Priceless

As the rain bears down un us, huddled close under our umbrellas, we carefully lay the bouquet of local tropical flowers gently on top of the casket. I watch swallowing hard as I hear the thud of the large wooden vessel dropping to its final resting place.

Ms. Benedetto was like family to us. It was just my mom, brother and I. As sail boaters our life was largely nomadic, and good company like hers was hard to find. It ached a little in the pit of my stomach to know we were the only ones close enough to wish her good bye.

It was so sudden.

One day we were playing cards together on the deck of my family’s 42 ft Tayana, the next she was gone. It had been 2 days and she hadn’t come out to sweep her area of the dock or make her daily bike ride to get groceries. My mom was the one who went over to knock on the small wooden door of her sailboat. After no answer, and a welfare check by the police, the inevitable came to light. The medical autopsy would later reveal that she had died from an aneurysm. Quick just like that. My mom said her nails had been freshly painted, festive colors, just in time for Christmas.

A part of me rejoiced that her suffering was quick, but another part of me felt like I had been hit by a truck. A truck of raw emotion. Of the realization of the ephemeral flame of life that can be snuffed out with one cruel breath.

Ms. Benedetto was my confidante. More of a friend to me than I had ever had. She knew about my dreams and aspirations. My secrets. She knew about all the dark and shameful intricacies of my life. My sneaking out at night to be with Aidan. She knew about the abuse I had endured at his hands. The strangling, the constant mental battering.

It was her who had persuaded me to leave him for good. Showing me her own scars from her ex-husband. I suppose she knew more about me than my own mother.

We walked home from the cemetery in silence. Only the patter of our feet to distract our wandering minds.

As we boarded our boat I sank into my usual cranny outside on the highest section in the middle of the boat. It gave me some type of peace to sit and observe the world go by outside of our little bubble. A soft pat on my shoulder made me swivel my attention behind me. It was my brother, John. He nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot before speaking up and extending his hand to offer me a journal. “Ms. Benedetto wanted you to have this” he muttered before hurrying away. I ran both of my hands down the sides of the black Moleskine journal sighing deeply before opening its worn pages.

What secrets could these pages hold?

I had expected the journal. Yet I was afraid of the emotions I would feel when it would finally be in my hands. You see, this journal was the diary Ms. Benedetto kept when she was still married to her ex-husband: “The Monster”. She told me she would give it to me one day. I just didn’t expect it this soon. She said it had helped her cope through the abuses. I figure she thought it might help me cope with what I had been through.

Tears leaked down my cheeks as I dared to read some pages. What she has been through has no name. To know her story is to know that with a will to live and hope, life can go on.

I suppose that is why she wanted me to have the journal. As a testament that my life will go on without Aidan. I am worth more than he wished I would believe. I can do better than him despite his every effort to steal that truth from within me.

I continued to flick through the pages until something caught my eye. A check. 20,000 to the order of Natalie Perez. I stiffened. Twenty with three zeros. You’ve got to be kidding me. Out of all the people she knew she had entrusted her memories and her earthly cash to me? A note was under it saying:

“Natalie, Dear, I want you to have this. I know you’ll know what to do with it.”

What did I do with the money? Well, the women at the local domestic abuse shelter will tell you that that Christmas was the best they’ve ever had. I donated every cent to better the shelter and the lives of those women and children affected by the horror of domestic abuse.

Now many years later as I sit in my office as a social worker I sometimes look out my window on the distant harbor. I still observe where I use to live and I think about Ms. Benedetto and the 20,000. I think about what she has taught me about self-worth and standards. About loving myself. About learning to let go. About coping. These gifts from her will always be priceless.