Crazy Aunt Kim’s Magical Whim

She looks at me frightened. Sitting on the couch in my living room, she peers out the window at the storm rolling in. Against the solid grey skies, the whites of her eyes nearly pop in front of her pupils. I don’t blame her for being scared. Her mother, my sister-in-law, dropped her off here. Here at “Crazy Aunt Kim’s” for the weekend so she and her boyfriend could escape the eastern seaboard’s winter wrath to the shores of the Bahamas. Her first boyfriend since my brother’s death.

“You can take care of her for me, right?” Bes had called earlier in the week. Her ask more of a tell. She knew that I would do anything that followed with, “In the memory of Phil.”

Phil. My only brother. Died of cancer. No more to say. Dammit.

I reluctantly abide to her request even though I have not seen Kellie since before she lost her first tooth. 

Bes doesn’t like me but likes the benefits of having a relative who write books for grade schoolers. Yes, I am that author. The one with a line of Pop Funkos for the characters in my red troll trilogy. The one who won a Newbery prize, but I don’t like to talk much about it. Bes on the other hand started exploiting my popularity when Kellie started preschool.

“Can you send ten books for Kellie’s birthday party?” I knew Kellie was nearing three and could not read yet, but to share my books with Phil’s only child - a gift. 

These were the pre-Phil dying requests. Then after he died, Bes upped the ante.

“Kellie joined the swim team and I want to give her new teammates signed copies.”

“Can you send a few copies before your book release party for Kellie to give to the neighbors?”

And heck if I didn’t oblige each time. In Phil’s memory.  Even though my own connection to his child was through Facebook pictures.

Bes didn’t allow the then five-year-old to attend his funeral. She thought it would scar her seeing her dad’s shrunken body in a casket. I thought it was more scarring not having her there, but then again, I am not a parent as Bes often reminds me.

“I do what is in the best interest for my child.” A clichéd answer that I could tear to pieces, but I don’t. I want to tell her that Kellie watched Phil’s demise over two years and while the mortician’s interpretation of him might be different, it could not be any worse than watching her father retch on dry heaves that only produced bile or finding clumps of his hair like a crumb-seed trail from the front of the house to the back.

A jolt of thunder echoes too many times outside shaking the living room’s window. I see waves jump out of the ocean attacking the shoreline like it’s a mortal enemy.  The wind twirls the snow so violently it looks like a snow globe caught in a hurricane. Kellie pulls her knees to her chest and begins to shake. In better weather and better circumstances, I might be awesome Aunt Kim who lives in the lighthouse. Instead, I am the woman her mom must have described to her.

Bes called me crazy to my face at least a dozen times.

When I quit my job as a lawyer to write children’s books.

“You’re crazy.”

Turned down a marriage proposal from her brother’s best friend.

“Nutcase.”

Went to Europe and hated it.

“Insane.”

Rented a lighthouse to find myself.

“Oh Kim. This is the topper. You must be losing it.”

Meekly from a place seemingly far away, Kellie speaks, “You live in a lighthouse, she says frankly. “Why?”

A simple question with a complicated answer. One my timid niece does not need to hear. I could tell her about how neither of my last two books sold well; the critics reviews harsh. My ego bruised. My heart broken. My bank account depleting.

A gust of wind quakes the front door. The storm is attacking from all directions. We both jump. I should be used to the ravage theatrics of costal storms after surviving previous winters. But with her here, the sounds are stronger, more intense. The forces push harder against the steadfast stone walls that have stood here for nearly a hundred years.

I need to answer her, but hold my tongue to figure out how. Kellie has had enough emotional weight on her and I am not going to add to the heavy burden of her young soul. For my brother’s sake.

The child must think I am mute for as long as I stand there without saying a word. I wait for the right words to come. I wait to channel the author who can charm children unrelated to her with lines on a page and yet cannot summon enough courage to talk to her niece.

I turn my back to her and rub my temples. I rented the lighthouse on a whim to beckon the return of my creative mojo. Found the watchkeeper listing on an obscure homes-for-rent website. I imagined climbing the spiral staircase to the top with a pile of notebooks and pencils, looking out at the view, and finding instant inspiration.

A three-thousand-dollar deposit and one renter’s agreement later, I became the new tenant at a maritime antiquity less than an hour from my condo and the home where Kellie lives. I forgot to read what I had signed which clearly stated only the living spaces were accessible. The lighthouse’s tower for decoration only. Something about code violations. And while disappointed, I vowed not to let it deter me from my mission.

That was nearly three years ago on a six-month lease renewed at a premium price and still without the mystic ascension. I must be a sucker for something or one gullible soul who does the same thing over and over again and expects different results- the code violations will miraculously disappear or my own bursts of word flows will return. My actions the definition of insanity. Maybe I am crazy?

“Learning to use my magic wand,” I finally answer from some unconscious space. Grateful it was not a regurgitation of the truth.

“To do what?” she asks

Another good question. The award-winning red trolls’ creator responds this time.

“To slay Glengore.” I can tell by the way she is looking at me she has no idea what I am talking about.

“Glengore, the dragon from the book I wrote and sent to you.” Glengore was my most creative attempt at redefining what spewed from a dragon’s breath. His angry exhalations rose the ocean tides to eat away the coast’s existence. He escaped in my most recent publication.

“Surely your mom read it to you.” Kellie squirms and pulls the blanket off the back of the couch to cover her balled-up body.

“No,” she looks down hesitant to continue. “She says your books are too scary for me.” 

I stand mortified for a moment. Not only has Bes not read her my books, she reinforced craziness with fear. Not a great combination for weekend with an aunt you don’t remember ever meeting.

I want to tell her that my books are rated age-appropriate for children as young as kindergarten and show her my shiny medal of recognition from the local library. Her library. The one she goes to at least once a week. I want to tell her lots. And not just about my books. About Phil.

Mother-nature interrupts the unfolding of our family drama. Wind seeps through the tiny degenerative cracks in the walls and whistles. It sounds like they are awakening. Kellie lets out a shriek. 

“That my dear is Glengore challenging us to battle.” I say with the intentional slowness.  My imagination overrules reality. No lectures. No explanations. Only the two to of us saving the lighthouse from Glengore.

I grab two pencils from the holder on my kitchen table that doubles as my writing space. I proudly hold both in my hand. “These magic wands can tame Glengore’s wildness.”

“Those are pencils Aunt Kim.” She says my name. A triumphant step forward especially since it was not prefaced with “crazy.”

“That’s what you think, but watch.” I point one of the pencils towards the window and move it left and right. In my book, I would be able to control what happens next. The rise of the dragon’s head. Calm seas. Sunshine. A land of minions. In my mind anything could happen. Instead, I have to play off the weather like it’s my improv partner.

The loudest bang of thunder booms.

“We have his attention now Kellie. Let’s prepare you for the clash.” I reach towards the plush covering her. I am ready to play tug-o-war with her over the blanket, but she lets me unravel her.

“Your armor.” I fold the blanket in half and drape it over her shoulders. I peel her knees away from her chest. She is hesitant at first. Face still sullen, unsure. I wave the pencil again in the air like I am conducting an orchestra. I commit my entire self to slaying the monster and saving maiden Kellie.

She chuckles lightly as as I lean against the couch attempting to miss Glengore’s attack. 

The weather on cue answers my call with sheets of rain and ice pounding the window, splashing it as if a stagehand is throwing buckets of water for a dramatic effect. I know I should be concerned about what seems to be a worsening storm, but there is no where else for us to go. We are in rooms surrounded by concrete. The window our only weak point. 

I don’t want to frighten her more. Glengore is real and imaginary. I can keep slaying while moving her away from the potential hazard. I walk the delicate balance between being and adult and a child.

I offer her the second pencil. She grips it in her hand. She weaves a random pattern through the invisible force in front of her. The corners of her mouth rise. It is like I am watching her abandon reality. The smile grows. And then I notice it. It’s Phil’s smile.

Outside the relentless flow of air on steroids orders branches and beach trash to crash against the window. It is her and I against storm, but I cannot let Kellie in on our solitary quest.

I grab Kellie by the hand and dance with her into the bedroom. A jete` and several sashays later I close the door behind us. Kellie’s shield falls off. I pick it up. It’s potential power both real and fiction with the storm. We may need it later. The small porthole in the bedroom will monitor the conditions and as I continue the story.

I begin to tap the pencil on the wall and encourage her to do the same.

“Glengore hates ticking noises.” I begin to compile more of the story in my head in case my declaration is not convincing. However, Kellie is fixated on my words and motions. She starts tapping and looks at me for further instruction.

I spin and tap. Spin and tap. She mirrors adding the giggles that only a nearly seven-year-old can make.

I tell her that the wind will slow down how fast the sound reaches Glengore’s ears so we must be patient.

“I know this will work. We need to give it time.” She doesn’t question me and continues tapping at different spots on the wall.

I glance at the clock. It’s nearing five-thirty. Complete darkness from the earth’s rotation and not the storm lurks around us. I rush to turn on all of the lights. I don’t want darkness to become another monster. Kellie follows me turning on all of them except for the one in the closet.

“So Glengore can’t find us,” Kellie proudly declares. Her fear has faded. She grabs the blanket as her cape and stands proudly as she points her pencil skyward in triumph.

And then I see it, at the top of the porthole, a sliver of what is left of daylight. It’s subtly might be missed on any other evening, but tonight it looks like a halo in the sky. I move the chair from my desk to stand on so I can look out to determine if the storm is retreating.

“Glengore can be sneaky,” I warn Kellie.

“I know the storm is gone Aunt Kim.”

“And how do you know that?” I swell with pride that I am having a conversation with my niece even if I am not as confident as she that calm reigns outside.

“Daddy said so.”

“And what exactly did your dad say?” I had not even contemplated running interference on grief while Bes is away.

“He said ‘It’s time for candy.’ Do you have any candy Aunt Kim?”

I stand still not sure what to say or do. As the older brother, Phil was my self-appointed guardian when tornado sirens forced us into the basement. He knew my fear of storms sent me into a panic. To calm me, he would remind me that candy would be waiting in the kitchen.

“When the storm is over Kim,” he would say as I hid behind him for extra protection. “it’s time for candy.”

I breathe deep. I catch a view of the moon. Kellie’s weather prediction correct.

“Did your dad offer you candy after every storm at your house?”

“No. Only now.” Kellie stares into the dark closet as if something has captured her attention. She nods and grins. Phil.

I can’t breathe. I try hard not to cry, but the tears flow. For his life lost and for his beautiful little girl.

“Why are you crying Aunt Kim? Are you sad?”

I am, but that is not the answer two heroines who just slayed a dragon would say. “These are happy tears. We beat the dragon!”

Kellie runs towards me and throws her arms around my waste.

I know I will still need to talk with Bes about her annoyances and arrogance towards me, but tonight it is only about Kellie and me. Thanks to Phil.

“Of course I have candy!” I yell. “The last one to the kitchen has to clean up dragon guts.”

“Eww,” squeaks Kellie as she pushes past me to open the door.

Guess I didn’t need the lighthouse’s terrace to see my future after all.