They were a good-looking group, though. Julie was a younger, tanner Katharine Hepburn. She was clearly protective of her son but seemed to appreciate my efforts. Her social skills ran circles around me. I just tried my best, even splurged on a dress that I ironed more carefully than I had ever ironed anything in my life. She showed up in a simple but classy white skirt and blouse. She even wore sandals, on her bare, tan legs. I made a note to myself: looking good doesn’t mean looking fancy. Ted, also casually but impeccably dressed, lived mainly in his twelve-step world. He was warm and intense, and sincere when he took the time.
They were both curious about my elbow incident and concerned when they saw how much trouble I was still having with it. Julie asked, “Who’s your lawyer?” She knew full well I didn’t have one. I guess it was her way of being polite. I told her I didn’t have a lawyer, and asked, “Do you think I need one?”
“Of course, Heidi.” she replied kindly. “I can ask one of ours to give you a call if you like.”
“Thank you,” I said, flattered more by her interest than her offer. “I’ll think about it first, but thank you.”
I mentioned her suggestion to my mom a few weeks later. I was in Maine for my grandfather’s birthday and annual family reunion. “What do you think I should do?” I asked as she carefully examined my tender elbow.
She sighed. “I don’t know anything about lawyers. I just don’t know. Brown should be helping you, seeing as they’ve sent you to these specialists. I don’t know why the school insurance won’t cover it.”
“Small print, Mom. Small print,” I said, tired of the subject.
She shook her head. “We’re simple folk, Heidi. I think it’s up to you now to figure it out. You know, don’t you, that we can’t cover you anymore on our insurance. It’s just too much of an expense, and you’re eighteen now.”
“Yeah, yeah, Mom.” She had reminded me of this several times before.
“Have you registered for fall classes yet?” she asked, changing the subject, intimidated and frustrated by my situation. Who could blame her?
We talked about my upcoming sophomore year. “What will you do for a job?” she asked.
“I’ll probably go back to Pauly and the Avon Theater, and I’ll have my work-study job on campus. I’ll look for another restaurant job as soon as I get back to campus.”
I wanted to think about my classes and how I could arrange them so I had the most free time for working, but I got distracted by cousins and sisters during my visit, wanting to hear about life in the big city. They still thought it was glamorous, and I didn’t want to disapppoint them.
Just before Roger and I left to ride back to Providence, Mom asked, “Brown isn’t everything we hoped for, is it?”
“Mom, don’t worry, it’s fine,” I told her, hugging her good-bye. “It’ll all be fine.”
After a summer of rough neighborhoods and unchallenging work I looked forward to school, if only to get out of Olneyville. As optimistic as I was, deep down my financial worries remained. The cost had risen to $23,350. My mother had tucked an article from the Bangor Daily News into the care package of cookies and postal stamps she gave me as I left. The article quoted a Brown University official proclaiming the school was still “affordable to the middle classes.” I guess my family wasn’t middle-class. I wondered, did I know anyone — besides my fellow Brunonians — who was middle-class?
Back on campus, I was eager to jump into my classes. The prospect of new subjects and new teachers was exciting, and I was getting better at dealing with my money problems. I wouldn’t stress out; I’d work at it slow and steady. I met with Pauly as soon as classes began to schedule my hours at the Avon. He was worried by my arm. The joint was only now beginning to loosen up and the scar was raised and reddish-purple. “Why isn’t this fixed?” he asked, as though I had neglected to try. I explained, listed the doctors and their guesses for him: “Might be a broken bone in there. Those X-rays at Brown were fuzzy.” “Could be bits of the soapdish.” “Might not ever be straight.” “Well, Heidi, the elbow is a very bad place to injure. It may never be right.” As Pauly listened intently, brow growing more furrowed, I told him about the bills and how the university refused to help.
He was upset. That very afternoon he found me a lawyer and called my mother to get things rolling. My mom called me right away. “Your boss Pauly called. He sounds so scary. Are you sure he isn’t mafia?”
“Oh, Mom. No. What would that matter, anyway?”
“Well, your father and I don’t know anything about this lawyer stuff. It sounds like a lot of trouble. You’re on your own for this, Heidi.”
So I called Roger’s parents for advice. They felt I should talk with their lawyer. I did, and after explaining what had happened, Mr. Weeks assured me, “I’ll write a few letters. We’ll get those medical bills covered and before you know it, you’ll be all better!”
I felt guilty using a lawyer to convince Brown to help with the doctor’s fees. It wasn’t logical, but like Mr. Weeks said, “They just need a reminder of their responsibilities.”
I relaxed, confident everything would work out. I saw my doctor again. He was confounded by the injury. “It’s not stuck at ninety degrees, but I don’t see the strength and pain improving. You should have Dr. South look at it. He’ll probably want to order a CT-scan and MRI, to look for ceramic or broken bone. He treats the Boston Red Sox, so you should make an appointment right away, before the baseball season gets rolling.”
I did call right away, but even so, my appointment wasn’t until October. Classes and work kept me busy. I was studying psychology, biology, literature, and art. Three or four afternoons a week I sold shoes, and three or four evenings I worked at the Avon. I had dropped the work-study job; I earned more at the others. Roger and I were living together, on campus but in a private apartment. I resented that he studied all the time and never seemed to notice that I worked all the time. Even with his relatively easy load, he managed to be grumpy more than not. I adjusted, though, and felt happy.
I saw Dr. South, driving an hour to Worcester, Massachusetts, alone in Roger’s truck. He ordered nine hundred dollars’ worth of tests and when I mentioned my lawyer, he grumbled, “Nothing good ever comes from lawyers.”
This worried me; what if he made me pay up front? “What would you suggest I do?” I asked.
“Ah, don’t worry about it, cutie. Lawyers are a necessary evil. Let’s worry about your elbow. I see the physical therapy has only worsened it. Let’s try
In the meantime, Brown ignored my pleas to help with medical bills. What accident? What soapdish? they’d ask in letters to the law office.
I was offended. Mr. Weeks told me, “It’s nothing personal. Brown doesn’t want to admit any responsibility. They’re afraid of it being held against them.”
“But I’m not suing them! I just want help with the bills. I just want to be fair.”
“Brown isn’t going to admit anything unless they’re forced into it. You’re going to have to sue them. You need a Rhode Island attorney.”
“What are my options?”
“None.”
“It doesn’t seem fair!”
“It isn’t. That’s why there are lawyers.”
A few weeks later I received a letter from Tony DeLorenzo, Jr., my new lawyer. With my signature, the lawsuit would be filed. I signed and mailed it back.
What a jerk I am! Suing my own university.
A few days later Mr. DeLorenzo phoned. I brought him up to date on my elbow’s nonexistent progress. He asked, “Where is the broken soapdish?”
“I’m sure it’s long gone. Not only was it reported a dozen times to plant operations by me and four or five other women in the dorm, there must have been fifteen Brown personnel involved in my treatment the day of the injury. And it was a part of the EMT and accident reports.”
“Hmm.” I could barely hear him through the phone.
“I’ll check the bathroom if you want,” I offered.
“Yes. Do that. I’ll touch base with you soon. Thank you.”
“Wait, Mr. DeLorenzo —” I said.
“Please call me Tony.”
“Tony, thanks, what will Brown do when they get your letter?”
“They’ll probably settle. They know everything that happened. It’s all documented. They won’t want the bad publicity. But, Heidi, we never know. A corporation like Brown, with deep pockets, they won’t want to set a damaging precedent.”
“How would it be damaging?”I asked.
Tony explained, “If they settle with you, it makes it easier for other lawsuits to be decided against them.”
“Oh, OK. Thanks, Tony.”
After a Shakespeare lecture one afternoon I swung through Miller dorm. I entered the bathroom, able to envision the blood coursing down the shower wall, splashing along the path I crawled. I remembered resting my head on the floor. I pulled the shower curtain open, grimacing from the memories. The broken soapdish was still there. The edge, “surgically sharp,” as the surgeon had commented, was exactly the same. I thought of finding a hammer so I could break off the most dangerous parts, but didn’t, afraid to cause a scene. I did, however, tape a sign by the towel hooks: “Warning. Broken soapdish is very dangerous. Has cut at least two girls.” As an afterthought I crossed out “girls” and wrote above, “women.”
When I called Tony to tell him what I had found he instructed me to “Go back. Take photos. Hold a newspaper by the dish in the photo.”
“What?” Then, before he answered, I understood. “OK, I’ll take care of it.”
I hung up and contemplated the situation. I heard, far away in my mind, the theme music to a James Bond film. I laughed out loud. This entire lawsuit stuff was absurd! And depressing. I took the photos, even brought along a few friends for laughs.
School wasn’t so funny, though. Time management was becoming more of a problem. I was even considering English literature as a major because the requirements were such that it would fit in with work better than any other major. I was interested in international relations and languages, but those concentrations were more demanding. I would have to compromise.
My grades that semester were good, all A’s and B’s, and over Christmas my family celebrated my success. My mother, however, noticed my weight loss and fatigue. Worried, she included a five-pound block of welfare cheese with my care package of cookies and newly crocheted mittens from Grammy.
Cheese wasn’t enough. The ricocheting back and forth between studies and work wore at me. The next semester I caught every cold that went around, developed strange rashes, and lost more weight. I was even accused by an overzealous school nurse of being anorexic. This notion was almost funny. I loved food, I loved life — I was a starving college student with a busy schedule, that’s all.
Is this worth it? Can a name on my diploma really mean so much?
I was determined to do this Ivy League thing right. My slow and steady approach had not worked. Sure, I had nearly completed the first two years, but the sacrifices were growing. My health was poor, the debt scared me, and the catch-22 situation made me feel fifty. I recalled my high school years; those accomplishments and activities were long gone. How ironic that the same feats that had qualified me for Brown were no longer a part of my life. All my time was devoted to paying for the hallowed halls I had succeeded in reaching. Still, there was no turning back; I couldn’t go back to the Maine way of life. Already my dad referred to me as “the city slicker.” “Hey,” he would ask, “how are those bright lights down there in the big city?” Most of my old Bucksport friends were married and having babies and regarded me with suspicion. I was an outsider in Maine and an outsider at Brown. “Good enough” wasn’t enough for me. If I was going deep into debt for this diploma, I was either going to give my all or not do it.
As the semester headed to a close and Roger prepared to graduate, I scheduled a meeting with Dean Bengochea, a man who had been helpful with student-loan red tape in the past. He suggested I take time off to save money and get healthy. His idea was practical, but I didn’t want to drag out my education. I was eager to be a real person in real life, not a student paying for practice. I applied for and was granted a financial leave after my second year. The procedure guaranteed my place as a Brown student for up to five years, but I didn’t expect to use it for more than a year, if I used it at all. Sadly but resolutely I thanked Dean Bengochea for his help. If my situation wasn’t markedly changed by September, I would sign the forms and leave.
I added a new waitressing job to my repertoire. The management at ShBooms, a nightclub that played fifties’ and sixties’ rock and roll, trained me to be a cocktail waitress. In a week I learned how to order seven different kinds of alcohol at once, remember who wanted what drink, and do it all balancing my tray on my injured arm. (I was wearing a brace that immobilized my forearm and hand.) I was encouraged by my cash tips. Maybe I wouldn’t have to leave Brown after all.
Roger upset his career-minded parents and spent the summer with me in Providence, while I saved my tips diligently. By August I heard good news about the lawsuit from Isabella DeLorenzo, Tony’s younger sister, just out of law school. “Brown’s attorneys have requested all your medical bills. And we just received your doctor’s statement. He says you have a permanent disability. And, here’s the kicker — he’s on Brown’s medical school staff! They may be considering settling. We’re going to ask that your tuition be part of any eventual deal. It’ll be easier for them to give credit than it would for cash. We may be able to keep you in school after all!”
3
… There’s a Way
Gumption turns out to be at least as important as intelligence in predicting the likelihood of achieving professional and personal success.
— Dr. Betty A. Walker, The Courage to Achieve
I waited, hoping, till the last moment. But nothing changed. I finally signed the leave papers in early September, a few days before my twentieth birthday. Brown hadn’t made any offers and my summer savings weren’t enough. I sadly returned my financial aid package. The east side was bustling with new freshmen and returning upperclassmen. I was falling behind but tried not to be too upset. Roger invited me to go with him to his parents’ home in New Jersey, where he was going to look for a job. I didn’t want to be the kind of woman who followed a man, but his was my only offer.
But I wasn’t going to be dependent on him. With some of my savings I bought a used motorcycle.
At least I can drive myself.
It was a big heavy bike, a 750-4 Honda. It had a bad starter and worn rear tire, but it was mine. We drove through the night to New Jersey the same day I signed my leave papers, Roger on his bike, me on mine. It poured cold rain for four hours of the five-hour trip. Around one A.M., as we started up Bernardsville Mountain to his parents’ house, my bike stalled. As the engine died my thoughts scanned the options and my adrenaline surged. I wasn’t strong enough to hold the bike up, and my feet wouldn’t reach the pavement unless I tilted the bike. All around me I saw wet leaves covering the road. I was a smart rider and knew what to do. I had only a few seconds before the bike would roll to a stop. With the clutch in, I hit the button start. Miraculously, the engine roared back to life.
But I had to get back into gear without spinning out. I focused, imagining my bald rear tire catching the asphalt, and finessed the clutch with one hand, the gas lever with the other. Too much gas and I would spin out, not enough and the bike would stall again. I willed the tire to catch, but it didn’t. I began to spin. I tensed and unconsciously squeezed the gas. The bike began twirling in tight circles, faster and faster. The headlight illuminated woods and boulders. I didn’t know where the street was, but I knew I was about to crash.
I feared being crushed by the bike so I pushed myself off and away as hard as I could. I landed hard, directly on the top of my head. Next to hit was my butt.
So of course, I was fine.
I jumped to my feet
, then stood paralyzed. My pulse was booming in my ears, deafening me. My bike was lying in the road, tires spinning. It was dark, very windy, and I was alone. When Roger realized I wasn’t following him, he roared down the road toward me, nearly hitting my bike. He parked at the side of the road and ran to me.
“Are you hurt?!” he asked over and over. My body was surprisingly fine and my head seemed all right, too. I had ruined my helmet, but there wasn’t more than a scratch on my dad’s old Navy coat. “Just wait here,” Roger said, standing me by his bike. He walked to my bike, struggled to right it. While he examined it for damage, his bike began rolling backward down the steep road. I tried to stop it and it fell over, crushing me beneath it. The engine and gas tank fell straight onto my hip and abdomen. I screamed in pain, my hip bone burning. He heard me, parked my bike, and ran over to lift his off me. “Shit! You OK?” he yelled.
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