5 a.m., the skies on my side of the bus were getting lighter, and it wasn’t long before the sun rose.  And then it really felt like an adventure.  “You would love this, Ellie,” I whispered.  Could she see me?  Did she know I was keeping the promise I had made to her all those years ago?

At last, we approached Washington.  I found myself tapping my toe, wanting to jump off the bus and run. I was in another city!  I was going to a museum I had read about for years and had always wanted to visit, and now, here I was.

The bus finally stopped at Union Station.  We had arrived early, so I decided to walk off my energy instead of taking the Metro, and I found it wasn’t all that far to the Smithsonian, and the summer sun was warm and inviting.  I ate my bread and cheese as I walked and by the time I arrived, the doors were open.

I was shaking as I walked up the steps.  I was here.  I was actually here.  Sudden tears fell from my eyes, and I missed Ellie so much, it hurt.  I brushed them away and entered the museum.  There were free maps, and I took one, but the museum was so large, and there were so many works of art, I didn’t know where to begin.  I didn’t want to walk around and hope I found the painting, so I went to the help desk and was told that Brother and Sister was located in the Renwick Gallery, in another building.

I left and made my way there, and was relieved to see that it was a much smaller gallery.  I went inside and claimed a copy of their map.  I asked where the painting was and followed the direction from the help desk down corridors and into an empty, open room.  I stepped inside, scanning the room as I turned.

There it was.  In the middle of the wall, in a dark wooden frame, there was the painting I had thought about for the past ten years.  The painting I had looked at again and again in the art book.  The painting Ellie had so wanted to see for herself one day.

I was shaking again as I drew near to it.  Gerald’s eyes seemed to meet mine as I approached.  Where have you been? they seemed to ask.  We’ve been waiting for you. The caption on the wall gave some history that wasn’t in the art book.  Their father had painted them about a year after their mother had been hospitalized for depression.  No wonder they were sad.  I brushed away a tear.

“Ellie, it’s beautiful,” I whispered.  “Can you see it?”

I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at the painting, studying it, trying to memorize every detail, wanting this moment to be frozen in time.

But time doesn’t stand still.

“I’ll be back,” I told Gerald.  We little brothers had to stick together, after all.

It was only late morning, and my bus to New York wouldn’t leave for another seven hours.  I explored the various Smithsonian museums for the rest of the day, and just before closing, I returned to the Renwick and our painting and stared into Gerald’s eyes again.

“I have to go soon, but someday, I’ll come back again.  I promise.”

I heard a noise behind me and turned to find one of the employees there.

“I’m sorry, but the Renwick Gallery closes at 5:30.”  She glanced at the painting.  “You can get a copy of this in our gift shop if you’d like.”

I smiled at her.  “Thank you.”  With one, final glance at the siblings, I turned and walked away.  I had enough time to visit the gift shop and hurry back to Union Station, where I had about five dollars left in my pocket.  I bought a sandwich and a bag of chips and boarded the bus.

We were somewhere in northern Maryland when I opened my bag and took out the print of the painting.  “I did it, Ellie.  I saw it for both of us.”  And it felt like she was sitting beside me, so strongly did I feel her presence.

We didn’t have as many stops on the way back, so we arrived in New York around 11:30.  I made my way back to the tunnels, taking care that no one followed me or watched me when I slipped Below.

It felt strange coming back home after my day in Washington.  Had I really only left that morning?  In some ways, it felt like an eternity.  I had almost made it to my chamber when—

“Eric.”  Vincent’s soft voice stopped me.  “You’re home.”

I nodded.

“Come.  Father is in his study.  We’ve been waiting for you.”

With a sigh, I followed him through the silent corridors to Father’s study, which was illumined by a dozen candles or more.  Father was sitting on one side of a chess board, a game in progress.  He stood when we entered.

“He’s home safely, Father,” said Vincent.  “All is well.”

Father looked at me broodingly.  I was certain he didn’t share Vincent’s optimism.  “Would you kindly explain yourself, young man?”

I stepped farther into the study.  “I left a note.”

“I know.”  Father pulled it from his robes and held it up.  “I’m going to Washington, D.C.  I’ll be back by midnight. No other details.”  He shook his head.  “We were worried sick!  Why did you go, Eric?  And how did you get there?  And where did you get the money to travel?”

“I took a bus,” I said.  “I’ve been saving my money since—since I came.  Pennies I found, my allowance.”

“What was so important in Washington that you had to go?” Father asked.

“The Smithsonian.”

Father stared at me like he’d never seen me before.  “The Smithsonian?”

Vincent gave me a puzzled look.  “Why, Eric?”

I found myself fighting back tears.  “Because I promised Ellie.”

Silence fell over the room.

Father finally stirred.  He returned to his seat and gestured to another at the table.  “Why don’t you sit down and tell us all about it.”

I claimed one of the other chairs and in quiet tones, told them everything.  “I promised Ellie.”  Tears fell unheeded down my cheeks.  “I had to go.  I had to keep my promise.”

“Of course you did,” Father said gruffly, wiping his eyes.

“It sounds like a beautiful painting,” Vincent said.

I dried my eyes with my sleeve.  “Would you like to see it?”  I opened my bag and took out the print and set it on the table.

Father pulled it closer and Vincent leaned in.  They studied it for a long moment and Father wiped his eyes again.  “I think we have a frame around here somewhere, if you’d like.”

“You can hang it on the wall of your chamber,” Vincent said.

I nodded.  “I’d like that, thank you.”

Father gave the print back to me.  “It’s late.  You should get some sleep.”

“I will.”  I put the print back in the museum bag and started for my chamber.

“Eric.”  Father’s voice stopped me at the edge of his study.  I turned back.  “Ellie would be very proud of you.”

I couldn’t speak, not even to thank him.  I nodded quickly and hurried from his study before I started to cry.

Once in my chamber, I took out the print and propped it up on top of my dresser.  I got ready for bed and blew out all the candles but the one on my night stand.  I crawled into bed and turned to face the other side of the room, the side where Ellie once slept.

Her bed was long gone, claimed by another child who needed it, but I stared into the space where it had been.  “Good night, Ellie.”  I blew out the candle and closed my eyes with a sigh. I missed her as if it were the day of her funeral.

It’s been ten years, and I know now that sometimes promises can’t be kept.

But sometimes they can.

__________________

Illustration: Abbott Handerson Thayer. Brother and Sister. (Mary and Gerald Thayer). Oil on canvas. 1889. Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of John Gellatly, 1929.