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 me 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.”
“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.
After I had agreed to go on the phone, he sent me an email with the work contract, which I had to sign and return before I could go. I read through the contract carefully, and was surprised to learn that I was actually going to get paid for this job. Four times more money than I made at the café, and I would also be provided with a one bedroom apartment in which to live on the property.
After all the details were ironed out, I finally told Momma what I was going to do. I didn’t tell her about the initial letter, but I did say that I got a new job and it was more than five hours away from her, somewhere in central California. Without missing a beat, she wrapped her arms around me and gave me a warm and encouraging hug.
“I’m so so happy for you, Brielle,” she whispered into my ear, her voice cracking. “I’m so happy that you’re finally starting your life out. Going somewhere new. I will definitely come visit you soon!”
Come visit me? I had no idea if this was allowed or proper or acceptable. I didn’t know anything about this place, but I agree.
“Yes, that will be great.”
I still had a few months until then to figure things out.
To get to the Wild House, I had to take a plane to Chino, California, then a car. I was planning on driving, but Mr. Thompson insisted that I did not need a car there. I didn’t believe him, of course. There’s no place in California that doesn’t require a car, except maybe the city of San Francisco, but I eventually and reluctantly agreed. Momma and I have only one car, and we share it. I can’t take it away from her.
In the baggage claim area of the small local airport, I meet my driver. We drive for some time down a lonely two-lane road leading somewhere into the desert. Desert mountains rise on either side of us, near the horizon. This isn’t an unfamiliar sight. I’m used to the nature that far-flung places in the wilds of California have to offer.
During the drive, I try to talk to the driver, but he offers very little in the way of information.
“I don’t know, miss. You’ll find out when you get there,” he says over and over again. That’s his canned response to almost every question I have about this whole experience.
We turn off the main highway and onto a lonely desert road. My heart starts to pound and matches the bumps in the road that we drive over. The car isn’t your typical sedan. It’s a tall Jeep, which is meant for off road. Just as I thought that the road couldn’t be any more off road, we turn onto an actual off-road road. There are no signs, but the driver turns to the left at the sandy fork in the road. Now we’re driving through the desert. Across its wide expanse and over little shrubs and around tall creosote bushes that dot the area.
Finally, somewhere in the distance, I see a large house. It’s actually in the middle of nowhere. As we get closer, I make out the beautiful tall white columns that give it grandeur and stature. There are two large white lion statues at the gate. The driver pulls to the intercom and pushes the button.
“We’re here,” he says. The iron-wrought gates open and let us in. The lions don’t move, but continue to stare somewhere into the distance, probably wondering the same thing that I am at this moment: how the hell did we get here?
The driveway is expansive and circular, and the driver pulls up right to the steps of the mansion. I’ve never been to the White House, but this house looks just like it. The columns are a pristine ivory color. How the hell they keep them so white in the middle of this dusty desert is beyond me.
“Go on up,” the driver says when he comes around and opens my door.
“What about you?” I ask. I don’t know him, but I don’t want him to leave. I have no idea what awaits me inside. I look at my phone and see that I don’t even have one bar! There’s absolutely no reception here.
“Oh, I’m not going in there, miss.”
There? Why did he say it like that? My heart starts to pound harder. It’s so loud, I can barely hear my own thoughts in my head.
The driver gets my two modest suitcases out of the trunk and takes them up the few steps to the porch. The porch is made of beautiful polished wooden slats, and it seems to wrap all the way around the building.
There are two imposing double doors before me. The driver picks up the large metal door knocker and slams it into the door. After two knocks, the door finally opens.
“Ms. Brielle Cole,” a small older gentleman says. He’s dressed up like a butler from Downtown Abbey.
“My name is Mr. Francis Whitewater, it’s my pleasure to meet you.”
I shake his extended hand.
“May I help you with your bags?”
I nod, leave one bag on the porch and go inside with the other one.
“Let me show you to your room,” he says walking past me.
When I enter the lobby, my mouth drops open. The ceilings are close to 20 feet high and gorgeous natural light permeates the space. The desert sun is rather harsh outside, but in here the temperature is a cool and comfortable 75 degrees, without a whiff of central air. There’s a beautiful round marble entry table with a bouquet of flowers in the middle of the entry room the size of a ballroom and two winding staircases frame the table on either side, leading up to
the second floor.
“What a beautiful…house?” I say. House doesn’t seem like the right word. Mansion? Castle?
“Thank you. I’ll let, Mr. Wild know that you approve.”
“So, Mr. Wild? Is that who requested my presence here?” I take the opportunity to ask.
“Yes, of course. I thought that was clear from the letter.”
“No,” I shake my head. “The letter wasn’t very clear about much. The thing is, Mr. Whitewater, I don’t even know who Mr. Wild is. I have no idea why he wants me here. Or what he expects me to do.”
Mr. Whitewater turns to face me. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to insinuate by that, Ms. Cole, but you are not expected to do anything that you are not 100% willing and interested in doing. Mr. Wild invited you here as a guest. There is nothing sinister about his intentions.”
I nod politely. I’m trying to understand, but rich people have a way of saying things that don’t make sense. Supposedly, I’m only here as a guest, but the letter was also quite clear about a certain debt that had to be paid. So what would happen if I didn’t pay it?
Mr. Whitewater led me through the foyer, the gigantic living room with even taller windows, which looked out to the expanse of the desert in the background. The windows were so large, floor to ceiling, and clear that I felt like I was walking outside.
“You probably have some problems with birds here,” I say. I don’t know why I bring this up, but large floor to ceiling windows always make me wonder about birds.
“How do you mean?” Mr. Whitewater asks with a grave expression of concern on his face.
Now, I’m totally regretting bringing anything up at all. Me and my stupid mouth!
“Well, it’s just that, the windows are so big and crystal clear…”
The Baby Contract: A Single Dad Romance Page 24