Lean on Me

by Pat Simmons

  “About the same.” She mustered a smile. Rachel believed in keeping a professional demeanor among her colleagues and tucked away the meltdowns until she was at home behind closed doors. “My sister had a local minister come to pray with her.”

  “Good. They say prayer changes things,” he said, then continued to his office for the afternoon briefing.

  If only she could see a change with her aunt. Although Rachel was hopeful, she was realistic. The body required food and water to thrive, and she would prefer that Aunt Tweet be alert in order to receive both versus having to be fed and hydrated through an IV.

  Once in her office, Rachel had to force her mind to focus as she switched to job mode. Her team had been assigned to finding solutions to ease Music City’s congestion and reduce travel time for tourists and the ever-growing population. Millennials wanted no part of long commutes. They, including her, were attracted to communities where residents could live, work, and play.

  Although Rachel was licensed as a civil engineer, her area of specialty was structural. While the client wanted to preserve some historical aspects in the area, Rachel wasn’t convinced their request to build a tunnel for a walkway was sound. She and her team had a brainstorming session to see if the addition that was already underway was going to be able to stay on deadline and within the budget.

  After the meeting, Rachel delved into her RISA-3D program to analyze the structures. It was impossible to cram eight-plus work hours into a five-hour shift, but she had to get home to Aunt Tweet so Clara could go home herself. The home health aide was a nursing student and a single mother of an eight-year-old girl. Luckily, Rachel’s commute was only seven minutes.

  When Rachel slipped behind the steering wheel in her car, a craving hit. Although she practiced healthy eating, a serving of Monell’s skillet fried chicken was her guilty pleasure. It wasn’t far, but they would close in twenty minutes.

  She called Clara. “I know you’re off within an hour, but my senses got a tracker on some of Monell’s skillet fried—”

  “Chicken.” Clara smacked her lips and laughed. “Bring me some and all is forgiven.”

  “Got it, and I’ll get some extra in case Aunt Tweet ever gets an appetite again. Any change?”

  “No,” she said slowly, then added, “But her vitals are stable.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Suddenly, Rachel’s appetite dulled, but she practically promised Clara, so she turned north on Second Avenue for the short drive to Bransford Avenue. The reality was her aunt’s failing health.

  She arrived ten minutes before they closed. While she waited for her order, Rachel’s mind drifted to her loved one. “You’ve got to bounce back, Aunt Tweet,” she mumbled. “You’ve got to.”

  Returning to her condo, Rachel hoped the chicken’s aroma would tease Aunt Tweet’s senses, but the only thing that stirred in her aunt’s bedroom was Shelby and Sweet Pepper, yet they didn’t leave Aunt Tweet’s side. Rachel gave Clara her sack from the café and a twenty-dollar tip, something extra as a reminder that the woman’s services were appreciated when Rachel returned home late; Aunt Tweet wouldn’t have it any other way. Rachel then coaxed the pooches off the bed for a five-minute potty break on the rooftop’s pet garden, then she ate alone.

  Her aunt had set up a monthly stipend of five thousand dollars for her care. She stipulated that if the time came that she had to reside at a nursing facility, it had to be top tier.

  After eating, she checked on Aunt Tweet again before changing into her pajamas. Next, she grabbed her laptop and headed for her balcony. The nighttime view of the downtown skyline was worth the price she paid to live there. The antennas on top of the AT&T building resembled Batman, so she always pretended he was guarding Gotham City.

  She loved Nashville, not because it was the state capital or boasted a large African American population, but because of the rich Black history of struggle, determination, and empowerment before and after the Civil War and leading up to and throughout the civil rights movement.

  Her mind wandered as she booted up her laptop. There were so many unsung heroes during slavery besides Harriet Tubman. Who would have guessed one of the most famous horse jockeys in the 1800s was an African American man named Isaac Murphy enslaved at the Belle Meade Plantation?

  The Harding family was one of the largest enslavers in Tennessee, and they invested heavily in thoroughbred horses. Fast forward to post–Emancipation Proclamation. Education was a priority for freedmen and women, and among Nashville’s thirty-two colleges, four were historically Black colleges or universities.

  Add other contributions to music and a thriving social scene, and it was a no-brainer why Rachel made the Athens of the South her home after her college graduation. There was never a weekend without an event to attend. And she and Jacqui hit the circuit.

  Just like her hometown of St. Louis was more than the Gateway Arch, Nashville was more than the Grand Ole Opry, even though it was also nicknamed Music City and NashVegas.

  Rachel caught herself from further drifting and took a deep breath. Reclining on her balcony was akin to a spa visit. Day or night, it was the perfect place to relax her mind and ease stress from her body. However, she had been zero productive, so she stood, waved good night to Batman, then walked back inside. She padded across her living room floor and up the stairs to the loft-converted bedroom.

  She settled in the chaise next to Aunt Tweet’s bed and prepared for a long evening of working and watching Aunt Tweet.

  Rachel didn’t realize she had dozed off until Aunt Tweet’s mumbling woke her. Startled, she caught her laptop before it tumbled to the floor. Her aunt’s aging brown eyes were watching her.

  “Aunt Tweet!” She pushed everything aside, shooed the dogs out of the way, and climbed into the bed next to her. Rachel hugged Aunt Tweet as tightly as she could without crushing her. “You’ve got to stop scaring me. Hungry? I got you some Monell’s. But you’re probably thirsty.” She scrambled off the bed, more than ready to do her aunt’s bidding, then realized she hadn’t yet thanked God for answering her prayers.

  Shaking her head, Aunt Tweet pointed to the flat screen where Rachel had played countless movies for them to watch together, but her aunt had a fascination with one video. It was a keepsake of her niece’s nuptials. The wedding videographer had captured the raw emotion on Tabitha and Marcus’s faces that would make a skeptic believe in love.

  Rachel had a bargaining chip. She rested her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Only if you drink and eat something—please.” After a few rounds of stubbornness on both sides, Aunt Tweet consented in a weak voice to bottled water and toast.

  She propped Aunt Tweet up in the bed and fed her. When her aunt became combative about the wedding tape, Rachel conceded she had force-fed Aunt Tweet enough—half of the bottled water and one of two pieces of toast.

  If Aunt Tweet stayed awake, Rachel would give her a small snack in a little while. Rachel made herself comfortable, then started the video. Holding Aunt Tweet’s hand, they watched in silence as if they had never before seen Marcus dab at one of Tabitha’s tears in an emotional moment. Or Marcus’s brother, Demetrius, hand him a hankie to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Or Aunt Tweet yelling “That’s a whopper” in response to the bride and groom’s passionate first kiss.

  Somehow, the reruns of Tabitha’s wedding sparked a happy place within Aunt Tweet that she had never shared with her nieces. They did know Aunt Tweet was briefly married and then divorced before the Knicely girls were born. Her aunt seemed content without a significant other in her life, but watching the hour and twelve minute video seemed to defy that thought.

  A mystery man named Randolph sometimes surfaced on her aunt’s lips, and sadness would wash over Aunt Tweet’s face. The longing was unmistakable, and Rachel wondered if her aunt had missed out on love, despite men’s attraction to Aunt Tweet like flowers to the sun.

  Not o
nly did Rachel inherit Aunt Tweet’s sass, fashion sense, and other mannerisms, but she also had the physical assets to capture a man’s eye. But none had captured her heart—not the way her brother-in-law had wooed Tabitha.

  Despite the revolving door of men she allowed into her life—briefly including Demetrius, Marcus’s older brother—Rachel never trusted a man to want her beyond her looks, so she had resolved not to expect it.

  Aunt Tweet called her by name and pulled Rachel out of her reverie. She smiled. Some days, Aunt Tweet seemed unsure of Rachel’s identity, but when she heard her name, her heart warmed.

  “Listen to me,” her aunt said. Rachel gave Aunt Tweet her full attention. “Make sure you don’t let love pass you by, you hear?” She waggled her finger as if Rachel were a little girl again.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Rachel grinned. The nourishment, although very little, had given her aunt renewed energy.

  “A good man isn’t always the best looking. He’s got to have a good heart too.”

  “Okay,” Rachel agreed, but waking up to an ugly man every morning would be a test in any marriage. Aunt Tweet became more sentimental after each viewing of the wedding video.

  “Make sure he holds your hand…prays for you…feeds you…loves you.” Her voice drifted off. Oh no, her aunt needed to eat some more, but right before her eyes, Aunt Tweet dozed off, and within seconds, Rachel heard a light snore.

  The next morning, Rachel woke and stretched. From her place on the chaise, she glanced at Aunt Tweet, who seemed to be in the same position as yesterday. Had their conversation really taken place? She spied the remote on the bed and knew it hadn’t been a dream.

  Was there a subliminal message in that wedding tape? If her aunt was hinting that Rachel needed to be next, then Aunt Tweet would be disappointed. Rachel had no prospects, time, or desire to be anybody’s wife. She was only twenty-nine. Maybe by thirty-five, she would review her options. Until then, it was business as usual.

  About the Author

  Pat Simmons is a multipublished author of more than thirty-five Christian titles and is a three-time recipient of the Emma Rodgers Award for Best Inspirational Romance. She has been a featured speaker and workshop presenter at various venues across the country.

  As a self-proclaimed genealogy sleuth, Pat is passionate about researching her ancestors and then casting them in starring roles in her novels. She describes the evidence of the gift of the Holy Ghost as an amazing, unforgettable, life-altering experience. It is God who advances the stories she writes.

  Pat has a BS in mass communications from Emerson College in Boston, Massachusetts, and oversaw the media publicity for the annual RT Booklovers Conventions for fourteen years.

  Pat converted her sofa-strapped, sports-fanatic husband into an amateur travel agent, untrained bodyguard, GPS-guided chauffeur, and administrative assistant who is constantly on probation. They have a son and a daughter.

  Read more about Pat and her books by visiting patsimmons.net or on social media.

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