She's Always There

It was just the five of us in that office for the reading of our aunt’s will. She wasn’t around the family very often, even when the sporadic gathering did occur. When she would come around, her smile would beam when I, or any of my brothers would sit and talk to her. Hearing her tell us family secrets would keep us riveted when we were kids. I learned way too much about my mother, and her dating habits before she met my dad. But, that was Aunt Joyce. The recluse that told the truth, and she didn’t care about my age. Where mom and dad were protective, Joyce had faith in my strength to endure whatever came along. She always felt that pulling punches with people weakened them instead of sparing them.

When I was learning to ride a bike, I would fall a lot. I had hurt my knee once. I had limped into the house, crying my eyes out, looking for sympathy. I had interrupted the two sisters talking and drinking coffee. Aunt Joyce got up, and came to me to examine my knee.

“Does it hurt, Timmy?” she asked me.

I only nodded because I was still crying.

“Well, it isn’t broken. You’ll be okay.”

I looked up, very confused, and stopped crying enough to say, “Huh?”

“You walked in here. You can’t walk on a broken leg,” she said.

My crying slowed at the realization that I had survived, and I would be fine just like she said. She walked me into the bathroom, and cleaned my knee. The soap and water and medicine she applied stung, but knowing that I would be okay made it not hurt so much. I went back outside, and got back onto my bike. I was more careful, and I was okay.

Joyce lived very simply. She had a small apartment that was tastefully decorated, drove around in a unassuming car, and bought her clothes from thrift stores. She did write as a hobby. She would buy these little, black books, and create a different cover for each. I would see her writing in them sometimes when she would babysit us, and I asked her what she was writing. She said that they were stories that she would come up with. I just said, “Oh,” and left her to write.

Her simplistic lifestyle made me really curious about why I and my brothers were there for the reading of her will. A series of tragic accidents and illnesses decimated our family that was small to begin with. Us five and our families are all that are left. Maybe we will find out who gets her car. If I get it, I’ll let my daughter use it for her driver’s test, whenever she decides to take it.

The lawyer finally came in, gave his condolences, and solemnly read the final testament. It turns out that tragedy had struck our aunt early in life. She was a cancer survivor as a teenager, but the price of her survival was her inability to have children. It now makes sense why I saw her as much as I saw our own mother while growing up. As mom had another baby, Joyce had more excuses to visit, suggestions to go to the park, and offers to babysit.

Her simplistic lifestyle made sense as well. She had always had good jobs that paid well, but she continually squirreled money away, and had investments. The sweetest person that I knew, whose sweetness could not save her from Father Time, had left us $100,000 to be split up evenly. Everything else was to be liquidated, and given to a local women’s shelter.

My baby brother who had been living with me for the last few months pulled out his phone to check his new savings account balance before the lawyer could read, “You are good boys, just believe that you are. Love, Aunt Joyce.”

He put his phone away, and started to cry. Brian turned to me and asked, “How did she always do that? Aunty always had the right words at the right time, or a piece of candy to stop me from being mad. Now, she gives me this lifeline right when I need it the most, Tim. How did she do it?”

None of us could answer the question, but all of us knew what Brian was talking about because she did the same things for all of us. When Curt had his heart broken when he was seventeen, it was Joyce that told him that she was worthless for breaking up with him right before prom. I was eavesdropping when I heard her say that Curt deserved someone with way more character than Beth. It turns out that Curt found someone the next month. She is the most honest person I have ever known. They have been inseparable for twenty years.

The two middle brothers used to fight all of the time, probably because they were born close to each other, and always had to share their stuff with each other. Robert hated Martin, and Martin hated Robert. It wasn’t real hate. They were just tired of seeing each other. Robert was ten, and Martin was about to turn eleven when the accident happened. It was Robert's turn to ride the bike, but Martin wasn’t done. Martin was teasing Robert by riding circles around him. So, Robert got a bunch of rocks out of our front garden, and started throwing rocks at Martin. One hit him right between the eyes. Martin got off of the bike, and they started fighting. Again. At some point, Martin pushed Robert backwards over the bike, and he hit his head on the street. Martin ran into the house to find an adult. He almost tripped over Brian who was playing with his cars in the living room when he found me and Joyce in the kitchen. We rushed outside to find Robert holding the back of his head.

We got Robert up. He staggered a few steps. I quickly picked him up, put him in Joyce’s back seat, and we sped to the hospital. I carried him in, went to the front desk, and explained what had happened. The nurses took him behind the big, swinging doors, and Joyce got Martin to sit with her. She just hugged him and let him cry. I could make out “I didn’t mean to” in between his sobs.

The doctor came out about an hour later, and we were allowed to see Robert. He would be just fine. Martin was afraid to go in to see his brother because Robert would be mad at him. Joyce knelt down and looked Martin in the eye. She said that she was sure that Robert knew that it was an accident, and the main person that Robert would need to see was Martin.

We let him walk in first. Robert was sitting up on his ER bed, and alert. He had the biggest smile when he saw his brother. He didn’t look any different than usual, except for the big patch on the back of his head. Martin stood next to his little brother. Robert turned around to show off the bandage, and said proudly, “I got eleven stitches!” He turned back around and said that he knew that he didn’t mean it. And then, he apologized for hitting Martin with the rock in the first place.

I’m looking at Robert’s shaved head, remembering all of that like it was yesterday. He says that he shaves his head bald to show off the scar. He says that it reminds him of how close he and Martin are.

Before we left, the lawyer slid a large, yellow envelope to each of us. The only thing on them was our individual names. We were all slack jawed as we pulled out the little, black books that had been decorated differently, and had been written in over the years. All of us started to flip through them. Aunty had been chronicling our lives. She wrote events and dates and pieces of advice to each of us. All we could do was shake our heads and stare at each other.

Curt said, “Did you guys see this?” as he pulled out a plain, black book from his envelope with a note taped to the front of each that read: What will your story be?

We hugged our goodbyes and drove to our separate lives. I am sure that each of us mulled over the possibilities of our new inheritances. Brian sat in my passenger seat in awed silence. I knew that I could not explain away the magic that our aunt embodied. I broke the silence the only way I knew how.

“You can open up your own garage, now. You’ve wanted to do that since you were in high school.”

“I know, Tim. I’ve been thinking about that all of this time.”

“It’s crazy how things work out.”

“Crazy doesn’t begin to describe it. So, what are you going to do with your part? You don’t need it.”

Brian was right. My tech firm has been doing well since our IPO went public last year. But, that money could be put to some good use.

I poured over the stories of me that were from my aunt for a few days. There, in elegant handwriting, was how she saw me grow. I was able to relive falling off of that bicycle; I saw that she was the Tooth Fairy with all of my lost teeth; she was happy about every one of my accomplishments, right up to my college graduation. After each story was a bit of her wisdom that I have never forgotten.

When I had finished reading the last page, I sat back to absorb all that was her and how she touched my life. The book with the taped-on note kept staring at me. I do not have her talent, so I was stumped on where to even start. My daughter came in to tell me that she was going to a friend’s house, and asked what the books were on my desk.

“Your great-aunt wrote these while I was growing up.”

“Is this what the lawyer gave you instead of the car?”

“Yeah, but these are more valuable. Look for yourself.”

I handed my daughter the first one, she sat down, and began reading. There were a lot of wows and laughs and tears. She would ask me questions to fill in what was missing. Samantha called her friend to say that she couldn’t come over because she and I had to talk. When she finished the first book, she said something startling. “I write just like AJ.”

Sam went to her room, and came back with the latest story she had been working on. The handwriting was identical. Even the way she put words together sounded similar. That moment was when I knew.

“I got these books as well as this blank one with a note on it. Your uncles got their own books of their own lives, and a blank one like this. I think this would do more good in your hands than mine.”

Sam took it with reverence, as if I had given her a most treasured gift.

“There is something else each of us got, and I will give it to you when you turn eighteen this May. And you can do with it as you wish before you start college in the fall.”

“Well, what is it?”

“$20,000.”

I thought that she was going to faint when I told her. Once she spoke, I confirmed that I was serious, and that she has always been a great kid. She hugged me and thanked me over and over. She opened up her little, black book and stopped. She turned and showed me another note on the inside flap:

“For my Sammy!”