Elizabeth Finn - Brother's Keeper

There are a precious few whom I’ve allowed into my other life, and I don’t regret sharing it with a single one of you. To my precious Olive, my sweet JENBALL, and the last remaining BIKsters, thanks for your support, sharing my excitement, and most of all, your acceptance of my somewhat unprofessional side. Cheers, ladies!

When I was ten years old, my life shattered in the blink of an eye. Escaping unscathed from a horrific car accident that claimed the lives of three people during rush hour traffic on I-35 north of Kansas City should almost be a cause for celebration. But when one of the unfortunate three victims is lying dead beside you in your mangled car, and she happens to be the most important person in your life, relief fast turns to devastation. I wanted to be dead, too. They call it survivor’s guilt. But the funny thing is I never felt guilty—just sad.

To add insult to injury, after my mother passed away, I ended up moving in with my father; he was long divorced from my mother, and I’d never had a relationship with him. Six months after her passing, he moved us to Allendale, a small community not far from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Allendale was a part farming, part urban sprawl community. It was a college town, and a private university at that. Not that it mattered to my ten-year-old self what academia was offered in the local over-priced university. At least it kept the population young, and the businesses flourished. Most of the residents of this safe and quiet community worked in nearby Grand Rapids.

My father was raised in Michigan and apparently had fond memories of growing up in this place—though it’s hard to imagine him having fond memories of anything at all, except perhaps his well-worn bar stool at the local tap, which is where he spent most of his free time. He had always been a temperamental man; it was the undeniable reason my mother had left him. Being forced to take on the unwanted responsibility of being a parent only seemed to worsen his violent streak. He was a mean drunk, and from my recollection, always had been. And with the drinking came the violence.

Though life dealt me a blow when my mother passed, it also gave me a gift. I met my best friend, Sara Harrington, on my nightmare of a first day at Allendale Elementary School. And thank God for her. She was a savior, nothing like my innate shy demeanor. Sara was the center of attention in any room she entered. She was pretty, smart, and outgoing. She was overt at times and ruffled a few feathers on occasion, but she was kind and fair to the point of being passionate in her judgment. Why she had befriended me is beyond my understanding even to this day. But from the moment we met, we were instant friends. Sara’s family matched her kindness and openness to this shy new girl in town. No doubt they felt sorry for me, given my always less than appealing dress and tangled, dirty, unkempt hair—the hallmark sign of a girl without a mother—never mind my all but existent excuse for a father.

When my father was in a rare sober and somewhat gracious mood, he had agreed to allow me to take dance lessons with Sara every Saturday. Of course, he couldn’t be bothered to take me to class. That would be one of many small favors Sara’s family ended up taking on—the second of which would be paying for my lessons after my father’s check bounced. But they did so, happy to help their daughter’s underprivileged friend. They were the type of family that everyone wanted to associate with: popular, beautiful, accomplished, and wealthy—the postcard family. They became the only family I had, or at least the only family I wanted to claim. They were gracious enough to have me over for holiday dinners when my own father was sleeping away his hangover, even buying me Christmas presents—which I never received from my father.

The Harringtons were good people. You were lucky to be a part of a family like that, but not at all lucky because they would never deny their gracious good nature to anyone. Sara’s mother, Ronnie, had made a good home for her family. She could talk a mile a minute, was a friend to anyone in need, and just like her daughter, had more beauty than any one person could need. She was an art teacher in the elementary school and was almost always covered in some remnant of her classroom, be it paint, clay, charcoal, or paper mache. She was excitable and fun—the polar opposite of her husband, Marcus.

Marcus had a successful small town law firm, and while he wasn’t the next Jimmy Smits from L.A. Law , he paid the bills and then some. For the most part, this consisted of giving legal advice on contracts and the occasional divorce settlement. He was a kind and generous man but without the boisterous chatty personality of his wife and daughter. He was contemplative and almost stoic at times but with a genuine heart. He was tall with a full head of dark hair and handsome—even in middle age.

Sara’s older brother, Logan, took after his father in looks and nature. He was seven years older than Sara and I, and he was mature even in his younger years. He was handsome in a very non-pretentious way and had the most intense dark eyes I’ve ever seen, also inherited from his father. On the occasion I was lucky enough to be caught in his gaze, it was quite mesmerizing. When his eyes were on me, I felt like a puppy ready to pee on the floor. Yeah, he was easy to have a crush on, even at ten. He was popular in school but not because he cared to be. The one thing that always struck me about Logan was how comfortable he seemed to be in his own skin, and for a young high school boy in an atmosphere that bred insecurity, this was quite a feat. People radiated toward him, attracted to his good nature as much as his good looks.

It was impossible to dislike any one of the Harringtons in their own right, and it was many years after my induction into this perfect family that I found myself being somehow inducted into another home.

By the time Sara and I reached seventeen, I had far surpassed the rest of our dance class. I had fast become the known talent of ballet, and during the summers of my sixteenth and seventeenth years, I spent a month in Chicago studying in the Joffrey Ballet Summer Program. Those were the perks of being the recipient of the Harringtons’ benefactions. And this was to be my foot in the door, as it was. Sara was, of course, proud of her best friend and happy to take a back seat to me, something she was not often required to do.

When Sara found the posting for the Performing Arts Scholarship on the University of Michigan’s website, I was as reluctant as I could be. In fact, I was so convinced they were looking for someone far more talented than me that I refused to even consider the possibility for the better part of two weeks before Sara convinced me there was no harm in trying. I assumed it would be a long and, quite frankly, impossible shot. But Sara, persistent as always, had the application complete before I could convince her just how resolute I was in this matter. So, I buckled and gave into her wishes. Of course, I’ll be required to thank her for the rest of my life for the part she played in my future, now far more promising than it had been before the blessed application.

She knew full well I had no intention of moving beyond an Associate’s degree from Allendale’s junior college, lest I be saddled with a small fortune in college loan debt for the rest of my life. When I received the notification letter I’d been awarded the scholarship, I was ecstatic beyond all measure, not to mention shocked. It was, after all, the only real way I could ever afford to put myself through school without ending up destitute on the flip side. Sara and I will both be attending the University of Michigan. Go Wolverines. And I owe it all to the illustrious and ever passionate, borderline obstinate, best friend. Without doubt, I’ll never live it down, and I will forever be thanking her for believing in me far more than I ever manage to believe in myself.