Debt

by Charlotte Byrd

  When I sit down at the kitchen table, I reach for the remote to flip on the TV and accidentally knock the stack of bills onto the floor.

  “Dammit,” I say. I gather all the envelopes, but one stands out. It’s different than the rest, and my name is written on it in a beautiful cursive script.

  Ms. Sophia Elizabeth Cole

  I look at the envelope closer. The paper is fancier than the others, and the stamp is unusual, not the standard issue stamps that they sell at the post office. It has a detailed painting of a buffalo in a field of grass.

  There’s no return address in the upper left-hand corner. When I turn the envelope around, I see that it’s from The Grayson Foundation. Something about that name sounds familiar. Grayson. What’s Grayson? Is it Grayson International, the pharmaceutical company?

  Instead of tearing the envelope open like I usually do, I get a knife and carefully slice open the top.

  * * *

  Dear Ms. Sophia Elizabeth Cole,

  It has come to our attention that your mother is gravely ill. Please use the following check to pay for her treatment.

  * * *

  There’s more to the letter, but that’s the only part I see. I read it over and over, not believing my eyes. I look into the envelope again and pull out a check.

  * * *

  $250,000

  Chapter 3 - Sophia

  When I try to figure out who this is from…

  The check is for a quarter of a million dollars! I don’t believe it. This must be fake. A joke. But why? Who would do this? Why would someone play a joke on me like this?

  When Mom wakes up, I show her the check and the letter.

  “I’ve seen this on Dr. Phil, Sophia. Don’t cash it. It’s from some scammer. A love scam.”

  “But you gotta be talking to someone for them to send you a check like this, don’t you?”

  “Who have you been talking to?” she asks, furrowing her brows.

  “No one! All I do is go to work and take you to doctors’ appointments. I don’t have any time to waste talking to strangers.”

  Mom tells me to throw the check away, but I don’t listen. Instead, I stay up late after my evening shift and go online. I look up Grayson International. I was right. It’s a big pharmaceutical company, which has recently gone public.

  The following morning, I look up the Grayson Foundation on my phone and call them. A pleasant young woman answers and confirms that the foundation does indeed exist, and they’re located in Los Angeles.

  “So are you in the habit of mailing out large checks to strangers?” I ask. I don’t mean to be rude or direct, but I don’t know how else to go about finding out if this is indeed a real check.

  “Ms. Cole, that’s primarily all we do,” she says.

  I’m dumbfounded. I explain my situation to her and wait for her to laugh at me. But she doesn’t.

  “I can always check your name in our database and make sure that this is a legitimate check that came from us.”

  “Yes, please, do that.”

  She asks me to wait on the phone and puts me on hold. I don’t wait too long, but the few minutes that do pass feel like it takes a century to expire.

  I put on the teapot to pass the time. I also find one of the last tea bags at the back of the cupboard and make a note to buy more.

  “Ms. Cole?” she says. I can barely hear her over the boiling water in the teapot, and I quickly shut it off.

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “I’ve got good news for you. Your name is on the list of approved donations, and I also double checked whether a check was actually issued to you, and I see that it was issued five days ago.”

  I can’t respond. I’ve lost the ability to speak.

  “Ms. Cole? Are you there?” she asks. Louder this time.

  “Yes, yes, I’m here,” I mumble. “So it’s okay? I can cash the check?”

  “Yes, please do. And if the bank gives you any trouble, just tell them to call this number.”

  She dictates the number of her boss, and I write it down on the back of the envelope.

  When I get off the phone, I don’t know if I’m going to cry or laugh. I feel like I could do either. Tears start streaming down my face, and I call for Mom. She’s still asleep, but I don’t care. We have the money to pay for her treatment. Whatever treatment she needs. My whole body begins to shake, and both my hands and feet go numb.

  “Oh my God, Sophia? What’s wrong?” Mom comes out of her room and slowly makes her way to me.

  “What happened? What’s wrong?”

  She wraps her arms around me and begins to rock me from side to side. Tears continue to run down my face, but they are not tears of sorrow. I just can’t catch my breath long enough to tell her.

  “It’s going to be okay, baby girl. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it.”

  Suddenly, I start to laugh. “Yes, yes, it is,” I say, hugging her back. “It’s going to be more than okay, Mom.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I just got off the phone with the Grayson Foundation, and the check’s legit. They’re paying for your treatment. You’re going to get some real help now, Mom. And we’re going to be okay.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mom stares at me. I explain, but she just keeps asking me that same question over and over again. Eventually, it sinks in, and I get up and jump around the house, shaking it so hard it feels like it’s going to fall over. Mom’s too weak to jump around, but she does nod along.

  Chapter 4 - Sophia

  When I go to cash the check…

  I drive to the local branch of Bank of America half an hour after I get off the phone with the Grayson Foundation. I can’t wait any longer. I’m worried that no matter what they had said on the phone, this isn’t going to be real. But some elaborate and very cruel practical joke. From the concerned look on her face, Mom seems to think that, too.

  I wait in line behind an elderly gentleman who only starts to take out his wallet when he reaches the glass-plated window. I’m not sure if I can deposit my check here or if I have to wait to meet with one of the higher ups who sit at the desks on the other side of the room and handle home loans and other bigger transactions.

  Finally, it’s my turn. I walk up to the plexiglass window and hand the teller my check. It’s moist from being held in my sweaty hand all this time. I get out my bank card and slide it through.

  “Wait…this check is for…” The teller’s voice drops off. It’s obvious that just like me, this girl has never seen a check for this amount of money before either.

  I shrug and nod. She whispers the amount to me as if it were a secret.

  “I don’t think I can deposit this for you,” she says after a moment. My heart drops. What? What is she talking about? She didn’t even check if it were okay.

  “I’m going to get my manager.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I mumble. My heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s about to pop out of my chest.

  The manager comes over and looks at the check. Then he looks me up and down. Am I the type of person who is worthy of this amount of money, I imagine him wondering.

  “We will need a moment to make sure that everything’s in order with this,” he finally says.

  “Sure, of course.” I shrug. I’m giving him permission as if he were asking for it. As I wait, I look up the Grayson Foundation again. Grayson Pharmaceuticals is a big company without any intentions of giving anyone a break on their medication costs. But the Grayson Foundation? Well, their intentions are completely different, at least according to the mission statement on their website. The founder of both is listed as Dr. Grayson, a doctor who developed a particularly effective type of high blood pressure medication and then went into the business of printing money. There are several pictures of him on the website. He is older, but has a kind face. Caring, even. There are pictures of him at the Vanity Fair Oscar Party. And others from a benefit in Palm Springs.

  I zoom
in on his face. Do I know you? Did I meet you somewhere? At the local drugstore perhaps? Or maybe I served you at the diner? But no matter how hard I look, I draw nothing but a blank.

  How else could he have found out about me? Oh, yes, of course! My blog. I started it a while ago. Its purpose was to just document what I’ve been going through. Initially, I joined a forum for people whose parents are going through cancer. I tended to write these long rambling posts, so after a few weeks, I started posting them on my own blog. I’m not sure what good it did to anyone else, but it helped me. Maybe that’s how he found out about me.

  “Well, it looks like this check is meant for you,” the manager says. “We’ve called the foundation and they did indeed issue you this check.”

  “I know. That’s why I have it.”

  “Okay, we understand that, Ms. Cole.”

  I shake my head. On one hand, I can’t fault them for checking on this. I mean, who the hell am I to get a check in this amount? But on the other, I hate that they didn’t trust me. What have I ever done to not have their trust? I’ve been nothing but a law-abiding citizen my whole life.

  “Okay, so please sign the back and we will put this in your account,” the teller says. I do as she says and wait as she feverishly types on her keyboard.

  A few moments later, I walk back to my car a quarter of a million dollars richer.

  Chapter 5 - Sophia

  When the letter arrives…

  Two years ago, I got a check from the Grayson Foundation and twenty months ago, my mom’s cancer went into remission. I paid $150,000 for her experimental surgery upfront and they performed it as soon as they flew in the team of specialists from around the country. By the end of the procedure, with the costs of the hospital stay and anesthesiologists and additional post-surgery treatments, there isn’t much of that money left. But at least, I have my mom now. Every three months she goes for a checkup, and the more checkups that come and go without a resurgence of cancer, the better her luck is in surviving in the long run.

  Every day, I am thankful for that check from that mysterious benefactor. I don’t know why we were chosen, but I want more than anything to thank him or her in person. But even that won’t do it justice. It’s impossible to explain how I really feel about this because it’s not just my mom’s life that the check saved. It also saved my life.

  When Mom was dying, I was living my life day to day, week to week. I made no plans for the future. The future didn’t really exist. I barely knew how I was going to get through the week. Now, the future is open and bright.

  I even moved out!

  I don’t live too far now, only a few streets over, but Mom insisted on it.

  “A young woman such as yourself needs her own space,” she said. “What if you want to bring a guy over? Where are you guys going to hang out? In the living room while I’m snoring in the back room?”

  “Mom,” I rolled my eyes, “I don’t want to bring a guy over.”

  “Well, I want you to.” She looked straight at me. “You’re twenty-seven years old now. You’ve been taking care of me for almost seven years. That’s a big burden. You should’ve been living your own life.”

  She was right, of course, but I couldn’t say that. I didn’t regret a moment that I spent caring for her, but a small part of me did wonder how different my life could be.

  “Besides.” I remember Mom saying. “You need your own place so you can find a guy so you can finally give me grandchildren!”

  Grandchildren! I’d been caring for her for so long, I couldn’t even imagine having the time in the day to care for children! Let alone, a husband.

  And so, with her insistence, I moved out. I got my own trailer a couple of streets away from hers. It’s definitely nice to come home to my own place with everything put away neatly in its place. No boxes here. No clothes all over the floor. I have more time to focus on this now. I even have time to focus on other things. Like my future.

  My gaze goes to the course catalog laying on my brand-new kitchen table. Well, it’s not brand-new; it’s from the thrift store down the street, but it’s nevertheless my kitchen table. All mine. I leaf through the course catalog. I wonder what else could be mine. Perhaps I could have my own career. A nurse, maybe? I have a lot of experience now. The pay is really good, in comparison to a waitress, anyway. But I don’t know if I can care for anyone anymore. Mom’s cancer has really worn me out.

  “Ding Dong! Ding Dong!” My new doorbell goes off, startling me. Who could that be?

  “Yes, may I help you?” I open the door.

  There’s a mailman at the door. I’ve never seen him before, so he must be new.

  “I have a certified letter here for you, Miss,” he says. He doesn’t know my name.

  “Where’s Mr. Thompson? Isn’t he still working?”

  He looks surprised that I know the other mailman’s name.

  “Yes, but he’s transitioning to an internal role. So I’m going to be filling in for him sometimes.”

  I nod and sign for the letter.

  The envelope looks familiar. The same fancy paper and the same elegant script which had saved Mom’s life.

  After he pulls away, I turn the envelope over. This time, it’s not from the Grayson Foundation. It’s from someone named Mr. Francis Whitewater. I open the envelope and take a deep breath. If they’re asking for all the money back, I have no way of paying. We’ve spent it all!

  * * *

  Dear Ms. Sophia Elizabeth Cole,

  * * *

  We have recently learned that your mother has made quite a recovery, and her cancer is now in remission. What great news!

  We are pleased that you were able to put the money to such good use, and we are very happy for you.

  However, we are now in need of your help. It is my pleasure to invite you to the Grayson House for a brief residency, lasting no longer than a year. We hope you accept the invitation, so that the process of you paying the debt back goes smoothly.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Francis Whitewater

  * * *

  Certain words and phrases stand out. I read them over and over again, but they don’t make any more sense.

  Residency.

  No longer than a year.

  Debt.

  * * *

  What does that mean?

  What is he talking about?

  What debt?

  * * *

  “Well, you didn’t think you got that money for nothing, did you?” Dottie asks when I show her the letter at work.

  She’s close to ninety years old, and she’s the only one who I trusted enough to tell about the check. I didn’t even tell her anything until after half the money was spent and Mom was on her way to recovery.

  “I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I guess I did.”

  Dottie laughs. “I’ve seen a lot in my long life, but this is a new one for me.”

  “What should I do?”

  “I don’t know what to do, child.” She shakes her head. “But from the looks of this, the letter doesn’t seem menacing at all. Maybe they just want you to work there until you pay off your debt.”

  “Work there? Where?”

  “At the Grayson House. Whatever the hell that is.”

  “But I didn’t even know this was a debt. Don’t they have the obligation to tell me? Shouldn’t I have signed for something if it was going to be a debt?”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t think this is any normal kind of debt. This isn’t the bank. They would’ve never given you the money.”

  I know she’s right, of course. No one gave us any money when we needed it. They all turned their backs on us.

  “Well, do you think it’s something sinister? Like some sort of brothel? Or prostitution ring?” I ask.

  I don’t know why my mind went there, except that I watch a lot of crime investigation shows on my days off.

  Dottie thinks about it for a moment.

  “I doubt it,” s
he finally says.

  “Those kind of places usually promise you lots of money first and then use you up and toss you out. These people gave you a quarter of a million dollars first without even getting you to sign anything for it.”

  “And since I didn’t sign anything for it, I technically don’t have to do anything they say,” I say. I feel my eyes lighting up with excitement.

  “Well, technically, no,” Dottie nods, “but I wouldn’t want to play with Karma like that, honey. That might bring a whole lot of bad luck on you.”

  She’s right, of course. I have to go. I owe a debt, and if there is some reasonable and honest way that I can pay it back, then I owe it to them to try.

  Chapter 6 - Sophia

  When I make plans…

  Within a week of receiving the letter, I quit my job. I had worked there even after we got the money since the money was technically for my mom’s treatment. But this time, I quit for good. I don’t know when I will be back and I don’t want to leave them hanging.

  Before I quit, I called Grayson House and spoke to Mr. Francis Whitewater, who came off quite polite and well spoken. He said that my duties at the Grayson House would consist of acting as a personal assistant, answering emails and phone calls, and maybe participating in light cleaning and nursing. When I asked about the nursing aspect, he was very brief and practically refused to give out details, but said that someone had to be taken care of, but the nursing duties are mild. Nothing like the ones I had to perform for my mother.

  After I had agreed on the phone to go he sent me an email with the work contract, which I had to sign and return before I could go. I read through the contract carefully and was surprised to learn that I was actually going to get paid for this job. Four times more money than I made at the cafe, and I would also be provided with a one bedroom apartment in which to live on the property.