At your will

“I’ve got a plan.”

Sean blinked expectantly at Mark, his owlish eyes worried. They both stood in the bed of their dad’s truck, the ribbed surface pressing painful edges into their bare feet. Mark looked down at his 7 year old brother, then back up to rooftop above them. 

“See that metal bar there? The one that holds the gutter up? I’ll boost you up and you grab that. Then, step on my shoulders and climb to the roof.”

From their perch in the truck bed, the roof wasn’t as far away as it seemed from the ground. Three feet, maybe four. Just about Sean’s height. Sean’s eyes bugged as he spotted the hold Mark pointed to. His head began a furious shaking back and forth, his sandy hair whipping across his eyes. 

“No! No way! I’ll fall!” Sean’s voice was a squeak as he shrank away from the edge of the truck bed.

“Look, you’re lighter okay? If mom finds out I lost the key again, she’ll be mad at both of us!”

“But you’re supposed to keep track of it!” Sean shot back. 

He was right, of course. Mark was 11 years old to Sean’s 7, and as the older brother, he was supposed to be the responsible one. Or so their mom was always saying. 

Mark’s eyes scanned the roof again. The roof of their suburban home was gently sloped, and the lower level led directly to Mark’s bedroom window. If they could get to the lower part, they could climb inside from there. Their mom would never know that Mark had lost the house key and he could take hers when she wasn’t looking. This was the only way. 

Mark held out his hand to his younger brother. 

“Trust me,” he said. 

—

Sean’s eyes crinkled at the memory. That had been 30 years ago now. Mark had boosted Sean up, just like he’d said, but Sean had still been too short to reach the gutter. And far too small to pull himself onto the roof. 

Instead, their mom had arrived home to see Sean balancing on Mark’s shoulders, reaching as high as he could. She had been furious. But that had always been the only thing Mark ever had to say to convince him of something. 

Trust me.

Mark had been the boldness in Sean’s life. Not just because he was older, but because he seemed to live with a defiance for every rule that told him he couldn’t. It drove their mom crazy, but to Sean, Mark was his idol. As they got older, Mark’s defiance labeled him as ‘troubled’, and the guarded looks from his teachers became a narrative that Mark couldn’t escape. Over time, Mark started acting the part. His slim physique became lean. His dark hair and deep brown eyes became dangerous. He followed the, ‘typical path of deviant escalation’, as Sean had once overheard police officers say. After the fourth time, their mom had refused to bail Mark out. Mark had packed up his childhood room and Sean hadn’t seen him since. 

Sean ran his thumb along the paper in his hand. The letter was soft and worn from constant handling, one corner rubbed nearly away from his worrying. It had arrived only yesterday, yet there had hardly been an hour when Sean hadn’t reread it. No return address and no signature, yet clearly in his brother’s hand. He stood on the landing in front of his apartment; a small, one-bedroom flat in West Philly. He knew, without entering, everything that awaited him inside. A sad grey couch in front of an old TV. A tiny dining room table with one real chair and second plastic folding one. He had leftover Thai in the fridge for dinner, and around 10pm, he’d hear his neighbours having sex through the paper-thin walls. 

When Mark started getting in trouble, Sean had to be the responsible one. The dependable one. The boring, and if he was being honest, the slightly repressed one. The letter was brief and vague, but Sean touched a forefinger to the last two words on the page. 

Trust me.

—

Sean slid out of the cab, hitching his backpack over his shoulder as he did. The letter had led him to a suburb outside of San Diego, to place with a red and yellow, amusement-park-style sign that read, ‘DOWNTOWN EL CAJON’. Sean adjusted his dark glasses and squinted at the building in front of him. Sweat dripped in a line down his back and the asphalt radiated a haze of wavy lines. 

Sucking in a breath, he pushed open the darkened glass door. Sean flinched as a small brass bell tinkled his arrival. Inside was a small, washed out office with a color scheme dominated by beige and dark laminate. A man in a light green seersucker suit sat behind one of the three desks, eyes raising to Sean’s as he glanced over. 

“Can I help you?”

Sean pulled the letter from his pocket and took the seat opposite the man in the suit. 

“Yeah, I hope so…” Sean cleared his throat. “I…received a letter a few days ago. It has no signature and no return address, but it looks like it was from my brother. It had instructions for me to come to this address. My brother’s name was Mark Reeds, do you know him?”

At Mark’s name, the man’s face flickered. A brief, tiny collapse of muscles that started a tension in Sean’s chest. 

“Ah, you’re Sean Reeds then?”

“I am, I have the letter here,” he said, holding it up. 

“Mr. Reeds, my name is Perry Taylor and I’m the executor of your brother’s will. Now, I don’t know what that letter contained, but I had instructions to deliver it via courier along with…”

The man, Perry, continued, but Sean couldn’t focus. The tension that had wrapped around his chest seemed to rapidly grow icy. He could hear his breath in a shallow, uneven cadence, the rhythm matching the thoughts that flashed through his mind. Mark, will, executor. The words became a hum. He could feel sweat dripping down his back again, cool this time, matching the frost that cracked through his chest.

The executor was looking at him with concern, “Mr. Reeds? I’m sorry, but are you well? I had assumed that the letter from your brother had informed you of his death, my apologies if the news was sudden.”

Sean dropped his head in one hand, bracing an elbow against a knee. 

“I…no, I didn’t know that Mark had died. I haven’t spoken to him in years, didn’t even know he was living out here.”

“Ah, I see.” Perry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Mr. Reeds, I am legally bound to notify you of your brother’s wishes within 60 days, but due to certain circumstances in his will, it would be best to discuss this sooner rather than later. However, if you need time to –“

“No, no need.” Sean straightened, rubbing a fist over his chest. “No, Mr. Taylor, please go on. I’d like to know everything now if that’s okay with you.”

Perry gave a slight, sad smile. “Of course. Regardless, my condolences for your loss. Knowing that you two haven’t been in touch certainly changes my understanding of his wishes.”

Sean nodded, mute. 

Perry went on. “So, while the late Mr. Reeds’ assets are few, mainly cash-based and liquid, he had a few other, ah, complexities. Notably, among his belongings, Mr. Reed has left a series of notebooks, journals as I understand, to you.” 

Perry began rattling around amongst on of his desk drawers, pulling out a large stack of disparate notebooks, bound together with twine. Some of the journals were the marbled, black-bound ones you used as kid. Some were flip book style, like a pad of art paper. Between the notebooks, Sean could even see loose scraps of paper, as if Mark had written on any convenient surface. 

“Now, before we go on, let me just print out a few documents for you to sign. Back in a jif.” 

Sean could hear the whir of a printer booting up as Perry scurried away down a back hall. Sean tugged the stack of notebooks towards him, pulling a loose one from the top. Opening it to a random page, Sean began to read.

March 15, 2007


Dear Sean,

Well, I lost the last of my funds out here today. I really thought the ol’ gal was a shoo in. I guess I’m back at the bar from tomorrow, if they’ll have me.

Sean started, surprised that he’d opened the page to another note to him. He quickly skimmed it over and flipped to the next page. 

March 17, 2007

Hey Sean,


You wouldn’t believe what happened today! You know what, I’ll add a picture.

Again, the page was addressed to him. Sean began thumbing through the pages faster now. 

May 6, 2007

Hey bro,

September 15, 2007


Dear Sean,

February 14, 2008


Sean,

Sean sat back in his chair. Pulses of electricity seemed flow over him, the ice in his chest thawing as his brain worked to accept this new piece of information. Hundreds, maybe thousands of journal entries, and each one had been addressed to him. His brother had written to him, in his own way, nearly every day. 

Sean was still frozen, staring into the distance as Perry came back with papers and a glass of water. He set the glass in front of Sean, not commenting as Sean shook himself from his reverie and sat upright again. 

Perry sat, but instead of turning back to his computer, he leaned forward, interlocking his fingers and resting his elbows on the desk. 

“Now is the part that may be the biggest shock.” Perry looked pointedly at the glass of water. Sean obligingly took a sip. 

“Your brother has a son. A 5 year old named Aaron. The mother isn’t in the picture and he’s named you as the guardian. While we organized having that letter sent to you, the boy has been in foster care. During such a turbulent time in a young child’s life, I’m sure you can understand why we wanted to discuss this sooner rather than later. I’ve been told he’s been with the same family for the past three days, but as I’m sure you know, that’s not something that can be assured in the foster system, unfortunately.”

Sean stared at Perry Taylor. He has reached the limits of his body’s ability to process. Looking past the executor, Sean noticed the sign that hung behind the man’s desk, ‘At Your Will: Consulting and Estate Planning’. An image of a genie lamp trailed a plume of smoke that led to a legal document. Suddenly, the tension that had gripped him seemed to fall away. It bubbled out of his pores and he felt his mouth start to curve in a smile. Then, he was laughing. Giant, gasping whoops of laughter filled the room as tears sprang to his eyes. 

Mark had been color and vibrance in his life. Every memory Sean had with him was an adventure. Emotions had always run high, and while they’d eventually had to face the consequences, Sean had felt vivid in those moments. Fully present and electrified with whatever hare-brained scheme Mark was up to next. Now, even gone, Mark was filling his life with that same emotional adventure, just in a new way. 

Sean began to picture his bleak bachelor pad. He’d have to bring in toys, and books, and colorful playmats. He’d get a new dining table so they could have dinners together, or it could be a place for Aaron to color or draw. 

Sean wiped his eyes with the back of his hand as he stood, learning forward to meet Perry’s befuddled eyes. 

“I’d like to see him now. Aaron. Can you take me there?”

— 

The executor’s old Camry pulled up in front of a modest, Mission-style home. As the two men made their way to the front door, it opened to reveal a couple with a young boy in front of them. The boy was slim, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. His face was tear-streaked and half-hidden behind a plush dinosaur. 

The woman greeted them warmly, and Sean caught something about Aaron not adjusting as well as they’d hoped. Perry struck up a conversation with the couple as Sean crouched down in front of the boy. 

“Hey,” he said, “I’m Sean, your dad was my brother.”

Aaron peeked one eye out from behind the dinosaur. His voice was small and filled with hiccups. 

“You’re…you’re Uncle Sean?”

Sean felt tears prick his eyes as he began to nod. The boy paused for a moment, seeming to decide something important to him. Then, before Sean could brace himself, Aaron threw himself into his arms. He was sniffling and crying, babbling words that Sean could barely make out. But it didn’t matter. 

Sean wrapped his arms around the boy, resting his chin on Aaron’s small shoulder. 

“Hey, it’s okay, don’t worry,” Sean held him closer. “I’ve got you.” 

Trust me.