Usually I'd have to wait in the waiting room, but it's a particularly sunny and warm day and I want to take a walk outside behind the medical center. The office building and the parking lot borders on a large ravine full of shrubs and trees, and an unofficial muddy path right behind the wall of the parking lot.
I like this place because no one is ever here, and sometimes it's nice to just go somewhere to get away from it all.
As I walk with my goal of getting at least 5,000 steps which I haven't reached in weeks, hell, let's be honest, months, I turn on my phone and make the dreaded phone call to the Danick Clinic.
I'd done something like this when I was in college.
I wrote letters and made phone calls to the Financial Aid department hoping to stumble upon someone with a heart to make an exception. It rarely worked, but I did it every semester because I heard the stories.
One of my friends or a friend of a friend would say, "I called them, told them about my situation, and actually got this additional grant, or scholarship, or financial aid option, and an extension."
I looked into it a little bit, about what it would take to become an escort, and I still can't believe that those words are going through my mind.
Unfortunately, ever since Allison and I texted two days ago, I'm no closer in finding out exactly how to do it safely, of course not legally, but in a way that wouldn't get me murdered.
As a journalist, I did an investigative assignment where I interviewed streetwalkers. Many of them suffered from drug addiction and were doing it mainly to stay high, but there were some that were a little bit more enterprising. They were saving money to start a new life. They came from bad circumstances, lots of abuse, and this was the way out.
In one case I had a long talk over coffee in a small diner with a fifteen-year-old who was sold by her mother to a pimp when she was four.
That was the only life she’d ever known, but she started reading books on her phone and she discovered that there was something else that she could do with her life.
She was saving up money and getting through the hard days without drugs all in an effort to start a new life.
Streetwalkers are of course very different from upscale escorts. I do a quick search on Google on my phone and find a few escort companies that are hiring.
Still, I hesitate.
The money isn't anywhere near enough, and to tell you the truth, I'm afraid. Who wouldn't be?
I have never been part of that life. Going to bars, picking up guys, and even meeting a stranger at Redemption is nothing like this.
This requires performance. This requires me to be at someone else's beck and call, rather than my own.
And at most, it will be five hundred dollars, maybe a thousand, both a very long distance away from seventy-five thousand.
I take a deep breath and dial the number for the Danick Clinic. After going through almost the entire menu, I am finally put through to an operator, a real live person.
The wind dies down and I huddle next to a wall to make sure that she can hear me as clearly as possible.
"Ma'am, I'm calling to talk to someone about my mother's case,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady even though I feel my eyes filling up with tears. “I'm in the process of coming up with the money. Her doctors have recommended her for it and she has been approved.”
I should probably be doing this in the car, or at least in a building, but I sometimes find it easier to make unpleasant calls while on a walk or occupying myself with something else so I can take my mind off the task at hand.
"What is your account number?” the woman asks. Her voice is quick and short but not entirely discourteous. I pull a paper out of my pocket and read it slowly. It's more than twelve numbers long.
“I was just wondering if there's a grant, or maybe some sort of financial aid that I can apply for,” I ask and hold my breath.
“Elizabeth Archer," she says. "Is that your mother's name?"
“Uh-huh,” I mumble.
“It seems like the whole bill has already been paid,” she says.
"What do you mean?” I ask after a moment of stunned silence.
"You paid the whole amount. There's no balance due. $250,000 was transferred, and we will be sending out the information about where to stay and all of the procedures very soon.”
I clear my throat, still not fully understanding or trusting that I have heard what she just said.
"Wait. I'm sorry. Did you say that the full amount for the treatment was already paid?"
"That's what I see here."
“Uh-huh.” I nod, wondering if it's some sort of glitch and I should just go ahead and pretend that I'm aware of it.
But my curiosity gets the best of me.
"Does it say who paid it?" I ask.
"No, it doesn't. Anonymous. But I guess it was paid by one of the feelers that you put out. You know, GoFundMe or local news. It is not that uncommon to receive these kinds of donations from wealthy individuals.”
I stand here in stunned silence.
“I actually have a number of people on the line, so do you have any other questions?" she asks, rushing me off.
”No, not at all."
"Okay. Check your email and all the information will be there soon."
Before I can say goodbye, she hangs up.
I stare at my phone and a breeze picks up, tossing my hair into my field of vision.
Paid?
How could the whole amount be paid?
By whom?
My mind goes in circles.
So, it's not a computer glitch, and it was definitely done by an anonymous gift.
But the thing is that I never went to the news or set up the GoFundMe page.
I was going to do that later on today after making this call.
I put the phone in my pocket and start putting one foot slowly in front of the other.
"Someone paid her whole bill," I say out loud, trying to convince myself that this is actually true. “Someone paid her whole bill.”
I pace around, staring at my phone, trying to convince myself whether I actually heard what I think I heard.
No more money owed?
Some sponsor had paid the whole bill? Why? Who would do this?
I try to think of everyone I know who has any money whatsoever, and no names come up.
I pace around, feeling nervous and suddenly consider the very real possibility that it might be a joke.
I check the phone number.
Yes, that's correct.
I call again and get the same menu. Before I get to the operator, I hang up. I don't know what to do now.
I decide to head back to the car to get my laptop. Mom is still at the clinic, and I always have my laptop with me in my bag in the car.
I need to find out what really happened. That couldn't have been a prank, but what other possible explanation is there?
Who even knows about the situation? I grab my phone and log into their laborious and complicated system.
It reminds me of the internet from twenty years ago when they probably had the site set up and haven't changed a thing.
Finally, after clicking on the desktop version and zooming in on pages and pages of text, I find the right place to click and scroll over to the financial information dropdown menu.
I click on the first tab, and that's where I see it.
Invoice paid.
Amount due: $0.00.
I stare at the number on the screen.
Someone has paid the entire amount. My mom can get treatment.
Tears start to roll down my cheeks as this thought finally registers in my head.
"What's wrong? What happened?" Mom asks, rushing into the car, after probably seeing me crying from across the parking lot.
"Nothing. I'm so happy. What did the doctor say?" I ask.
"No news. All the signs are the same. Stable. At least things aren't getting worse."
“No. No, they're not," I say, wiping my tears. "They
're getting a lot better."
“How so?”
"The money that we owe the Danick Clinic, it has been paid."
"What are you talking about?" She sits up, turns her body toward me, grasping on to her purse like a woman riding on the bus.
"I just called. I was going to ask for an extension or some sort of financial aid application, but the woman on the other end told me that everything has been paid."
“No. How would that even be possible?” she asks.
"That's what I thought, so I checked." I show her my phone and she stares at the amount.
"This must be a mistake. I don't know who would have done this."
"She said an anonymous donor who didn't want to be identified."
"We can't accept this gift."
"Of course we can. It's already done."
"Well, what if there are some strings attached?"
"It doesn't matter. Your life is worth more. Besides, the donation was anonymous. It's not like I would ever know or you would ever know who it came from."
She shakes her head in disbelief and then swallows hard, as a big lump forms in the back of her throat.
She tucks her tongue into the side of her mouth to stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks, but they do anyway.
"I can't believe this is happening."
"Me either."
I reach over and hold her, and she begins to cry.
She has always been so strong.
She doesn't show emotion much. The fact that she's shaking in my arms, like a leaf breaking free in the first storm of autumn, shows me that nothing is going to be the same after this.
17
Dante
The following morning, I wake up early to get to my morning flight. I prefer these flights because I can start the day in a new place and the only people who usually take them are business travelers.
No families.
No kids.
Everything is easier in the morning.
I woke up extra early to get in my five-mile run, and now I suddenly feel sluggish and hungry, annoyed at everyone in line ahead of me. I don't have to take off my shoes or laptop because I have the pass, but the crowds and the early morning bleary eyes make me feel out of place and disconnected from myself.
I had a restless night's sleep.
I vowed to go back to Jacqueline, and I know I have to see her again, but how?
When I get to the gate, I take a seat next to the window and check my emails.
Nothing for work, just a personal one from Lincoln, inviting me to a party in a week's time. I don't really want to go, and I can always use work as an excuse.
I feel like I should. It might be good for me.
Besides, it’ll get me back to New York, and maybe I can meet up with Jacqueline again.
Paying her mother's medical bill was a no-brainer. The only thing that made it complicated was that the clinic was a lot more thorny than I thought they would be about an anonymous donation.
They wanted my name. They wanted to know why I was suddenly paying the bill, and I've gotten a number of calls from people higher and higher up in the organization asking me questions that I have no interest in answering.
I don't know how long it will take her to find out, but I've been checking her emails and texts to see if she told her friend Allison yet and she hasn't.
My phone rings and I see Cedar's name at the top.
He doesn't usually call any time before 9:00 a.m., and I can't help but get a little bit nervous.
"What do you think you're doing?" Cedar growls, even before I say hello.
"What are you talking about?"
“Vasko, the CEO who you just met with in Seattle, why did you tell him no?”
"Because he knew nothing about his business, and his financials were all off."
"That doesn't matter.”
I cock my head, not entirely sure that I heard him correctly.
"It doesn't matter?" I ask. Two women across from me lift their head away from their laptops and I lower my voice. "I'm at the airport now."
"I don't care where you are," Cedar snaps. "I got his application approved, and his financials make sense if you actually care to look at them. He told me that you walked out as soon as his CFO came in."
"Yes, I did, but-” I start to say but he cuts me off.
"That's not how we do business. You know that."
"Look, I have a responsibility to fifty-thousand of our angel investors to make the right decision."
"Yes, you do. You go there, you assess risks."
"And that's what I did," I insist. "And that's why I told him no."
“You don’t understand,” Cedar says. “You can’t tell him no.”
"People are going to lose money," I insist. "It's not a wise investment. He doesn't know anything about the markets that he wants to go into. He is clueless."
"I didn't get that sense when I talked to him.”
I open my mouth to say something, but he barrels over me.
"Look, you get this done, or I can find someone else to do your job for you,” he says and hangs up.
I stare at my phone, uncertain as to what just happened.
Why would Cedar suddenly get so involved?
Why would he care?
I mean, of course, he's my boss and he checks my work and he follows up, but he has always been very hands-off.
It was always clear to me that in this position, I'm the one who makes the decision about taking on certain risks, and Vasko wasn't even a close call.
I shake my head in disbelief, feeling even more annoyed and pissed off and agitated than I felt just a few minutes ago.
When they start to board my flight, I take a few deep breaths and try to calm myself down.
I'm going to get on the plane, it's going to be claustrophobic. There are going to be people right next to me, even though it's first class, and I've got to just shut it all out.
I pull out my noise canceling headphones and stick them on just as I flash my phone and allow the flight attendant to scan my ticket.
18
Jacqueline
When I meet up with Allison, I’m beaming, smiling so wide that my face actually hurts.
"What's up?" she asks when we put in our happy hour orders. "I have to go back to work after this. I can't believe how long this project is taking them."
"What do you mean? What's going on?" I ask.
"Just trying to come up with the marketing plan that will work for the client. We have a bunch of the ads set up but of course, they're not happy with any of them. They approved one out of ten."
"Isn't that up to you? I mean, you're the one that runs all the big Facebook and Instagram ad campaigns."
"Yeah, so they should trust me. I mean, we still have to do a lot of testing so these are just the initial type of images that I came up with. But for some reason, they want them approved and they’ve just decided that the ones I chose weren’t good enough.”
When her Grey Goose vodka on the rocks arrives, she takes a big gulp. “They have no idea what they're talking about,” she adds.
"I'm sorry about that," I say, still smiling.
"Why are you so happy?" Allison looks up at me, suddenly noticing my unusual, good mood.
We're splitting a box of French fries and she nervously eats a handful.
"Well, I have some news."
"Okay. Out with it." She tosses her hair from one shoulder to another and narrows her eyes.
"Mom's going to get the treatment," I say, leaning over the table.
"What are you talking about?"
"Yeah."
"Where did you get the money? What did you do?" She gasps, pointing her French manicured index finger in my face.
"I didn't do anything. It came from an anonymous donation. I have no idea who sent it."
"What are you talking about?" The tone of her voice changes, dropping an octave.
"You heard me. I called to ask for some financial aid informati
on and they said that the bill has been paid, everything's ready to go. She's leaving in five days."
Allison leans over, propping her head up with one hand. "Oh my God, are you serious? This is going to happen?"
“Yes!” I screech.
Allison leans over the food and drinks to wrap her arms around me.
"I'm so relieved. This is going to be so good. Everything's going to be fine."
"Yeah, I think so, too," I say, choking up, trying to hold back tears.
I've already cried so much over the diagnosis, feeling nothing but hopelessness, and now that there's actually good news on the horizon, I find myself crying over the good news as well.
We have a couple of drinks, and we talk more about her work and my mom's treatment.
I tell her that I'll be traveling there with her, but most likely end up hanging out at the hospital, not doing much of anything, but just supporting her.
There's going to be a surgery and then a wait and see kind of situation.
"Listen, before you do all that, let's go to the masquerade party together,” Allison suggests.
Her question takes me by surprise.
"You mean at Redemption?" I ask.
She nods. "It's this Saturday, remember?"
"Yeah, but I don't know.”
"Well, you already went there by yourself, and you had a good time."
"Yeah, but when I went back, it wasn't that great."
"Okay, so the third time is the charm.” She smiles. "Let’s just go together. Girls’ night. Maybe we’ll find a couple of interesting guys and have a little fun.”
“Look, I'm not going to fool around with you if that's what you're getting at," I joke.
"No, not at all. Who even says that I'm interested in you of all people?" Allison is quick with a retort and we crack up laughing.
Neither of us are homophobic in the least, but we're also completely inexperienced when it comes to women.
I'm not particularly interested in that, and neither is she.
But something about going there with her as my wing woman so to speak, piques my interest.
"I don't know. I was really thinking of not going to Redemption again."
Dark Intentions, #1 Page 8
