kitchen. At eighty-three and a hair under five feet tall she gets around well enough, but I still like to do anything I can to make her life that much easier.
Also, it’s kind of why I’m here …
Four years ago, she offered to pay my college tuition and let me live with her for free—she only asked that I be her caretaker, which mostly consisted of running her errands, getting groceries, preparing basic meals, and maintaining the house inside and out. It was kind of strange at the time because I’d never met my mother’s aunt before. She lived in Southern California and I grew up in middle-of-nowhere Missouri.
It was a lot to think about at first … committing to four years of living with and caring for a complete stranger.
But the first time we met, she offered eighteen-year-old me a fuzzy navel wine cooler and told me stories from her stint as a strip club manager in the seventies.
We’ve kind of been best friends ever since …
Aunt Bette’s slowed down quite a bit over the last few years, though—particularly over this past winter break, when she spent nearly the entire month of December at the hospital battling a stubborn case of pneumonia. Every waking hour of Winter break was spent by her side, reading her the latest gossip articles from her favorite magazines, discussing her case with the doctor when necessary, sharpening her colored pencils and organizing her adult coloring books so she had something to do when she wasn’t sleeping.
Fortunately Aunt Bette was more tenacious than the pneumonia, but things were looking dicey for a while.
“Your dinner’s ready,” I tell her as I lead her into the next room. “Fletcher’s Deli. You’re lucky. Got the last of the Irish potato soup.”
I get her situated at the table before retrieving her soup and turkey club. Normally I’d make her a quick dinner myself, but I lost track of time at the library tonight.
“How was your first day back?” she asks as I peel the plastic wrap from her disposable soup spoon. “What classes did you have?”
“Anthro, Hospitality Design, and Interior Lighting,” I say. “And they were fine.”
“Can’t believe you’re almost done.” Aunt Bette smiles to cover the uncertainty in her eyes. “Seems like yesterday you were just starting.”
She knows I can’t stay here with her forever.
In four months, I’ll be flying the coop.
And while I’ve loved our time together—especially since it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever felt like I truly had a home—I can’t stay here forever.
Last summer, I interned for a local designer named Kira Kepner. Just last month, she contacted me, saying she’s been wanting to open a location up north in Malibu and she thinks I’d be the perfect designer to lead that team.
I almost choked when she gave me the salary.
I haven’t told Aunt Bette yet, but I’m going to accept the offer.
Working for someone like Kira while I build my portfolio and having a cushy income to pay the bills is more than I ever could have dreamed for myself at this point. Most interior design grads start out at the bottom, clawing their way up to prove themselves, all the while dealing with juvenile drama and salty competition and making the kind of money that necessitates a part-time job and a couple of roommates to help pay the rent—at least in this part of the country.
California isn’t cheap.
But now that I’ve lived here for almost four years, I can’t imagine living anywhere else, and I sure as hell have no plans to return home.
Missouri is great if you like farms and cornfields, if you’re into the Chiefs and the Royals and the Cardinals, if you can’t live without friendly folks with Midwestern manners, and if you gravitate toward the idea of living on the same street your whole life and raising a family of five with your high school sweetheart.
But those have never been my calling.
I’ve always wanted … something else.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Aunt Bette asks.
“I had a granola bar on the bus,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes before tearing her sandwich in half, placing it on its waxy paper wrap, and sliding it to me. “I’ll be damned if I sit here having a proper meal while you’re wasting away on chocolate chips bars.”
I take a bite, but only because I know she won’t let it go. “Thank you.”
I enjoy taking care of Aunt Bette, but sometimes I think she enjoys taking care of me more.