Tell us your Story - Wattpad Scholarship

Recipient 3: Four by laughterandjynx

four

Let me tell you what's in my car.

My trunk is home to a ball-less tennis racquet that conveniently bleeds maize and blue, two brand new pillows from a closing K-Mart, and an oversized bin of car essentials, old homework, and my mom's leftover junk.

Along with car manuals, I keep a box of tissues and a first-aid kit in my glove compartment. Crowding up my center console (I had to Google the term because I'm car stupid) are my insurance information and emergency money (for bribing the police, of course*) clipped together with a bow, a plethora of Taylor Swift and Elvis CDs, and a stack of napkins from McDonald's.

Sometimes I keep a bathing suit, towel, and a change of clothes/pajamas (usually a sweatpants/t-shirt combination) in the car. Sometimes there are unopened envelopes addressed to my mother in my passenger seat.

There are two car seats in the back, a plastic crown on my dashboard, and a pair of pink baby shoes on the floor. No matter how many times I fix them, I always find the rugs out of place.

I'm not a mother.

Yet I taxi girls of fourteen, ten, four, and one around. To school, to the grocery store, to cheer tryouts, to choir concerts, to auditions, to ice cream shops, to parks, to friends', to grandma's, to cemeteries, to home.

Dear Number Four,

Everything about you breaks my heart. You were never supposed to exist, but you have to understand that your mommy was told she couldn't have kids after Number Two. I'm sorry that our culture says that boys > girls. I'm sorry that your gender reveal created a bleak cloud of seemingly never-ending tears. I'm sorry that you might grow up thinking you were the reason for the holes in our hearts.

But I will never be sorry for taking care of you during her last moments. I will not regret sharing my home with you, even if it's not where you belong. I will remember lulling you to sleep and scrubbing out diarrhea and vomit from the carpet.

You may not know this, but your dimples and pigtails make her memory a little more brighter. Please know that she would've loved you unconditionally.

Number Four's car seat is blue, and she has a habit of taking off her shoes in the car.

Dear Number Three,

You've always been my happy baby. Your insults ("tatohead") and your makeshift toys (rolled-up paper swords) never fail to make me smile. You are truly my sunshine, and that makes me want to give you everything. I want to give you my love for reading that will undoubtedly set you apart from the other kindergarteners. I want to give you your best chance. I want to document your childhood (you appear in, like, all of my Instagram posts) so you know that, just like your future, it was bright too.

You are also the reason I cry like no other. You had your mother ripped from you, and we all wonder if you were too young to know. Shortly after her passing, we asked you, "Where's mommy?"

You answered quietly, "Mommy's sleeping."

Sometimes I would find you crying softly in the bathroom, and when I asked you what was wrong, you would say, "I miss mommy." I joined you.

There also came a time when you utilized our sympathy for your own advantage, you clever girl, you. You hated taking baths, and you learned pretty quickly that bringing up your mother would get you out of certain, unwanted tasks. You did it to me. You did it to Number One. Number One figured you out before I did.

I want you to remember your mom, but I don't want you to remember the melancholy that imprisoned your sunshine.

Number Three picked out her pink car seat. She likes making brown bag puppets and keeps bugging me to let her use fingerpaint. Her favorite song is "Jingle Bells."

Dear Number Two,

Watching you grow up has been so entertaining. You were a moody, spoiled toddler who demanded to be dressed in bows and frills, which is ironic now because you're the only one of us to not be obsessed with bows. I worry about you sometimes. You are easily frustrated, but I've only seen you cry a handful of times. You keep your hurt locked away. I know you want to be strong, my little warrior, but it's okay to let your guard down every once in a while. And when you do, we'll all be there to protect you.

You love Christmas, and you love presents, but this is one Christmas we'd all like to forget. Once the front door opened, we knew what was next. Long, long embraces. I'm usually the first to cry, but I willed myself to be strong for you and your sisters. No one else was more important to me.

She was brain dead before her heart stopped. Even in death, her heart still beat for you.

Number Two is a Minecraft-obsessed iPad lover whose go-to outfit is a hand-me-down t-shirt and sweatpants. She enjoys swimming, magic tricks, and making scrambled eggs. She also does most of the chores around the house.

Dear Number One,

I've been with you since the very beginning. You are my scapegoat, my former roommate, my mini-me, my best friend. I don't think I've said this to you, but you inspire me, and you're the only one who has ever motivated me to be a better person. I strive to be a better role model for you, but I think you're doing pretty well on your own.

I know whenever I say this, I say it sarcastically, but I'm proud of you. You're still a child yourself, yet you possess strength and courage beyond your years. At fourteen, I wrote a book. At fourteen, you're taking care of your three little sisters and writing a book. You take risks that are unimaginable to me, and you're taking all of the steps in the right direction. I hate to say it, but you're better than me in so many ways.

Her death impacted you the most. You were the most loyal momma's girl there ever was, even though she called you the "unlucky child" because she never got to be a stay-at-home mom to you. You made jokes about that pretty soon after. I didn't know how to feel about that, but humor's always been your way of dealing with things.

Your mom was a paranoid woman, but you knew that. You once told me that she asked you, while pregnant with Number Four, "If your dad ever leaves me [because she was carrying a girl], will you come with me?" You told her yes and tried reassuring her that he would never do that. You were her rock for her final pregnancy, and I hope that's something you'll cherish forever.

What killed you that day was not the knowledge that she was gone, but that you broke a promise to Number Two. When your mom was in critical condition, everyone told us that she would be better in no time. Number Two asked you if mommy was going to be okay, and you promised her that she would come home. You felt guilty about that for so long, even though it wasn't your fault. What else could you say to your little sister?

Keep doing you, buddy.

Number One has turned into a health nut and will be taking Driver's Training in the fall.

I keep tissues in my car for runny noses and napkins for spilled hot chocolates on winter mornings. I keep Band-Aids for booboos and money for impromptu ice cream trips. I keep spare clothes for sleepovers and pool parties. I keep a crown to remind them that they're all queens.

Okay, maybe that's not why the crown is there, but they are.

I'm not a mother.

But I'm a sister.

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*NOTE: I DON'T ACTUALLY BRIBE THE POLICE

To clear up any confusion you may have, these four girls are my younger cousins. I've lived with them for the majority of my life. Thank you for reading our story.

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This story is originally published here: https://www.wattpad.com/story/2104477-four