Eddie leapt off the couch and headed toward me. “What’s wrong, honey?” he asked again.
I shook my head and continued to wipe away the tears. But they kept coming. Why the hell was I crying? How the hell was that going to help?
Eddie hugged me. “I’m sorry it’s been so rough,” he said.
“That’s okay.” My voice was shaky.
“It’s not okay—I lied to you,” he said. “There isn’t a sales job in Playa del Rey. I guess I can’t get it through my thick skull that I have to come up with a new game plan. Applying for jobs isn’t enough. It’s not working.”
“I—” That was all I managed to say before my throat constricted.
“I’m so sorry I lied to you,” he said.
“Th-that’s okay. Y-you had to. I cornered you.”
“You’d think the way some of those kids I tutor look at me, like I’m the world’s biggest loser, would be plenty of motivation for me to find a way out of this. I have to regroup and—”
“I—I have cancer,” I blurted out. “Pancreatic cancer.”
Eddie’s face went pale, and his upper lip quivered. He hugged me again and didn’t say anything for a minute or so.
Then he whispered in my ear. “Honey… I’m so sorry.”
“It’s bad,” I said.
He kissed my cheek gently. “We’ll survive. I promise.”
I buried my head in his shoulder. “I was in a d-daze when the doctor went through my diagnosis.” My voice was muffled by the soft cotton of his shirt. “I think I have two years to—” My words caught in my throat.
He hugged me more tightly, and neither of us said anything for a while. Finally, with my head still buried in his shoulder, I managed to go on.
“It’s my fault. I made it worse,” I said. “If I’d gone to the doctor when you asked me to, they would’ve caught it sooner.”
“It’s not your fault. How could you have known?”
“It’s my fault that we won’t have the money to pay for this. If I’d gone while we were insured, at least that would be taken care of.”
“We’ll find a way to pay for this. Don’t worry.”
I suddenly pulled away from him. What was wrong with him? He was the one living in a fantasy world. Not me.
“It’s going to cost us hundreds of thousands of dollars without insurance!” I said. “Don’t you get that? You know about those families who lose everything because of a ‘catastrophic medical issue’?” I used air quotes. “We’re going to be joining them. That’s the most horrible part of all this. You and Hannah and Jake will get over my death—I know you will—but you won’t have anything left. And that’ll be my fault. Can’t you see that?”
He was about to respond, but I ran out of the room first. I didn’t want to talk to him anymore. I was mad at myself and at him. He should’ve landed a job already. We should’ve had health insurance by now. Why wasn’t he being realistic? Couldn’t he see we weren’t going to make it?
I ran into the bedroom and closed the door behind me. Why hadn’t I gotten a full-time job? I had my own career—a good one. I could take care of myself, and Eddie, and my family. Was that the real source of my anger? That I hadn’t done my part?
Or was I angry because life had dealt me a cruel blow?
EDDIE
CHAPTER EIGHT
Over the next couple of days, whenever Jenny and I spoke about our new crisis, we kept our voices down. Neither of us was ready to break the news to Jake and Hannah, and I couldn’t help but think that we were all starting to keep secrets from each other.
Of course, I had been the one to start this trend. I was the one who’d waited more than a month to tell my wife I’d been fired. It was only after that transgression that she had followed suit and hidden her doctor’s appointments and subsequent bad news from me. But I thought I understood why she had chosen to do so. She didn’t want to acknowledge that more terrible news was just around the corner.
Now, with everything out on the table, I wanted to be by her side during every minute of her ordeal. Because it was our ordeal. And that meant I wanted her to go back to the internist, this time with me. But she didn’t want to spend the money on another appointment, not for just a consultation. She wanted to move on to the oncologist, the surgeon, and the other specialists. They were next on the agenda, regardless of what the internist had to say.
But after a little cajoling, she conceded. She trusted the internist, and she agreed that hearing him lay out the options again would help us make better decisions down the line. Both of us understood that reading about pancreatic cancer on the Internet, without being able to ask the internist questions, would only make this crisis worse.
*
The internist laid out the options. He was patient and easy to talk to. And when it came to the cost of the treatments, Jenny had been right. It was going to cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, and could easily pass the million-dollar mark, especially if we got “lucky”—meaning the tumor shrank enough to allow for surgery.
The doctor knew we weren’t insured, so he suggested some clinics that could help out with consultations and some of the treatments. But he was cautious with this advice, and it was easy to read between the lines. He was saying that we might not yet be poor enough to go to these clinics. We were caught in the middle. Even though we were broke, we would have to lose our assets, too, before qualifying for help from the clinics.
In the car, on the way home, Jenny threw out an idea. “I’m going to call Lila and beg her to find me a job at Disney. I won’t tell her what’s going on, and we’ll hide that I’m sick until I get insurance.”
I glanced at her. That was crazy talk. Which wasn’t like her at all. She was never irrational. She had to know that hiding her diagnosis was an implausible plan, and we both knew there were very few staff jobs in the art departments of the major studios. Ninety-five percent of prop masters were freelancers.
I gave her a minute to realize her plan was absurd, then spoke up. “I’m the one who needs to get a job right now. With insurance and no waiting period.” That was the only solution.
But I had no idea if we could actually get insurance now that she’d already been diagnosed. Obamacare was supposed to have outlawed the practice of denying insurance coverage due to a pre-existing condition, but I’d read that insurance companies had found loopholes in the law that allowed them to continue this practice.
Neither of us said anything as I drove past the familiar sites on Riverside Drive: Bob’s Big Boy, Trader Joe’s, the quaint little post office. I loved walking this stretch of Riverside in the evening—perfect for pedestrians out on a casual stroll—but my heart sank when I thought about walking it alone, without Jenny.
She turned to me, and I could feel her eyes on me before she spoke. “What if I don’t do anything?” she said.
“You mean no treatments?” Of course that’s what she meant, but I asked out of surprise.
“Yes.”
“Is that what you want?”
She didn’t answer. I looked over at her and met her eyes. They were gloomy eyes, swimming in confusion. She turned away.
“I don’t know,” she said. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know either—but I promise I’ll get a job. One that doesn’t have a waiting period for insurance. I don’t want money to be part of the decision.”
She smiled, but it was a sad, downturned smile.
*
I drove up Beverly Glen toward Ben Kingsley’s house. It had been a long time since I’d used Mulholland to get to my tutoring sessions up this way. I’d been avoiding taking the celebrated road because I no longer enjoyed sneaking peeks at the glittering lights of the Valley below. The view was no longer a leave-all-your-troubles-behind kind of view. The long dazzling boulevards now looked like dead ends.
On the Bel Air side of Beverly Glen, I turned into the familiar development of McMansions. When I pulled up to the Kingsley house, I noticed a new car in the driveway—a Te
sla. Need I say more? Ben clearly had way more money than he knew what to do with. The guy already had a Mercedes SUV and a BMW.
Mason greeted me at the door and led me into the den. Over the last few weeks, his writing had turned the corner. All his hard work had paid off, and I was impressed. Not only because of his improvement, but also because the kid was incredibly motivated, even though he came from a privileged background. He was hard on himself and would never take the easy way out.
In the den, Mason pulled out his iPhone and shut it off. I noticed that, like the Telsa, it was brand new.
“New toy?” I said.
“Yeah—my dad got it for me for getting an ‘A’ on that Cold War history paper.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “I guess you deserve part of it, huh?”
“It was all you, Mason.” In this case, with this kid, it really was. But I did wonder if I should ask his dad for a bonus. Obviously his dad could afford it. But a bonus wasn’t even a drop in the bucket when it came to what I needed. What I needed was the job his dad had.
But exactly what is that job? I thought. And right then, I decided that I’d find out. Tonight.
“Your dad hasn’t been around much lately,” I said.
“He works a lot,” Mason responded.
“He likes to burn the midnight oil, huh?”
“I guess. But he’s home tonight.”
“Oh.”
We both sat down at the desk.
“So, what’s your dad invest in?” I said, trying to sound casual.
“Something to do with agriculture.”
I pulled out my workhorse laptop, and Mason pulled out an English essay from his folder.
“Does he work for himself or for some kind of hedge fund?” I hoped this wasn’t beginning to sound like an interrogation.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
I glanced at Mason. His eyes had narrowed—it was clear that I’d entered the interrogation zone.
“No big deal,” I said, shrugging.
“You sure? Because it sounds like you’re fishing for information.”
“Don’t worry about it. Really. I was just rambling.”
“Okay.” He relaxed. “It’s just that my dad is secretive about his job. That’s the thing. He doesn’t tell me or my mom much about it.”
So that’s why the kid had quickly become defensive. Still, even though he hadn’t wanted to answer questions about his dad’s job, he’d used the word “secretive” to describe it. That, for me, was a further call to action. Tonight, I’d talk to Ben himself, and find out what he did for a living.
Of course, my call to action was really fueled by Jenny’s diagnosis, but I didn’t want to think about that. It was too painful.
When the tutoring session ended, Mason led me through the house toward the front door as he usually did. But tonight, I was on the lookout for Ben the entire time. I didn’t see him in the hallway, or in the living room, or in the dining room.
So at the front door, before heading out, I stopped and turned to Mason. “Can you get your dad for me?” I said. “I want to ask him about adjusting our schedule.” But as soon as those words were out of my mouth, I realized I’d been stupid. First of all, wasn’t Mason the one to talk to about his schedule? And second, wouldn’t he figure out that the reason I wanted to talk to his dad was to continue my interrogation?
But Mason simply responded with: “Hang on. I’ll get him.”
I waited in the foyer, and thirty seconds later Ben ambled in. “Good to see you again,” he said. “You’re doing a terrific job with Mason.”
“Thanks. But Mason’s the one doing the terrific job.”
“You gave him the confidence. He didn’t think he was a good writer before you started tutoring him. I hope this change in schedule doesn’t mean we’re losing you.”
“I don’t know exactly. Not yet anyway.” I hadn’t come up with a way to work in the only question I wanted to ask him. So I decided to play along with my change-in-schedule lie, hoping it’d take me where I wanted to go. “I’m taking on a freelance editing job, and that means I have to cut back on the tutoring.”
“Well, I hope you can still squeeze Mason in.”
“That depends on his schedule. Can you email me all the times he’s free and what works with Diane’s schedule and yours?”
“Sure. I’ll get that together and get it over to you ASAP.” He moved toward the front door, ready to open it for me.
“Great,” I said, and turned to the door. I was scrambling to come up with something to keep the conversation going and to get me closer to uncovering the source of those bricks of cash. “I wish I didn’t have to take on this second job,” I said, “but my son is starting college next year and that’s going to put a big hurt on the old wallet.”
“College tuition is out of hand,” Ben said, and opened the front door.
You’ll be able to pay for college a hundred times over, I thought. But that’s not what I said. Instead, I went with, “You’re not kidding, and I’m not even sure this new job is going to help.”
“I hope it does,” he responded. He was waiting for me to mosey on out.
I took a step toward the open door, and then let a Hail Mary fly. “By the way, what do you do for a living?” I asked. Then, to soften the brusqueness of the question, I quickly added, “I’m definitely in the market for suggestions.”
“I’m an investor,” he answered.
That wasn’t going to cut it. I turned back from the open door. “That’s right—I forgot,” I said. “Mason told me. What do you invest in?”
“It depends. Mostly agricultural products.”
“You mean you’re a commodities trader?” Maybe this was why Mason knew the term “commodity.”
“Something like that,” he responded.
I was going to have to press him if I wanted answers. And pressing him would probably cost me the tutoring job. But what did that matter? Tutoring Mason wasn’t going to pay the staggering medical bills headed my way.
“Something like what?” I said.
Ben’s face went taut. He moved closer to the door, as if ushering me out. “Something like commodities trading, but it’s more specialized,” he said.
I didn’t make a move to exit. “How is it specialized?”
“It involves all sorts of esoteric analysis.”
“Like derivatives trading?”
“It’s more complicated than that. Sometimes I barely understand it myself.” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. It was forced.
“You’re saying I wouldn’t understand it?” I said.
“You seem awfully curious about it. But I really don’t have the time to explain it all right now. Maybe we can talk about it some other time.”
But it was more than obvious that he didn’t want to talk about it some other time. The man didn’t want to talk about it at all. Ever.
“I’m sure you can sum it up for me,” I said. “Just so I have a general idea.”
“Listen—I know what you’re getting at. You’re looking for a potential job.” He shook his head, then flashed a grin. “But believe me, what I do isn’t the type of job you can just jump into.”
“Maybe if you fill me in, I can decide for myself.”
Ben’s grin disappeared and his eyes turned hard. “You think if you had my job you’d be better off—financially. Well, maybe you would, or maybe you wouldn’t, but the grass isn’t always greener. And take my word for it, that’s the bottom line here.” He started to close the door, even though I was still in the doorway. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’ve got some phone calls to make.”
If I didn’t want to get hit by the door, I had no choice but to step out onto the stoop. So that’s what I did. And that’s when he delivered the grand finale.
“You know what?” he said. “I think Mason is doing pretty well. Why don’t we take a break from the tutoring?”
And with that, he shut the door in my face.
>
I walked to my car, slid in, then stared at Ben’s house before pulling away. The McMansion held a secret. The secret of what Ben did for a living. And I was determined to uncover that secret. I was determined to uncover the source of those bricks of cash.
For the sake of my family, that was my mission.
CHAPTER NINE
Because of my career as a reporter, I had strong investigative skills. But using them for what I had to do next ran counter to my character. I had never used those skills to move into morally shady territory.
That was about to change.
My plan was to learn everything I could about Ben. Or, in crasser terms, to snoop on him, to tail him, and to leave no stone unturned.
I was motivated to get started right away. Jenny had decided to begin chemo treatments, and the result of her first treatment made it perfectly clear that getting on with my mission was the only thing I could do to help her.
We’d both made the decision to go with chemo. The expense worried us, but we wanted to see if the chemo could stop the cancer from spreading. When we dug in and looked at the numbers behind the studies, we both knew we were hoping for a miracle. But a miracle was our only option.
The first chemo infusion left Jenny weak and sick. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so bad for another human being. And what made that feeling worse, what moved my soul to tears, was that this was the woman I loved with all my heart. Watching her suffer, without being able to help her, was heart-wrenching.
And it was this crushing sorrow that reinforced what I had to do. For there was only one thing I could do for her: give her peace of mind.
Give her security.
So as soon as she’d recovered from her first chemo infusion, I began to implement my plan. Unfortunately, this had to start with a lie.
After what had been a good day for her, we were both in bed reading, before hitting the hay. She was perusing a book about cancer treatments. She’d discovered that books about treatments were far better than scouring the Internet for information. With books, you didn’t suddenly find yourself down a rabbit hole, where fact and conjecture were mixed together, offering either unsubstantiated hope or unsubstantiated doom.
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