I checked my cell phone, too, then asked him where the bathroom was.
“Out the door, to the right, at the end of the hallway,” he said, while texting.
I exited the room and made my way down the hallway, past what appeared to be a dedicated screening room. A ridiculously large TV screen took up an entire wall, and a sectional leather couch stretched forever across the room.
Then I passed a door that was shut—except for a slight opening. If that door had been shut all the way, everything that followed would’ve never happened. My life would probably still have changed in some way, but not in the drastic way it did. It’s still hard for me to believe that everything that followed started with a door that was left slightly ajar.
I glanced at the tiny sliver of an opening and saw Ben Kingsley placing a brick of cash into a wall safe, where other bricks of cash were already resting peacefully.
My curiosity was piqued.
I hesitated in the hallway, watching Ben pull out more bricks of cash from an expensive leather satchel and place them into the safe. But I didn’t linger, for I understood I was watching something I shouldn’t be privy to. I quickly continued down the hallway and stepped into the bathroom.
For the rest of the tutoring session, it was hard for me to concentrate on anything but the source of those bricks of cash. It was clear that if Ben was an investor, he wasn’t an investor in any typical definition of the word. It was more likely that the “investor” label was a cover story. The only thing I knew for certain was that Ben made a lot of money, and it came in droves.
And it was probably illegal. Why else would he have all that money in cash?
Of course, there were different degrees of illegality. Ben could have been skimming money off the top of a legal business that dealt in cash, like a restaurant or grocery store or liquor store. But that would be a lot of skimming. So much so that I had to believe the cash came from another source.
And whatever source that was, I wanted to know if it was a line of work I could get into.
Sure, this was a ridiculous notion, fueled by desperation. But I needed a way to cover my family’s expenses. And I needed to cover Jake’s college tuition next year, and Hannah’s the year after that. And what if we were hit with a huge, unexpected expense—like a medical emergency?
I had let COBRA lapse this month because it was just too damn expensive, so we no longer had health insurance. There was the possibility of getting onto a Covered California plan, but so far, I hadn’t been able find a plan with an affordable premium. Going without health insurance was the biggest risk I’d ever taken, but I couldn’t keep going into more debt.
Maybe it took that risk to lay the groundwork for the next risk, a much bolder gamble, one I didn’t see coming that night. Or maybe it was the drive home that planted the seed for that gamble—for the lights of the Valley, the dazzle of the ephemeral California dream, were particularly bright on my ride home.
Or maybe it was just the down and dirty, but very tangible, image of those bricks of cash taking root.
JENNY
CHAPTER FIVE
Eddie would be happy that I had finally taken the time to see a doctor, but he wouldn’t be happy that I had waited until we were uninsured. As I stood in line behind two patients, I glanced around the waiting room, wondering how many other patients were paying for their visit out-of-pocket. My guess was not too many. I’d be the only one paying with a credit card.
But I had no choice.
The fatigue had gotten worse over the last month. Much worse. And it had been getting worse before that, but I’d been in denial, blaming it on my freelance gigs. I’d started working again, because we needed the money. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to land a full-time gig on a TV show, so I was cobbling together day jobs here and there.
On a day job, you were the low man on the totem pole—far from a department head—and you therefore had to do a lot of heavy lifting, both literally and figuratively. I told myself that the overwhelming fatigue that hit me at the ends of those days was due to my age. I no longer had the strength and stamina of my thirties. But this month I hadn’t had any freelance gigs, and yet the fatigue was worse than ever—bad enough to finally drive me to the doctor’s office.
The receptionist called me up to the counter and asked for my insurance card.
“I’m not covered by Blue Cross anymore,” I said. “And my new insurance won’t kick in for another three months.” I lied because I was ashamed of being uninsured.
“So you’re paying for the appointment yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Let me check on the fee.” The receptionist typed something, studied her computer monitor, then typed some more.
Again I glanced at the waiting patients. How many had picked up that I was uninsured? What do I care? I thought. But I cared. I cared so much that I had a plan to fix the problem, a plan to get Eddie and me out of our financial tailspin.
The receptionist looked up from her monitor. “It’s going to be a hundred eighty-three,” she said.
I took my MasterCard from my purse—the only card that wasn’t maxed out for the month—and handed it to her. She ran it through the reader, and as we both waited for the charge to be approved, I had a pang of doubt. Had Eddie used the MasterCard and maxed it out?
Twenty seconds later, to my relief, the card reader clicked and began printing out the receipt. The receptionist grabbed it and put it on the counter. “Please sign here. The nurse will call your name.”
I signed the receipt, adding a little more debt to our growing pile, then took a seat and began to regret my decision to visit the doctor. I was feeling guilty about throwing away almost two hundred dollars. Once you hit your late forties, your stamina decreases, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Going to a doctor wasn’t going to help.
The best solution was to follow the advice that I’d been giving Eddie for the last seven years. I needed to retrench and find a new career, and that was exactly my plan. But unlike Eddie, I didn’t need to retrench because there was no longer work in my chosen profession. I needed to retrench because I’d gotten too old for the physical demands of my job. It was a young man’s—or woman’s—game. And now there was an even greater incentive to find a new career: going forward, one of us needed a stable job if we were going to get out of our financial tailspin.
Lila, my closest friend and former cohort in production, had long ago retrenched. She’d smoothly transitioned into a new career, one more suited to her age—my age. Six years ago, she’d started taking accounting classes at Pierce College. After finishing up her course work, she’d immediately taken on any production accounting jobs that came her way, regardless of the company, or the pay, or the work hours. Now, six years later, she was working in Disney’s accounting department. She had a new career at forty-four, with benefits, holidays off, and security. A great career. She liked working at Disney.
That’s what Eddie should’ve done seven years ago. Not the accounting part, but the retrenching part. He could have easily transitioned into a new career. But now he seemed lost. He wasn’t sure how to retrench, and he worried that it was too late.
Maybe some people had to hit rock bottom in their careers to make a change. But I certainly didn’t want that for Eddie—or for myself. And that was why I was going to take the initiative. By preparing myself now, I’d have a new career in a few years.
But I had yet to tell Eddie about my plan, because I didn’t want him to think I didn’t believe in him. He was already feeling bad about his prospects, and if I told him I was making my own move, he’d feel even worse.
Still, I was going to move forward. I was going to follow in Lila’s footsteps. And not just in general, but specifically. I was going to move into production accounting. But unlike Lila, who’d taken only one or two classes at a time, I’d enroll in as many classes as I could to expedite the transition. I’d also use my TV production contacts to see if I could land work as an acco
unting trainee or assistant. I’d already called Lila, and she was more than happy to help me get started.
The door to the inner chamber of the medical office swung open, and a nurse stepped out. She looked up from a manila folder. “Jenny,” she said. “Jenny Hart.”
I got up and headed toward her—toward a destiny completely different than the one I’d just laid out. The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
*
The doctor examined me, then read me questions from a form. This was the new protocol: doctors no longer chatted with you, working in their questions as they saw fit; instead, they stepped methodically through a prepared form. I’d read this approach led to far better diagnoses, but I didn’t like it.
After he finished with his questions, I asked him mine. His answers were vague, as if he didn’t want to commit to a diagnosis. But I could hear the concern in his voice. He said there could be a number of causes for my fatigue, and we’d find out more after a blood test and a urine test.
At least he didn’t send me to some specialist, I thought. That would’ve surely meant something was wrong.
Three days later, he sent me to a specialist.
A nurse from his office called and told me that my blood tests showed unusual levels of a certain kind of protein. The doctor wanted me to schedule an appointment with an internist. He’d already sent over the referral authorization.
When I asked the nurse what the unusual levels of this protein meant, she said the doctor could answer my questions and that she’d leave a message for him.
“When can he call me back?” I asked, trying not to sound too anxious.
“He usually tries to make his calls around lunchtime.”
That was two hours away. So after I scheduled the appointment with the internist—for next week, which was the earliest available appointment, even though I wanted to get in there this afternoon—I scoured the Internet looking for answers.
That turned out to be a big mistake.
I kept finding the same two words associated with unusual levels of the protein: “tumor marker.” This didn’t mean I definitely had cancer, but I couldn’t deny that bad news—terrible news—might be just around the corner.
It was hard to breathe while I waited for the doctor to call. I felt lightheaded, as if I’d stepped into another world—a world that revolved around a dreadful fate, one I hoped could somehow be avoided, but feared couldn’t. My body trembled.
I needed to tell Eddie, didn’t I? Normally, in times of crisis, that would have been my first call. But I didn’t want to worry him until the bad news was confirmed.
Or was it that I didn’t want to call him because it would make the bad news even more real?
Two hours passed, and the doctor didn’t call. He didn’t call after four hours passed either. So as five o’clock approached—seven hours after the nurse had called—I called his office and demanded to speak to him. The receptionist said she’d see what she could do, then put me on hold.
Three minutes later, the doctor came on the line. That alone—the fact that he’d acceded to my demand—was already proof the news was awful.
I pressed him with questions, asking him directly, twice, “Do I have cancer?”
Each time I asked, he gave me the same answer. “The blood test isn’t definitive.” Then he patiently explained that I’d be undergoing tests specifically designed to make that call. His patience was just more proof that my situation was grave.
*
An hour later, when Eddie came home, I was absentmindedly making a sandwich, purposely trying to keep my mind blank. I didn’t want to think about what lay ahead.
Eddie stepped into the kitchen, and I asked him, “How was it?” He’d been attending a networking function for professionals looking to make career changes.
“It was basically a bunch of people like me,” he said. “Over-the-hill ninety-nine percenters, telling war stories about their dead-end job searches.”
“Can you make it sound any more depressing?”
He chuckled. “I bet I could if I tried.”
“Did you grab a bite to eat?” I asked.
“Nah.”
“I didn’t make dinner because Hannah went to In-N-Out with Camilla after practice, and Jake is eating at Sam’s.” And because I’ve been in a panic all day. “Do you want me to make you a sandwich?”
“Thanks. That would be great.” He sat down at the kitchen table and pulled his laptop from his shoulder bag.
“What time are your sessions tonight?” I asked.
“Eight and ten. I probably won’t be home until midnight.”
That meant I should tell him now. Tell him about the proteins running wild in my bloodstream. Tell him before he came home exhausted. But I hadn’t even told him I’d finally gone to a doctor. How long had he been bugging me to go?
I should’ve gone while we were still insured.
Now, nothing would be covered. Not the specialist. Not the next round of tests. Not the treatments. And not the surgery, should that become part of this nightmare, too.
“Are you okay, honey?” he asked. He was staring at me from the table. I had finished making my sandwich and was just standing there, hovering over it.
“I’m just anxious for Jake,” I said. “He should be hearing from quite a few colleges this week.”
“Batten down the hatches, huh? We’re going to have some major battles.”
“I know—I’m not looking forward to it,” I said, and I wasn’t. The battles were going to be over costs. Jake was no longer going to be able to pick a college based just on his preferences.
I wasn’t hungry, so I brought my sandwich over to Eddie.
“Isn’t this your sandwich?” he said.
“I’ll make another one. You’re going to have to hit the road in a few minutes, so why don’t you go ahead and eat first?”
“Thanks.”
I began to make another sandwich while Eddie ate his. We talked about how we were going to get Jake to accept our new financial reality. I wanted to talk about the proteins running wild in my bloodstream, but I couldn’t do it.
And I didn’t tell Eddie about the proteins when he came home later that night either. Or the next day. Or the day after that. I somehow managed to talk myself into believing that it’d be better to wait until I was sure of my fate. Why make life prematurely miserable for him, and for Jake and Hannah?
Things turned miserable anyway.
At the end of that week, I went to the mailbox and found an envelope from Northwestern. The envelope wasn’t thin, but it wasn’t thick either. Northwestern was one of Jake’s top choices, if not his first choice. When Jake had first applied to colleges, before Eddie had lost his job, I would have hoped with all my heart that the letter I now held in my hand was an acceptance letter. Jake would be ecstatic. But oh, how things had changed. Was I actually hoping for a rejection letter? Though Jake would be crushed by it, it would mean Eddie and I wouldn’t have to tell him we couldn’t afford Northwestern.
With the envelope on the kitchen table next to my laptop, I finished laying out a schedule of accounting courses I could take at Pasadena City College. Over the last few days, I’d forced myself to focus on my career pivot rather than my upcoming appointment with the internist. The career pivot was another subject I hadn’t yet talked to Eddie about.
I kept glancing at the envelope. I was tempted to open it, so I could prepare for Jake’s reaction. But Jake had long ago demanded that I not touch his mail.
Fifteen minutes later, I heard a car door slam outside and knew it was Jake. Sam always gave him a ride home after the Economics Club meeting.
When Jake walked into the kitchen, his eyes immediately went to the envelope. He knew I always left the mail on the kitchen table, so every day for the last two weeks, his first stop after getting home from school was the table. The stop had already yielded some results. He’d heard from a few schools—but none that he really cared about.
&nb
sp; “Another one,” he said.
“Yep. Northwestern.”
His body tensed for a second, then he grabbed the envelope. His eyes were wide and his lips were pursed with apprehension. He turned the envelope over in his hands.
“What do you think?” he said. “Thick or thin.”
“Hard to tell, sweetheart.” I suddenly realized that I did hope, with all my heart, that he’d gotten in.
He slowly tore open the envelope, then pulled out the letter and unfolded it—a fraction of a second later, he yelled, “I’m in!”
I leapt up and hugged him.
“Hell, yes!” he said. “I’m going to Northwestern!”
“Congratulations—and don’t curse.”
He pulled out his iPhone and began to text, spreading the news. He must’ve fired off at least five texts before I spoke up.
“Jake—remember. We need to see what kind of financial aid package they’re going to offer.”
“I’m going to Northwestern,” he said, as he texted away. “Unless I get into Columbia or Berkeley. And even if I get into those, I’m pretty sure I’m going to Northwestern.”
“Honey, we need to talk about it as a family after we hear from all the schools.”
“You can talk about it all you want, but count me out. This changes everything. I’m going to Northwestern.”
“You’re not listening. You still have half a dozen schools to hear from, and you can’t just reject UCSD—it’s a good school.” He’d been accepted to UCSD a few weeks ago.
“Yes, I can. You’re the one who’s not listening. I’m rejecting UCSD—got it?”
“Don’t raise your voice. We’re having a discussion. We have to take cost into account.”
“You already told me that—a million times. But that was before I got into Northwestern. And Northwestern is where I’m going.”
“We’re all going to talk about it.”
“You know what? You’re a damn liar. What happened to ‘We’ll figure out a way to pay for any school I want to go to’? Remember that?”
“I remember—but that was before your dad lost his job.”
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