Acquired

by Charlotte Byrd

  Momma worked hard all of her life. She’s worked since the age of fourteen, and she deserves better than this. She’s only 44 years old, for goodness sake! And now she’s dying a slow and horrible death. She can’t eat anything without throwing it up again. The chemo is poisoning her, and we can’t even afford the poison anymore. And there’s nothing I can do to stop any of this.

  A week later

  * * *

  I am driving home from work on a beautiful, sunny day, thinking that the sky is so blue and there’s not a single cloud as far as the eye can see. My legs are cramping up, and I can’t wait to get home to climb into bed. I’m not much of a morning person, and these morning shifts are killing me.

  I worked from 4 a.m. until noon, and this eight-hour shift was harder than the busy evenings shifts any day. Barely anyone comes in after ten, and breakfast customers don’t like to tip as much as dinner customers.

  I finally pull onto our street and see the house in the distance. The paint is peeling on the side, and the porch is cluttered with junk, which we no longer have room for inside the house. I need to take care of that one of these days. Just don’t know how or when. Paint costs money. Putting junk away doesn’t, but I don’t know where to put it. A shed is close to $1000, and I’m not going to have that kind of money anytime soon. Cardboard boxes? Perhaps. But boxes full of junk are easier to steal than loose junk.

  The street leading up to the house isn’t really a street, but a dirt road. When we first moved here and Momma’s second husband, my father, was still around, we would wash the car every week. Within a day, the desert’s dry climate and our dirt road would deposit a thin layer of dust on the car, making the exercise fruitless. My father insisted that we had to do it because of pride, but he left by the time I turned eight and took the car. I guess his pride extended only to the car, not to his family. We didn’t have another car for more than a year after that.

  I pull up to the chain link gate and get out. The neighbor’s pit bull and Rottweiler are already going nuts. They welcome me home from work multiple times a day with the excitement of a full marching band and always put a smile on my face.

  “Hey, Bella. Boomer,” I wave to them. “I’ll be right over.”

  I put the car in park, get out and pull the gate open. I get back in the car, park and head over to the dogs. The other neighbors are afraid of them, but they are the sweetest dogs I’ve ever met. I stick my hands through the chain link fence and pet them each on their heads.

  After the brief hello, which is honestly the highlight of my day, I try to pull the gate closed before heading in. Usually, this is barely a process at all. But today, the wheels on the bottom, which squeak so loudly they send shivers up my spine, get stuck. When I pull them harder, they take off and run over my foot.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I curse hopping on one foot. “Dammit.”

  The gate needs to be oiled, but I don’t really have any extra money to spend on WD-40 or the time to drive out to Home Depot to get it.

  “Stupid gate!” I kick it, instead. Not a great solution.

  I’m about to head inside when, out of the corner of my eye, I see the mail truck. I am about to turn back, but something keeps me there. Getting the mail is not as exciting of an event as it once was. A long time ago, I remembered looking forward to getting cards in the mail from my grandparents and tearing through envelopes with the words “Sweepstakes” and “Winner” on the cover. Nowadays, the only thing that comes in the mail is medical bills.

  Despite that, something is holding me back. I wait for the mail truck to pull next to the house. The mailman is a sweet old man who has been delivering mail for close to thirty years or so. Whenever we are short on money, and I have to say that the check is in the mail, even though it isn’t, I’ve always felt bad about it, because I know that I’m blaming it on him.

  “How’s your mom?” he asks. There’s no way to really answer that question. Throwing up every morning, afternoon, and night. Staying in bed all day long. People don’t want to hear these things.

  “Hanging in there,” I say. It’s the best way to describe the teetering that she’s doing between this world and the next.

  The mailman hands me a thick stack of envelopes. All are approximately the same size, and I know they’re all bills. I sigh and head to the house.

  I don’t have any money to pay any of the bills. I will have to spend days in the coming week on the phone talking with various administrators at the hospital and Momma’s different doctors’ offices, all with the hopes of getting some of the bills reduced.

  * * *

  I toss the pile of bills on the kitchen table and open the refrigerator door looking for something to eat. I’ve been up since 3:30 a.m, so a simple grilled cheese sandwich is a no-brainer. While the skillet is heating up, I check on Momma, who’s fast asleep with the blinds still down.

  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. Brielle 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 Wild Foundation. Something about that name sounds familiar. Wild. What’s Wild? Is it Wild 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. Brielle 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

  * * *

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

  * * *

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

  “I’ve seen this on Dr. Phil, Brielle. 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.”

  Momma 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 Wild International. It’s a big pharmaceutical company, which has just gone public. It’s owned by some cute young guy named Gatsby Wild. Why the hell his parents would name him after someone so tragic is beyond me!

  The next morning, I look up the Wild 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 in my face. 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 m
e to wait on the phone and puts me on hold. I don’t wait too long, but the few minutes that do pass feels 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 Momma. 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, Brielle? What’s wrong?” Momma 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, Momma.”

  “What are you talking about?”

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

  “What are you talking about?” Momma 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. Momma’s too weak to jump around, but she does nod along.

  Chapter 5 - Brielle

  Two Years Later

  It has been two years since I got that check from the Wild Foundation and it has been one and a half years since Momma went into remission. 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 Momma’s life that that check saved. It also saved my life.

  When Momma 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 Momma insisted on it.

  “A young woman such as yourself needs her own space,” she says. “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?”

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

  “Well, I want you to,” she looks 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’s right, of course, but I can’t say that. I don’t regret a moment that I spent caring for her, but a small part of me does wonder how different my life could be.

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

  Grandchildren! I’ve been caring for her for so long, I can’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. Momma’s cancer has really worn me out.

  “Ding Dong! Ding Dong!” My new door bell 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’ve got 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 has saved Momma’s life.

  After he pulls away, I turn the envelope over. This time, it’s not from the Wild 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. Brielle 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 Wild 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 90-years-old, and she’s the only one who I trusted enough to tell her about the check. I didn’t even tell her anything until after half the money was spent and Momma 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 Wild House. Whatever the hell that is.”
<
br />   “But I didn’t even know this was a debt. Don’t they have the obligation to tell me? Shouldn’t I sign 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,” she 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 had to go. I owed a debt, and if there was some reasonable and honest way that I could pay it back, then I owed it to them to try.

  Chapter 6 - Brielle

  Two weeks later

  Within a week of receiving the letter, I quit my job at the café. I had worked there for many years, and I promised to come back, but I couldn’t leave them hanging, I didn’t know how long I would be away.

  Before I quit my job, I called Wild House and spoke to Mr. Francis Whitewater, who came off quite polite and well spoken. He said that my duties at the Wild 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.