Page 65 of State of Ruin

First things first: my theory was correct. Statements from Elyse’s checking account show two credits from Pink Onyx Corp.—Alchemy, I assume—in October to the tune of ten grand each… and two debits, each one made the day after the monies dropped, to a physical therapy center in Bayonne.

Mickey’s paper trail also names the patient receiving treatment at said PT center—Sylvie Ward—and shows her statement of account there as well as earlier correspondence from the center threatening to halt all treatment unless payments were made against the balance.

Fuck.

I slam my MacBook closed for a moment and consider the significance this evidence yields my theory.

First—Elyse used every cent I gave her to pay down her sister’s medical debt. Every single cent. She didn’t even take a hundred dollars for herself.

Second—and this is honestly a tough one to sit with—I made a calculated bet, when she rejected my advances that first night at the bar, that ten grand would be a sum she couldn’t say no to. I mean, anyone working bar shifts to make ends meet could use ten grand, right? The way I saw it, she could protect her morals or choose the money. But these bank statements shed new light over her state of mind, and I don’t like it. Because, in her head, she had far less of a choice than I thought. She couldn’t leave that money on the table when her family was up to its eyeballs in medical debt, so she took it… and she laundered every last cent of it into an act of love for her sister.

Third—I was pissed enough when she turned down the twenty-five grand I wanted to pay her for each evening at my apartment. But in light of the above? I’m only just realizing how excruciating it must have been for her to leave that money on the table—especially since she’d just learned that she hadn’t gotten the Voss job. At the time, I found her decision irritating rather than noble. But it allows me to think that she really was in as deep as me, even then. She needed every dollar of that money, but something changed for her emotionally between the Alchemy sessions and showing up to my apartment. And that something was strong enough that she couldn’t stomach taking my money anymore—right after I’d screwed her over with the modeling job she’d won on her own merits.

Which brings me, conveniently, to my fourth conclusion:

Elyse was right. Sylvie was right. Fuck, even Vanessa was right. What I did to Elyse in that conference room was the grossest overstep, the most devastating act of betrayal I could have inflicted on someone I love. I was so fucking dismissive. I acted on instinct, exactly like the toddler she said I was, and I didn’t give a second thought to what it might mean for her and her family to lose out on that opportunity. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, right?

Wrong.

Because I’m looking at another very illuminating stack of documents, all pertaining to Sylvie’s emergency care, surgery, and a ton of other shit. I scan the invoices quickly to see what fell through the net after the insurance company paid up.

Two hundred and eleven grand to Jersey City Medical Center for the ER, OR, blood, meds—the lot.

Another hundred, give or take, for various physicians.

And fifty for the ambulances, some in-patient rehab, and fuck knows what else.

Jesus Christ.

She wasn’t kidding about underinsurance. Sylvie Ward owes a total of three hundred and sixty-six thousand dollars to the hospital, its affiliates, and the PT center. Judging from the amount of red ink on the most recent statements, the hospital is handing its share over to third-party debt collectors very fucking soon.

Yeah—nope.

That’s not happening.

If the events of these past few days have taught me that I’m good for precisely nothing but my money, then the other side of that coin is that my money can do good where I cannot. It can gain access where I cannot. And, even if Elyse never wants to see me again, I may just be able to sleep easier knowing that I came into her life and left her and her family with one good thing: the knowledge that the roof over their heads is secure.

I pull up Mickey’s number and send him a terse voice note.

“I want all of that medical debt cleared, but it needs to be anonymously done. Got it? I don’t want my name anywhere near it. And it needs to be done now.” God knows I do not want the Ward family’s Thanksgiving to be overshadowed by debt collectors knocking on their door.

Mickey calls me back within the hour.

“There are a few charities that buy bundles of debt from hospital providers, usually for cents on the dollar, but the ones I spoke to are adamant that they won’t pay off individuals’ debt on demand. That’s not how they work. It has to be done at the county level—it’s policy.”

That’s not how they work. What a crock of shit. I sigh. “Call one back and tell them that I’ll pay down a hundred times that much, but I want one percent of that donation to go to the fucking Wards. Of course they can do it. I don’t want that Computer says no bullshit.”

“So, what, thirty-six-point-six mil to Hudson County medical debts, but the Wards have to be within that bundle. Consider it done. You won’t end up paying anything near the nominal amount. Like I said, they can clear it up for pennies.”

I don’t give a fuck what kind of distressed purchase value I can get on this thing. God knows I’m paying for ancient sins as well as recent ones. “How will the Wards be notified?” I ask instead.

“The charities do these branded letters. You get one in the mail—‘Hey there, you’re now debt-free.’ It’s like Santa Claus came early.”

I like that. I like that a lot. I try very hard to envision Elyse’s face, bright with the best kind of disbelief instead of dark with the worst kind of heartache. It doesn’t exactly work, but I’ll keep trying.

Mickey hangs up without saying goodbye, and I throw my cell down, dragging my hands over my eyes.

It’s not enough… but it’s something.