“What happened, Rose?”
“I signed all the paperwork. I put the down payment on the property—all my money. The building had to be big, for all the plans I had. The investors’ money was supposed to go into fixing the place up, marketing, first six months of payroll. Then, onceeverything was in place—” she stops. “God, I’m such an idiot. I should have locked them in. Made them sign something before I did.”
She wipes her face with the back of her hand. “Something spooked them. They said they’d gotten a letter. From a few prominent doctors who had—” she makes air quotes, “heard about my reputation. That my plan was a fantasy. That I was a fraud, in over my head, unqualified.”
“What was it called?” I croak. “The business.”
“Oh.” The corner of her mouth turns up, just barely. She sits a little taller, turns toward me. “The Resilience Project. Like—resilient people, resilient community. Immunity. Health.”
I keep my eyes on the road.
I have thought about The Resilience Project three times before.
The first time, Pearl had called me and my father to get us out to a new golf course she wanted to check out—which, at the time, I thought was a nice gesture. We played for about an hour before she started fidgeting, nudging us along. Then she struck up a conversation with a couple ahead of us, as though she knew them. They were talking about some new venture they were investing in—The Resilience Project. Pearl seemed to know all about it. My father and I were half-paying attention; we were just playing golf. Pearl, in that careful, measured way of hers, told them to be wary. She’d heard bad things about the owner.
A week later, she came to my office. I had just finished an eight-hour surgery and was exhausted, ready to go home. She told me she’d spoken with the investors again, that she had serious concerns—that the project was being run by someone unqualified, pretending to be a doctor, that people could get hurt. She had a letter of concern drafted, stating the misconduct, and she needed my name on it. A prominent surgeon’s name. I didn’t think twice. I trusted Pearl.
I signed it.
She got my dad to sign it, too.
A week later, we were having dinner, and I brought it up with Pearl. She was practically glowing. We’d done a public service, she said. Shut down a scam artist before anyone got hurt.
“Anyway, the day I got the news about the investors backing out, I went to my dad’s office to tell him, to ask for help, for a loan, and he… Well, he basically called me lazy. Said I was trying to game the system. That I should have gone to medical school like him, and that maybe it was for the best.” She sniffs. “He didn’t believe in me. Not even a little. And it’s not like I was out there telling people to skip their vaccines or drink their own piss. I just wanted to teach people how to take care of themselves by eating well, exercising. Offer a nice facility with free showers, herbal medicine for aches and pains, bruises, sores. Treat blood pressure, inflammation. I mean, Jesus, do you have any idea what a fuckinghaircutdoes for someone living on the streets?”
My heart feels like it’s shattering in real time.
Why didn’t I look into the business? Why didn’t I read the proposal and talk to the investors? Why did I trust Pearl so implicitly?
Rose leans down and digs into the gas station bag, coming up with a fistful of Twizzlers, blissfully unaware that she’s sitting right next to the man who tanked her fucking dreams.
I feel sick.
Nauseous.
And I’m horrified Pearl could have done this. There has to be some explanation. Somereason.
“Your dad…” I start, though I don’t even know how to ask the question.
She picks it up easily, though. Her voice is steady, like the worst has already happened, and she’s going to be just fine. “We’re okay. Better than we were, anyway. He apologized. Prettyquickly, too. Came by the next day and admitted he was out of line. Which I appreciated, but it still hurt. It was a terrible, horrible, very bad day, compounded by him, and also finding Greg balls deep in our neighbor—”
“That was the same day?”
“Yup.” She chews on her Twizzler.
“Why didn’t Easton lend you the money?”
She shakes her head vehemently. “No way. Crashing at his house and getting a few bucks for scrubbing the place is one thing. No way am I gonna borrow that much money from my best friend. He offered.Triedto give it to me, but I refused.”
I nod because I don’t know what else to do with my body. My ears are ringing.
“Right now, I’m paying taxes and bleeding money I don’t have on a derelict warehouse in the Meatpacking District. I’m trying to sell it, but for the first month, I was in denial. The second, I was trying to find other investors, but apparently the last ones made some calls about me, so now no one will touch me.” She shrugs. “I’m trying to sell the place, to get my shit together, then maybe I’ll find some under-funded clinic to take me on. I freelance for some of the football players on Easton’s team, but I can’t order blood work. That’s why I wanted the practice, so I could get more help. I’m not trying to inflate what I can do, you know? That’s what my dad thinks. I just—” she takes a deep breath, slumping her shoulders against the seat on the exhale. “I know I can help people. Whatever. I’ll figure it out.”
She trails off into a story about one of Easton’s teammates, a massive offensive lineman, and how she spent an hour teaching him how to breathe properly into yoga poses, how his diaphragm works. She laughs while my mind continues to race. The uncomfortable pit in my stomach never goes away.
“Hey,” Rose’s voice pulls me back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “We’re almost there. You want to stop, or just drive straight through?”
