My leg stops bouncing and I drop my head into my hands. There has to be another way.
No rich relatives to leave you money?
Jade’s question weaves through my mind, touching on a long-forgotten memory. My mom’s aunt had a little money—if I remember correctly—and when she died my freshman year of high school, she requested that a small sum be set aside for my college.
It’s too much to hope it’ll cover what I need for next year, but a small sum of money would take some of the pressure off. I burst out of my chair, manic energy pumping through me. My heart is racing as I stick a little sign on the desk to inform students I’ll be back shortly, slipping out the door and clicking the call button before the door has fully shut behind me.
“Hey, chicken.” My mom’s voice fills my ears, comfort and anxiety dancing in my stomach. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. How are you? How’s Daddy?”
“He’s okay. Tripped coming up the basement steps last week and he’s banged up real bad. He came down hard on his bad knee, and you know how it is. He can barely walk right now.”
While most people can hurt themselves with a normal recovery time, it takes my dad twice as long to heal. He had knee surgery a few years back, and while most people might heal up in 6–12 months, my dad took 12–18 months and even now still wears a brace for support. Tripping up the basement stairs is no small injury for him.
“Why didn’t you call and tell me?” I ask, my voice dropping. I know she can hear the hurt in my words, but I know something she doesn’t. I’m a hypocrite. I didn’t call and tell her about my lost scholarship, and I know she’ll wish I had. But, like mother, like daughter, I didn’t tell her for the same reason she didn’t tell me.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” she says, and I mouth the words silently along with her.
Of course she didn’t. Just like I don’t like to worry her.
“Tell him I said I hope he feels better.”
My heart aches for him the way it has since I was a child. Growing up watching my dad deal with chronic joint pain, sometimes spending more days in bed each month than out of it, taught me the difference between empathy and sympathy long before other kids my age learned it. I never feel sorry for my dad—he would hate that. But I hated to see him hurting then, and I hate to hear about it now.
“He’ll be happy to hear you called. Everything okay?”
“Well, um…” I swallow. Maybe I shouldn’t bring it up. Stuff with my dad sounds really heavy, and my mom sounds extra tired. I don’t want to put more on anyone’s plate.
I glance around, but there’s no one out here. I forgot my jacket and it’s getting cold. I need to either go back inside or have this conversation now, while I still have an iota of courage.
“I know this is random, but how much did Aunt Betty leave for me? Remember? She died when I was, like, fifteen and set a little bit aside for me for college, but I can’t remember how much. And I know we haven’t used it ’cause I got the scholarship and a job, but…yeah. Um, how much was it?”
My mom is silent for so long I actually start to worry she hung up.
“Mom?” I check in.
“Still here, sorry. I, um— Why are you asking, chicken?”
I swallow hard. “My scholarship is changing next year.”
“What happened? It’s not your grades again, is it?” She sounds both disappointed in me and afraid for me. It’s one of many reasons I was trying to avoid this call. I can’t stand hearing my mom’s disappointment. The fear in her voice riles up dormant fear in me. I’m the first person in our family to go to college; what if I’m also the first one to drop out? I’d be disappointing myself, my mother, and the Jessie who cried in Miss Julie’s office that day. I don’t have any other dreams for my life besides being a child therapist. Dropping out ruins The Plan. Without The Plan, what future do I even have?
My throat constricts.
“No, my grades are good.” I push the words out. “I’m still top of my class, or toward the top. But they’re canceling the full scholarship program. I’m okay this year, but for my senior year I’ll only be getting half the tuition. I’ll need to cover the rest of it myself.”
“What about other scholarships?” she asks.
It’s a familiar question. When I was applying to undergrad, she and my dad encouraged scholarships, grants—anything but loans. They were always upfront with me about how much medical debt they had and made it clear they didn’t want me to have to carry the same burden with student loans. I applied like a madwoman to as many things as I qualified for and fortunately got the school tuition I needed. It was a relief for us all, but if the scholarships don’t come through this time…
“I’ve been applying for them, but I’m tired, Mom.” I wouldn’t admit this to anyone but her, and it’s hard to ignore the stab of guilt in my ribs at complaining to her of all people about being tired. “I’m stretched to my limit. I’ve applied for so many. And I thought maybe that money from Aunt Betty could help take some of the pressure off, even if it can’t cover everything.”
The silence that follows is even worse than before. A light breeze kicks up, throwing my long hair across my face. I wait for my mom to reply, raking my fingers through my hair to try to tame it, and to give me something to do with my nervous energy.
“Mom?” I can’t wait any longer.
“That money is… We had to use it, chicken.”
