“Is your uncle okay with this?” she asked with skepticism.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine.” And after I talked to him about it, convincing him it was only for a little while, he agreed.
But Cynthia was on to me, and one day she invited me to have lunch with her. “Are you in over your head, Hannah?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean financially. It’s not that unusual. Lots of girls get caught up in the spending game, running up credit cards until it looks like they’ll never catch up. I even fell into that trap myself when I was in my twenties.”
“Really?” Now, this took me by surprise. Cynthia seems like such a sensible person, so grounded and even-keeled.
She sighed heavily, almost as if she didn’t want to remember. “I’d just gotten out of college. I had my first real job, and all the women there dressed so nicely that I felt really out of place. I got my first credit card so I could buy a few things to help me fit in.” She shook her head. “And then I got another credit card, and before long I had several and they were all maxed out.”
“Right,” I said, not liking where this was going.
“But I was in some kind of denial. I thought that I’d be able to get them all paid off before long. But between paying for rent and utilities and my car and everything else, I could never make more than the minimum payment, and the bills just kept getting bigger and bigger.”
“So what did you do?” I’m sure my voice sounded as flat and hopeless as I felt.
“I had to get a financial counselor. She put me on a really strict budget and taught me how to cut corners and put more money toward my monthly payments. It took about seven years, but I finally got out from under it.”
Seven years? No way! Seven years sounded like a lifetime or a prison sentence. But I thanked her for sharing her story and pretended to have been encouraged by it, though I actually wanted to be sick right there in the little café.
But her story has helped motivate me to stick to my get-out-of-debt plan. Oh, sure, I may be drained from my long days in the dreary office. I get up before dawn, get off work at five, and drive home during rush hour, which makes my commute even longer. I eat a bit of dinner and fall into bed exhausted. I don’t even swim in the pool anymore. And my tan has faded to a sallow gray. I haven’t surfed in a fortnight. I feel like an indentured servant. We learned about them in Australian history — impoverished people who sold themselves for a period of time to pay off their family’s debts, just a step above a slave. Only these debts are my own.
These feelings are driven home even more soundly as I observe Vanessa and her friends still running around, enjoying their leisure time, going to parties, dating their boyfriends, and shopping, shopping, shopping. I try not to watch.
I never did tell Vanessa what her mates said about her that night at the party. Somehow it didn’t seem my place. And strangely enough they have all treated her exactly the same as before, maybe even better. She seems happier than ever being with girls like Elisa and Felicia. I suspect they got worried about their social faux pas and are relieved that I’ve not only kept my mouth shut but pulled off a remarkable disappearing act to boot.
Wyatt called a couple of times during the weekend following the party, leaving rather ambiguous messages on my cell phone, mostly wanting to know if I wanted to go surfing. But nothing specific and no apologies. I never called him back. Why should I?
It was only a matter of days before he and Felicia were back together again anyway. Big surprise there. Vanessa was right: Felicia gets what Felicia wants. For that matter, maybe Wyatt does too. A broke bloke like him needs someone with deep pockets. Not only that, but he has a private beach to surf on and sailing trips on the weekends too. He must think he’s in surfer-dude heaven.
Jessie called a couple of times, leaving messages that I likewise ignored. But then I began to feel guilty. After all, Jessie isn’t like the others. So after a couple of days, I called her back but only got her messaging service. I simply told her that I’m working long days for a while and that I’d let her know when life returned to normal. Normal? What is that? Normal here in the States seems to involve a lifestyle I can’t keep up with. Even though I was tired last night, I stayed up long enough to watch one of Vanessa’s favorite shows, What Not to Wear. I found myself, not for the first time, wishing that I was the lucky victim they picked to be on their show. But if it were me and they handed me that Visa card worth $5,000, I would just run. I’d take it to the bank and use it to pay off all my debt. Of course, that would be breaking “the rules.” But as I watched this woman spend her five grand on not that many items of clothing, I had to wonder, How is she going to keep this up when she goes home? Is she going to get her own Visa card and max it out? And then what? What is wrong with this picture?
“Want to go to the big sale at Macy’s today?” Laticia asked me a few days ago.
“No thanks.” I produced the fake smile that comes more and more easily.
And then yesterday, “There’s a one-day sale today,” Carlita told me enticingly. “All their summer things are on clearance — even designer clothes.”
“No thanks.” Again with the smile.
I don’t try to explain my refusal to do anything with anyone. It’s just easier this way. And, I assure myself, this is only a temporary situation. Still, I’m not so sure. I feel like I’ve been locked away in debtor’s prison. Of course, it’s my own creation. Still, I worry I might lose the keys. Perhaps I’ve already lost them.
Finally it’s the weekend after my second payday, and I almost feel as if I can breathe again. I’m not sure if the nightmares will go away yet, the ones where I am thrown into jail for unpaid bills or sold as a slave to pay off my debts. There’s also one where I’m at a fancy party wearing my fancy clothes, and the other girls start tearing them off me, piece by piece, saying, “You never paid for those things; they don’t belong to you.” And then I am standing there naked and humiliated while everyone looks on and laughs.
Maybe I need therapy. Yanks are big on therapy.
But maybe the dreams will lighten up a bit now. I can only hope. The first thing I did after depositing my check in the bank was go straight to Macy’s, where I paid off nearly half of what I owe that store. Then I wrote a check to my uncle, which means I’ve paid off half of what I owe him as well. And I still have a bit left to tide me over until my next paycheck. Even so, I keep reminding myself that I must continue to live like a church mouse or, even better, a missionary! We missionaries know how to be frugal. My mum reminded me of that during her last phone call.
“We’ve been camping out,” she told me.
“Camping out?”
“Yes, we got a mattress that just fits in the back of the station wagon. And we’ve had a great time visiting some state parks. Your dad bought a little charcoal barbie, and we’ve had some lovely meals. And think of the money we’ve saved!”
“Sounds like fun,” I said in a voice that sounded unconvincing.
“Well, it’s nothing like the luxuries you’re enjoying with our rich relatives, but it’s good enough for Dad and me. We’re used to roughing it.”
“I know, Mum.” And as I reconsidered my initial reaction, I decided that camping in the back of a car with no worries and no bills could actually be more fun than the way I’m living now. But I didn’t say this. I didn’t say anything to clue my mum off to the kind of financial difficulties I’ve gotten myself into. I knew my practical mum would never understand such incredible stupidity.
“Now, don’t you get too spoiled there,” my mum warned. “We don’t want you to be impossible to live with when we pick you up at the end of August.”
“No worries,” I assured her. If only she knew. But thank goodness she doesn’t.
“Don’t you want to go shopping with me today?” begs Vanessa when she discovers me out by the pool trying to revive a bit of my faded tan.
“No thanks.” I give her my standard reply without even
opening my eyes.
“You are absolutely no fun, Hannah.” She flops down in the chaise beside me with a loud harrumph. “ It’s been two weeks since this business with Wyatt. You can’t possibly be — ”
“It’s not about Wyatt.” I sit up and consider leaping into the pool. It would be the first time I’ve gone swimming in a fortnight.
“Then what is it about?” She turns on her side and studies me with interest.
Now I consider telling her my woes. So far I’ve kept my humiliating financial secrets to myself, but maybe I owe Vanessa an explanation. And so I tell her the short version of what I’ve gone through.
“Is that all?” she says, actually laughing.
I don’t know what I expected, but certainly not such casual nonchalance or dismissal. A bit of sympathy would’ve been nice, or even a speck of respect. “Sorry, but it’s been a pretty big thing to me,” I say defensively. “The reason I took that job was to put aside some money for uni. But all I did was go deeper and deeper into debt. It was making me crazy. I’m only just starting to feel a bit of relief now, and I’m only halfway out. But I’m also totally wrecked from all the work.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, Dad has been getting on me about my credit card bills. He’s actually putting me on a budget.”
“Truly?” I attempt a sympathetic expression.
She frowns. “Yes, and it’s not fair. All my friends spend way more money than I do. How can I possibly keep up?”
I sigh. “This whole keeping up bit is ludicrous, crazy, ridiculous!”
She nods sadly, almost as if the reality of that is sinking in. “Yeah, I sort of agree with you.”
“Then why don’t you stop?”
“Because I can’t, Hannah.” Now she smiles, a bit slyly it seems. “Or maybe I don’t want to.”
“But you admitted it was crazy — ”
“A good kind of crazy.” Now she lowers her voice as if making a true confession. “You know what, Hannah? I think I may be a shopping addict. I saw a special on Oprah once. All these women were on who have closets full of things they never use, lots with tags still on or still in the bags — people who just spend and spend and spend, spendaholics, shopping addicts, whatever you want to call them. But I’m not alone. I think my friends are addicted to shopping too. I think we all are.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve come close, Hannah. I saw the look in your eyes that day we got the Iceberg outfit. You were so happy.”
“I was not happy.” I consider this, wanting to be honest and yet not sure that I even know how to explain it. “It was another feeling . . . it’s hard to explain. But I was not happy.”
“Whatever. You were having a good time.”
“But it was a false sense of a good time, Vanessa. Like if you take a drug to feel good, but then it wears off, and you feel worse than ever. The shopping high went away too, and then I got stuck with the bill. And after that I got depressed.” I don’t tell her that I’m still depressed and may continue being depressed forever since it seems this dark cloud may never go away.
She doesn’t say anything, and I’m wondering if maybe she really does know how I feel. Maybe she’s experiencing some of these same feelings too. I heard Aunt Lori once use the term “buyer’s remorse.” Is it possible that I’m not alone here?
“You know, Vanessa, if I could take all those expensive clothes and shoes and everything back, I would,” I continue. “I only wore that Iceberg outfit once. I don’t ever want to wear it again. I don’t even want to look at it. I want to chunder every time I see it because it reminds me of how stupid I was.”
“That’s silly, Hannah. You looked fantastic in that — ” But she is interrupted by her phone ringing. She answers quickly to escape this conversation, I suspect. And I can tell by her answer that it’s Elisa (the “friend” who took on Vanessa as her “project”), and it sounds as if they’re going to go . . . shopping.
“Sure you don’t want to come?” asks Vanessa with her sweetest smile. “I promise I won’t pressure you to buy anything.”
“Better to avoid the temptation altogether,” I say.
“But Mom’s going to bug me about leaving you home all by yourself again.”
“Maybe I’ll call Jessie,” I say, thinking I probably won’t. The truth is, I still don’t really want to talk to or see anyone.
“That’s a great idea,” says Vanessa. “You should call Jessie. You and she seemed to hit it off right from the start. And besides, Jessie hates going shopping too.”
“Right.” I stand up and tell her to have fun, then plunge into the pool. I exhale as I go down into the water, allowing myself to sink to the bottom, where I sit for as long as I can hold my breath. It’s so silent and cool down here. So simple and calm. I wish I could stay like this forever. But suddenly my lungs are begging for oxygen, and I am forced to surface.
twenty
“PAY UP!” THE SOUND OF HIS VOICE PUMMELS INSIDE MY CHEST LIKE A bass drum. “Pay up, Hannah Johnson, or suffer forever!”
“I can’t pay,” I sob, hands clenched in front of me. My ankles are bound as I stand knee-deep in ice-cold water that is slimy and brown. Above me I see the tall, black podium where the judge is seated. I am naked and shivering, and I know that my fate is sealed.
The judge’s face twists in rage, and his eyes are fiery red. His spiky black beard trembles as he shakes his golden gavel in the air. “Pay up! Pay up! Or suffer for eternity!”
“I have nothing to pay with,” I confess.
“That’s right!” he yells. “You have nothing! And yet you owe everything. Pay up, Hannah Johnson!”
“Pay up!” echoes the crowd that encircles me. All of them are fully dressed, and their faces are angry as they shake their fists in the air and scream at me. “Pay up or pay the price!”
“I can’t!” I cry again and again. “I can’t! I can’t!”
And then I wake up in a cold sweat, the sheets twisted around me, my face wet with tears, and my heart racing. Just a nightmare, I tell myself as I take a deep breath and look at the clock. It’s four a.m., and I’m wide-awake, the demand to “pay up!” still reverberating through my flustered head.
I get out of bed and pull on a robe, then open the door that leads to the little terrace outside my room. I’m still surprised at how the outside air is warmer than the inside as I sit in the rattan chair, pull my knees up to my chin, and just stare at the dark sky.
I tell myself that the dream is ridiculous, just my worried mind playing tricks on me. Maybe I do need therapy. But there is something about the scene that is eerily familiar too. Something that harkens back to the things I’ve heard over the years. Something spiritual.
But I know that the judge wasn’t God. At least not the God I’ve always known or thought I knew. Although I’m not so sure anymore. I suppose I could have it all backward. I’ve gotten so much else backward since I came to the States. But no, I don’t believe that judge was really God. And I don’t believe that judge was the people I owe money to. Not sweet Uncle Ron or even Mr. Macy, whoever he may be.
And suddenly I know — I know without a doubt — that the cruel and vicious judge in my dream was the devil. Oh, perhaps not for real. But he was a symbol of the devil. And he wanted me to believe that I owed him something. And that I was going to suffer if I didn’t pay. But I know this is ridiculous. Not to mention a big fat lie. And how do I know this? Because I know for a fact — in the same way that I know that the sun brings warmth and the rain fills the seas — that Jesus already paid the debt. I’ve known this for as long as I can remember. It wasn’t his debt that he paid; it was mine. His death bought our forgiveness so that we won’t suffer forever. How many times have I heard this preached?
But I don’t think it’s really hit home until now. It’s a horrible feeling knowing that you’re in over your head. That you’ve bought what you cannot pay for. That you owe more than you’ll ever make. It’s a hopeless, miserable,
overwhelming feeling that makes you want to give up. And that’s just money. What if it was your soul? Your peace? Your eternity?
“Oh, God,” I say aloud — my first real prayer in weeks. “I am so sorry.” I take in a deep breath as I consider the course of my life since leaving New Guinea, the way that I’ve played it fast and loose — both monetarily and spiritually. “I have been such a fool. Such a complete fool.”
Then I get down on my knees and confess to God that I’ve blown it, that I’ve turned my back on him and turned my life into utter chaos. “I am spiritually bankrupt. I owe far more than I can ever pay.” Then I ask God to forgive me. I ask him to take me back, make me part of his family again. And this time I know my heart is in this for real — and not because I’ve been pressured by church or family or the mission school. This time it’s just Hannah Johnson and God — one on one — for the long haul. Somehow I know it. Something in me has changed.
I pray for a long time. So long that my knees are actually numb by the time I stand up. But as I stand, I feel that I’ve been scrubbed clean, that my debts really have been forgiven, and that life in me has been renewed. I lift my hands into the air and thank God, and I know, without a doubt, that life is going to be different from here on out.
Oh, sure, I know that I still have my bills to pay. But I also know that God is going to help me and strengthen me through the next couple of weeks until I’m finally able to break even. And I believe I’m going to do that — by the grace of God, I’m going to do that. And by the grace of God, I believe that I won’t make these same mistakes again.
The sun is coming up now, and I decide that it’s pointless to go back to bed. So I get dressed, go downstairs, and make coffee.
“What’re you doing up this early on a Sunday?” asks Uncle Ron as he comes into the kitchen with newspaper in hand.
“Same to you,” I say with a smile. “Want some coffee?”
He grins. “You and I, we must be related, huh?”
I nod and pour him a cup of coffee. “I reckon.”
Fool's Gold Page 17
