A Non-Traditional Family

by Carly Shay

"But dad, she can't move to Yakima. She just moved. She's barely settled in. Don't make her go through that again."

"Well I can't give up my naval career. Even if I wanted to I'm not sure it would be possible. And your grandpa's certainly not going to move to Seattle. She's only eleven. She needs a guardian. There are no other options."

"Why can't I watch her? I practically raised her."

"No. You're going to law school soon. You have your own life."

I was huddled against the wall of my room, wrapped in a blanket I had quilted with my mother. I was listening through the vent to the heated discussion of my father and brother. My dad was suddenly calm. I heard him sigh and I could imagine him taking a step closer to Spencer and placing his hand on his shoulder the way he does when he's trying to be fatherly. He started talking again.

"Look, Son. I know you care about your sister, and I appreciate your willingness to look out for her. But I need to look out for both of you, and right now that means her moving to Yakima and you moving on with your life. You've delayed it long enough."

There was a long pause before Spencer replied. "Right."

I couldn't tell whether his mind was changed or he was admitting defeat, but two weeks later when I wished him farewell and started packing up my things for the second time in three years I realized it didn't matter.

About twelve days after Spencer left I was carrying my last couple of boxes downstairs when I found him sitting in the living room. I barely had time to ask why he was there when my dad walked through the door with some bags full of groceries. He almost dropped them when he saw Spencer.

This time, as I sat in my room, I didn't listen to the discussion. Instead I turned on some music and started reading a book. About twenty minutes later Spencer came to my room carrying one of the boxes I had just brought down. He offered to help me unpack. I would not be moving to Yakima. Apparently law school just wasn't for him, so he had decided to move back home and take care of me. That's when Spencer officially became what he always unofficially was: my primary caregiver.

When I was five and Spencer was 18 our mom was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Apparently it was a disease that was making her tired and weak all the time. Spencer was in his freshman year of college, living in a dorm, but he started spending a lot of time at home. He designed my costume for the school play when mom didn't have the energy. On Sundays he would make my lunches for the week if my mom couldn't, and he was often the one to drop me off or pick me up from school in between his classes. At the end of that year he moved back home to help take care of me. I remember when my dad came home on leave that summer. He started yelling at Spencer for being immature and refusing to grow up.

"You'll have to move out eventually, Son. You can't expect your mother to take care of you forever," I remember him saying. I watched as Spencer's face turned red with anger.

"Okay, then why don't you stay home and take care of your daughter. You make her lunches. You make sure she has clean clothes everyday. You hold her when she can't stop crying because Mom is too sick to take her to the park. If you think I'm so immature, then why don't you man up and take care of your family instead of constantly running away!"

My dad never mentioned it again, and after spending a week at home he began to realize my mom had been sugar-coating things just a little. She never did like him worrying.

When I was nine and Spencer had just graduated from college we moved out of our house in the suburbs into a loft space in Seattle. The apartment had better handicap access for my mom who now spent a lot of time in a wheelchair, and it was closer to the research hospital that was treating her.

Spencer got a job at a local museum. He had minored in fine arts during his undergraduate studies, and he always loved building things with random objects he'd find lying around, so he thought it would be fun being surrounded by art all the time. Oftentimes he would stop by the junk yard on his way home from work and after he would make dinner and do some cleaning up around the house, he would build sculptures as I worked on my homework. Sometimes I'd need help and he'd put down the random trash items and work with me until I finished my assignment. Then I'd help him finish his sculpture before I had to go to bed.

Even though she couldn't always do daily tasks and chores, my mom was always around, and she always made sure to hear about my day, talk with me about my problems and make sure I was doing okay. Some days, if she was feeling particularly well, we'd go shopping together, or she'd teach me some of her favorite mom things, like how to make a perfect cupcake or the basics of quilting. One day I asked her why she was teaching me all these things and why she always seemed to be giving me advice, even about things that didn't matter to me yet. "I might not be around forever. I just want you to be prepared" was the only answer I got.

I don't know if it was because of everything my mom had imparted to me, or because she hadn't really been the one taking care of me for the past six years, but when she died six months after my 11th birthday I was more prepared than I thought I would be. My dad was home on leave when it happened. I was at my friend's house, and I was called home to hear the news. Spencer, my dad and I sat in the living room, silently. When my dad finally got the words out of his mouth I couldn't bring myself to move or make a sound, but tears slowly started streaming down my face. My dad held his arms out for me, but I went to Spencer and let him comfort me instead.

Two days after Spencer dropped out of law school and convinced my dad not to ship me off to Grandpa's my dad went back to work. I gave him a big hug because he was my dad, and I always missed him when he was gone, but also because I was so thankful he was letting me stay with Spencer. With one sick parent and one overseas he had always been far more than a big brother to me, and it wasn't until that moment that I think my dad truly understood that. I was glad he finally did.

A friend of mine once asked if I was ever mad at my dad for never being around. Apparently I seem indifferent to my father and our family situation. That's not the truth. I love my dad, and I know he loves me even if he doesn't always show it, just as I adored my mother and know she always wanted the best for me despite not always being able to provide it. They are and were both great parents.

At least, they were both great parents to Spencer, and to me that's all that matters. Because Spencer has been a great "parent" to me.