This I Believe

The 3 A.M. text 

My phone buzzes late on a Thursday night. Its two weeks before finals of my first semester in college, I still have enough time to study right? I’m standing on the White Loop, with about 45 hundred people jammed into a 25 foot space, but I pull out my phone anyway. It’s a text message, from my sister, Kim. It reads: “Beck, are you good? Somethings happened.” 

My heart drops, Something’s happened? What could have happened? Is our dog all right? Did Dad get into an accident? Did someone die? It’s eleven thirty at night, what could possibly have happened? 

After calling my sister back, and having to scream over the perpetual a capella rendition of “Zombie Nation” to understand her at all, I find out what’s happened. Turns out, my brother in law, Ryan, is not at all whom he seems.

After marrying Ryan in June 2010, my oldest sister, Jayne, could not have been more happy. She was the typical bride, a little demanding, a little rude, and completely and utterly beautiful. The two had been dating for seven years, a little more than the average couple waits to get married. I had met Ryan in the fifth grade, at ten years old. At this point in my life, he is family, and not just by marriage. I had looked up to him, gone to him for advice, and respected his opinions and concerns about my actions. He was the older brother I’d always wanted, until of course, that Thursday night. 

“Jayne’s a wreck.” My sister informs me. “Just make sure you be an ear for her when she calls. I didn’t tell you about Ryan.” Kim hangs up. 

I wait for Jayne’s call, and a few days later she’s showing up on my Caller ID. I listen to her cry, I listen to her story, I listen to everything that she needs to say out loud. I give her advice, I agree with anything she says (even if she’s being a little irrational) and let her cry herself out. She apologizes for “acting so crazy” and asks me the question she has been contemplating for days. “Should I divorce him?” 

She was asking me, her sister who is thirteen years younger then she, for advice on which steps she should take in her relationship. Me, who would cry every time she left for college. Me, who would demand endless piggy back rides whenever she was stuck home on a Friday night. Me, the girl who crashed her car a month after buying it. Me, her youngest sister. 

That’s when it hit me, for the first time in my eighteen years, I realized I had a support network that was infallible. My sisters were always there for back up, with my parents, with friends, with ex boyfriends. They were my team of emotional jocks that were always prepared for a phone call, a text message, and even a frantic Facebook message. So, I believe in the 3 A.M. text, that dire need for advice that must be answered. I believe in my sisters, as they always believe in me.

 In a way, I ha always detested having three older sisters. They had set the bar three times over, they had pulled the wool over my parents eyes enough times there was a hole worn through, and they knew what to say to put me in my place. My sisters liked to pretend they were my “back-up” mothers as well. My catchphrase during family events was “yes, I am blessed with four mothers.” 

Suddenly, I was thankful for their support, for their demands that I do better, for their scrutiny in my actions. They had meant for my success, not my demise as I had always assumed. I never understood why my sisters were so upset with me when they realized I had failed a test, why they were so proud when I made the varsity team they never had, why they beamed with pride when I earned honors at my high school graduation. After her question, I realized I was also apart of her back up. 

 I answer her truthfully, and let her know that I am always there for her. We are a family after all. If she needs me ever, I will answer her phone call, be it in the middle of class, or in the middle of the night. We are an inseparable gang, and nothing can split us. Answering a 3 A.M. text is just the beginning of what I would do for my sisters.