With Love, Aunt Vivian

At eighty-six years old, Vivian Routledge had no intention of dying anytime soon. This was a source of continual disappointment whenever she returned from her semi-annual doctor visits with a clean bill of health. The family could only hope that the catastrophic illness she surely suffered from had gone undetected. With any luck, their elderly aunt might surprise them at Christmas with the gift of a heart attack.

One could only hope.

There was quite the excitement when Aunt Vivian slipped on the ice and broke her hip last year. However, the only real danger to Mrs. Routledge was the family who plagued her bedside. They were disappointed when the doctors declared their aunt would make a full recovery, but rallied once they remembered time was on their side.

Vivian’s niece Kathryn was a woman whose expensive taste could hardly be met by her husband Joseph’s rather modest income. Joey, as he preferred to be called—not that his wife ever listened—was a man of few words who kept a fully-stocked liquor cabinet in the garage to soothe the headaches he had developed on the simple premise of being married to Kathryn Anderson, née Routledge.

Avoiding his wife was somewhat of an Olympic sport for Joey, and anyone who met his wife would understand. It is a small wonder then that the union managed to produce one child, let alone two. Scott was the eldest and inherited none of his mother’s restraint and all of his father’s sobriety. His sister joined the family six years later. Fortunately for Laura, she had nothing in common with any of her family members.

The son was the golden child. His charm made easy work of seducing women most pointedly not his wife—herself an oblivious, shallow little creature. Scott’s ego was as fragile as his charm legendary. This imbalance led to numerous assault charges; the most recent stemming from a neighbor’s perceived insult over property lines which Scott escalated with the rake he took to his neighbor’s unsuspecting shins.

However, Scott’s charm was no match for the judge who sentenced him to six months in jail for the most recent assault by garden implements. He lost everything during his incarceration—even his wife who by that time, had gathered enough sense to leave him. After almost six months in jail, Scott had no choice to move back into his childhood home where at least one parent was happy to have him.

With an absent and emotionally distanced father, and a mother as vain and terrible as her first born, Laura had every reason to turn out as poorly as the rest of her family. As an infant, she was a surprise. From then onward, Laura was nothing but an afterthought.

Kathryn described her daughter as a chubby little girl afraid of her own shadow. Scott Anderson would describe his little sister in whatever way would devastate her best on any given day. Joey Anderson might have shown some pride in his daughter’s accomplishments, if anyone had been able to find him. Aunt Vivian, however, was able to describe her great-niece in one word.

Favorite.

Aunt Vivian was careful not to make this preference obvious; an easy task, as it turns out. If Kathryn and Scott ever developed the ability to see past their own noses, they might have noticed how much more genuine Aunt Vivian was with Laura. And if either of them were equipped with a mute button, mother and son might able to hear the current of sarcasm raging beneath the cool politeness whenever Aunt Vivian spoke to them. She gave equal gifts equally at Christmas and birthdays to avoid suspicion, but always made sure Laura had enough money to pay for music lessons and field trips, or for the many necessities that her parents failed to supply. Any gift given to Laura in secret had but one condition—

Our little secret.

Aunt Vivian knew that if she were to show any preference, Laura’s life would be even more unbearable than it already was, the poor girl. It was difficult for the elderly aunt to pretend she wasn’t deaf to the thinly veiled greed in Scott and Kathryn’s voices when they admired the paintings that lined her walls, or discussed the worth of their aunt’s home, using terms like investment and legacy.

It was the house itself that prompted such speculations over their dear aunt’s monetary worth. The house—a brightly colored Victorian estate in an enviable historic district—resembled the neighborhood it inhabited with its refined sense of wealth. They could only guess at the value of the extensive art collection, or the grand piano that resided in the library where the books themselves were likely a small fortune. But Aunt Vivian made a rule to never discuss money, and continued to disappoint those so keen to know what they stood to inherit.

Laura heard the greed in their voices as plainly as Aunt Vivian, and was equally disgusted. This, of course, is why Vivian liked the young girl. Laura was bright, sincere, and thoughtful. Not surprisingly, she was the only relative who visited her aunt without ulterior motives. Laura even learned how to find her way to Aunt Vivian’s using public transportation—a considerable feat for the rather shy girl. For Laura, the visits made home life a bit more tolerable. For Vivian, Laura’s visits were a reminder not all was lost.

There was one thing lost for Aunt Vivian, however.

Patience.

It disappeared when Kathryn spared no expense in the grand homecoming for her beloved, prodigal son. It was bad enough he was being released into society, Vivian thought. Celebrating it? Another matter entirely. But their thoughtless natures made it easy for them to forget that their bright and gifted daughter graduated college that same weekend of the felon’s return. This achievement, much like Laura’s place within the family, would have passed without acknowledgment if it weren’t for Aunt Vivian.

Of course when Aunt Vivian died, it did not go unnoticed. There were celebrations, at first. Laughter. But once dear aunt was dead and buried, and her will at last read, the only one with any cause for laughter was Vivian herself.

The combined wrath of mother and son frightened the lawyer initially, but the events that followed the reading of Vivian Routledge’s last will and testament became something of legend, and the lawyer was obliged to reenact the story every year at his firm’s annual Christmas party.

“Can you please sit down, Ms. Anderson.”

The lawyer would say his voice was flat, then describe a headache that he rightfully attributed to the growing shrillness in Mrs. Routledge-Anderson’s indignant voice.

“You—YOU—have NO authority to tell me what to do! Not after you read that piece of garbage. It’s not right to leave us nothing, and after all we did for her in her old age!”

Kathryn made a rather rude gesture towards the will that Vivian’s lawyer held in his hands. The lawyer, whose name is unimportant, clutched the papers to his chest as though he feared Ms. Routledge-Anderson would attempt to wrest the document from his grasp, which of course she did before the afternoon reached its end.

“I hope that nasty hag rots in hell for all of eternity.”

Scott’s reaction was somewhat less dramatic, but vile all the same. He cleared his throat and spat its contents onto the lawyer’s desk. He left without further ado, and one can only assume he was en route to his late aunt’s estate in order steal the paintings of Vivian’s former lover. The lawyer made a mental note to call the police.

Again.

Kathryn wept with authority.

Joseph Anderson could not be reached for comment.

“There’s been some sort of awful mistake, and it’s your doing! You swindled my poor aunt! Took advantage of her senility!”

Despite his headache that intensified with her every word, the lawyer remained calm.

“I assure you, m’am. I have in no way profited from Ms. Routledge’s death other the bill she paid for my services. And Vivian, senile? Lady, I’ve never met a woman more in charge of her wits. The house will be handed over to the historic trust according to the agreement she had with the university prior. Its main floors will be made into a museum and the attic an art studio for students. Its contents, including the paintings—especially the paintings—will remain as display items. I know your aunt’s importance as a writer came as a surprise, seeing she used a pen name, but the university trust will ensure that her legacy—”

“Legacy? My aunt’s legacy is the family she left behind. That’s a family home! And its contents are family property! And all those books she wrote? Royalties will be given to us—her family—not some animal sanctuary in Oregon. Ridiculous. Like I care about some three legged cats, misunderstood farm animals, or whatever the hell it is they have in Oregon, getting all of our money!”

Laura—whose grief was as genuine as it was deep—was notably absent from the circus that took place in the lawyer’s office. Vivian wanted to spare Laura the inevitable drama, so she instructed her lawyer to approach Laura in private, and to deliver Vivian’s old cedar chest along with a letter. Laura was never interested in the money, the house, or any of its contents—nothing called out to Laura. She found herself wishing to receive just one thing from her aunt—her story. Not how much money Vivian had, but how someone whose father worked in a factory, barely getting by, was able to grow old without husband or occupation to account for her wealth.

As it turns out, Vivian had played mistress to an artist whose mediocre paintings only held worth after the death of their creator. His death was an early one, thanks to his wife who saw an opportunity and poisoned his tea. It is said that this early love affair of Vivian’s was responsible for her most celebrated novel, written under the name of her dead lover. When the writer Vivian saw success, the painter saw success as well. The wife who killed him also benefited from her husband’s posthumous renown, and lived quite comfortably somewhere warm and presumably without extradition.

Laura might not have believed the story if she didn’t have the letter and the contents of the cedar chest as proof.

Dearest Laura,

My only regret in life is not doing more to protect you from your family. In death, my only regret is not being there to see the outrage on their faces. What incensed them more, I wonder? The part where they learned I willed my house to the historical society? That my lover’s paintings—infinitely more valuable than that house they coveted—would be donated, much like all my money?

Well, not quite all of it.

My beautiful girl—is it evil of me that I chuckled the entire time I penned my will? If there is any justice in the world, I am bound for hell. I go forth with excitement and humility.

Live your life in wisdom; my beautiful girl, and live it fully. Guard what’s given to you fiercely; and may your family never darken your doorstep.

You were always loved by me.

In the cedar chest, Laura discovered a lifetime of black notebooks that Vivian kept as journals, and where hastily written phrases would evolve into one book, then another throughout the years. They were the artifacts of her beloved Aunt Vivian’s secret life. It was her inheritance—knowing her aunt without expectation of fortune, along with the $20,000 cash in a canvas bag found at the very bottom of the cedar chest.

Fitting then, that the letter was signed

Our little secret.

With Love, Aunt Vivian.