E l y s e arma must be the snuggliest of kittens because in the twenty minutes that it took me to slip out of the house the other day with a Tupperware of still-hot apple muffins for Glo and Reggie, Sinclair Voss came to my door and was both yelled at and sent packing by my sister and my dad. How’s that for timing? I can’t believe I missed him. It’s so lucky. If I had answered the door to him, God knows what I would have done. I would have started shaking, probably. I definitely couldn’t have handled seeing his face. I think it would have killed me. I already see it all the time in my head, this heartbreaking movie from happier times of him smiling at me, and kissing me, and just staring at me as if he wanted to memorize me forever. And I don’t want to examine what it means that he came all the way to Jersey and showed up at my door. It could come over as romantic, I guess. Equally, it could just be the actions of a guy who likes to have the last word. But speaking of missing him... I miss him. And, ugh, that makes me so angry. Angry at myself for being pathetic and angry at him for falling short, for not having my back behind closed doors, and for making it impossible for me to stay with him. Why, oh why, did he have to be such a total asshole underneath it all? And how can it still hurt, in a confusing, complex way, whenever I make myself a mug of the fancy French tea he left for me? Lime blossom. Le tilleul. The only way I know how to deal with it is to ke ep busy and to stick as close to my family as possible. Right now, I need as much real love as I can get from people who genuinely have my back. The ke eping-busy part is easy, too—there’s a ton to do on all fronts. I’ve picked up an extra shift at Alchemy, comforted by the knowledge that Sinclair can’t reach me there. I double down on housework and push Olivia for more and more casting calls. Vanessa has already texted to set up a meeting with the person who took over her role at Bellamy, which is insane. That’s set up for after Thanksgiving, so maybe it’ll yield something. Who knows? W HEN THE MAIL drops through the mailbox around noon, I pick it up and sort through it. There are a couple of bills for Dad that I kind of wish I could hide from him and an envelope addressed to Sylvie with a cheery logo that says Unburdened in blue over a yellow sun. I frisbee it to her across the kitchen table, where she’s working. She squints at it and picks it up. “What’s this?” “No clue,” I say with a shrug. “Direct marketing, probably?” It’s insane, the kind of shit she gets targeted with since her accident. Top-of-the-range electric wheelchairs and live-in carers and hydrotherapy. Someone is selling the shit out of her medical data. She rips it open, and I sit back down so I can ke ep working on my Costco shopping list. Dad and I are due our monthly trip this weekend. Toilet paper. Always toilet paper. And we’ll stock up for Thanksgiving there, too: everything exc ept the turkey, which we’ll have to buy fresh next week. Who has room in their de ep freeze for a turkey? Not the
Wards, that’s for sure. I add marshmallows to the list, knowing Fleur will lose her mind when we come home with a wholesale-sized drum of them. “Lees,” Sylvie says, her voice faint, “I don’t understand. Take a look.” She holds out a single sheet of paper. I take it and start to read. UNBURDENED Relieving medical debt. Restoring peace of mind. Case reference: 11023078 Dear Sylvie Ward We have good news: you no longer owe this debt. Unburdened is a nonprofit organization that uses donations to purchase and forgive medical debt for families across the country. Thanks to the generosity of our donors, we recently acquired a portfolio of medical debt held by providers in Hudson County, NJ, which included your accounts. The following balances have been forgiven in full: Jersey City Medical Center and affiliated providers: $366,143.50 This isn’t a scam, and there’s no catch. You don’t need to do anything. This debt won’t appear in collections any longer, and the IRS doesn’t consider our forgiveness of it taxable income to you. Medical debt isn’t a personal failing. It happens to millions of hardworking Americans through no fault of their own, and we believe no one’s future should be defined by the cost of their care. We wish you and your family health, happiness, and a lighter road ahead. With warmth, The Unburdened team Forgiven with support of donors nationwide I BEGIN TO SHAKE . I can barely see straight. “It has to be a scam, right?” Sylvie asks, a note of hope quavering in her voice. That little wobble slays me. “Yeah,” I say, still scanning the letter. “Pretty fucked up that they know how much we owe, though.” “Right?” This is the number that ke eps me awake at night. It’s also the number I try super hard not to think about, because it’s a sum so large that it could cut you off at the knees if you fixated on it too much. “Google it,” I tell Sylvie. “Google Unburdened.” She looks thrilled at the prospect of having a plan. “On it.” A moment later, she twists her laptop around so I can see the screen. “It’s legit.” “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean the letter is,” I point out. “Could be phishing.” I push to my feet. “Yeah.” Her shoulders drop. I hate it. “Want me to call them?” “Would you? I don’t think I can bear it.” “Of course.” This is my role: to be strong when Sylvie cannot. When the sheer effort of rehabilitation and trauma and worrying about Fleur and the un-freaking-fairness of it all threaten to pull her under.
She recites the phone number straight off the official website, and I punch it into my cell with trembling fingers as I pace in a little circle. “It’ll probably be a call center,” I say. “Or some automated service.” It is neither. After a few rings, my call is answered by a woman whose energy levels match that of the letter. “Good afternoon! You’ve reached Unburdened! This is Tracy. How may I help you today?” “Hey, Tracy,” I say. “I—uh—my sister received a letter in the mail claiming that her medical debt has been paid off? And, uh, we’re not sure if it’s genuine.” She chuckles warmly. “Oh, that’s wonderful! And I can tell you, this isn’t the first call I’ve gotten like this today. Whenever we do a mail-out, we get a lot of folk wondering the exact same.” “Oh, really?” I ask. I raise my eyebrows at my sister, like This is actually encouraging. She raises hers right back, like What did she say?! “Sure, honey. It can be a real shock. Tell me, did you get a case reference number on the top right of the correspondence?” “Uh—yeah. Yes, we did.” I recite the eight-digit number slowly and wait. “Let me see... Sylvie Ward, Hudson County?” I’m shell-shocked. I don’t think I have really let myself think this could be legit until right this second. “That’s right.” I mouth OMG at Sylvie, whose face has gone bright red with tension. “Excellent! Well, I’m delighted to say that your sister is now debt-free! Unburdened has forgiven all of her debt.” Slowly, I sink back into my chair. I think I might faint. “But how can that even be? Why us?” “It’s the best kind of lottery, honey. Unburdened uses donations to purchase debt in big bundles off all kinds of debt-holders. Usually, we can actually buy the debt for far less than you owe. We do it at a county level, all completely randomly, and I guess yours got sw ept up into our latest Hudson County bundle. And hey presto, the debt is forgiven.” Forgiven strikes me as such an odd word—kind of religious, and sort of... not tangible. Like it could be reversed. “Forgiven?” I r epeat, because I want to be super clear on what’s going on here before I get my sister’s hopes up. “It’s a weird debt term,” Tracy says. “It means canceled or paid up, I guess. We have paid your creditors on your behalf, so there is no outstanding debt. We’ve cleared the balance.” I put my hand over the microphone. They’ve cleared the balance, I mouth at Sylvie. Her jaw drops. “What the fuck? How?” “That’s amazing,” I say. “How did my sister get picked?” “Like I said, it’s totally random,” Tracy explains. “We’ve definitely gotten an increase in donations in the run-up to Thanksgiving. From now through to the end of the year we usually get a really nice boost. But it seems like a big donation came through and it all got allocated to Hudson County. Your sister got... Huh.”
I pounce on that. “What’s wrong?” Was that huh, like It’s all a big error and you’re still hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt? “It’s just funny,” she says. “I can see what percentage your sister’s debts make up of the entire bundle that was allocated, and it was exactly one percent. Isn’t that strange? Like, I’m looking at the percentage and it says one-point-zero-zero.” I frown. “That is strange.” “Anyways, don’t mind me. You ladies should go and celebrate! Although, if I might make one suggestion?” “Please do,” I say, because it feels as though Tracy is the only grownup in this conversation. I’m a small, confused child. “If you’re struggling to process this,” she says, “you can try calling your healthcare provider. Let’s see—you could call the Jersey City Medical Center and ask to speak to their credit d epartment. They’ll be able to advise what balance they see on your account.” “That’s a fantastic idea,” I say. I should have thought of that in the first place. Of course the hospital is the right place to start. I guess I’m just used to even the thought of its credit d epartment making me feel sick with fear and dread. After I have wished Tracy a very gushing and sincere, if still confused, goodbye, I hang up and blow out a huge breath. Sylvie is staring at me, her hands white-knuckling the edge of the kitchen table. “Well?” I set my cell down. “She was very helpful. She said it’s legit. She said all our debt has been paid in full as part of a donation that was made to ‘forgive’ Hudson County medical debt—that’s the term, apparently—and that it’s completely random and anonymous. But she said we should call the hospital’s billing team and check with them.” She clamps a hand over her mouth. “Holy fucking shit,” she mumbles. “I know.” We stare at each other for a moment. Her eyes are huge. “Want me to call the hospital?” “Like, yesterday.” I laugh, and she giggles too. I feel a little unhinged. Drunk, almost. “Okay. Let’s do it.” This time, I come around to her side of the table and pull up a chair as close to hers as possible. Sensing an increase in the energy level, Jambon rouses himself from his usual place on Dad’s armchair and puts his big, cute head in my lap. While we’re waiting for someone to pick up, I set the phone to speaker and put it on the table so I can pull up Sylvie’s account details from my Notes app. Only then do I take her hand and grip it tight. We’re both practically hyperventilating by the time someone picks up.
Trying to ke ep my voice as steady as possible, I relay our patient number to Tyrone, our operator. “Could I check the balance of this account, please?” “Hold for a moment,” Tyrone says. We make faces at each other while we wait, like What in the ever-loving fuck is happening right now? faces. “I have your account here,” he says after the longest moment ever, and my stomach bottoms out. I feel like someone on death row who’s just been told they might have gotten a stay of execution. Then he says, “The balance on the account is zero. It was settled in full by the Unburdened charity on November sixteenth.” November sixteenth was four days ago. “Oh my God,” I whisper, as right next to me, Sylvie lets out a kind of wail and bows her head almost to the table, fisting her hands over her eyes. “Oh my God, oh my God. Shit. I can’t believe it.” There’s a pause, and then Tyrone says, “Congratulations, ma’am. That’s really somethin’.” “Yeah,” I manage to say. “This is unbelievable. We got the letter but we thought it was a scam, you know? So we called the charity and they told us to confirm. This is so insane.” I’m gabbling, but I don’t care. I release Sylvie’s hand and get her in a side hug. Her entire body is shaking like crazy. “We’ve had a few of them come through this week,” Tyrone says. “You guys have had a Thanksgiving miracle, I guess.” “Yeah. For sure.” I can barely speak. Tears are coursing down my cheeks. Thanksgiving miracle is the understatement of the century. “Jeez. That is one big-ass bill they paid for you,” he says, and I explode with unhinged laughter. “Right?” “Sorry, it’s just... I spend a lot of my day talking to folks who are worried sick, you know? It’s nice to have a conversation like this.” He’s so nice, and it makes me feel even more emotional. Who are all these people out there in the world, donating blindly to change strangers’ lives? And then being happy for strangers at the other end of the phone when they have a change in their luck? “Well, thank you, Tyrone,” I say. “I appreciate you so much. I think we can trust this now, right? I’m not hallucinating?” “I’m very real,” he tells me, “and I’m staring at a big line of zeroes. So you’re not hallucinating. But I should remind you that any further outpatient or inpatient therapies will still be payable should your insurance fail to cover it. We still have you attending physical therapy at one of our outpatient centers, is that correct?” He thinks I’m Sylvie, I realize. No matter. Her debt is my debt. “Correct,” I say with a big, wet sniff. “And I understand. That’s not a problem.” Future PT sessions we can handle. It was the hospital debt that was the albatross around our family’s necks. “Well, congratulations again,” he tells me.
After I’ve hung up on my second new buddy of the day—third, if you include our fairy godmother or godfather, obviously—I turn the side hug into a proper hug, and we just sit together, shaking and crying and screaming a little while Jambon gets in on the action, pawing at us in excitement. “It’s over,” Sylvie says. “It’s all over. I can’t believe it.” I know exactly what she means. She may still be sitting here with her crutches propped up next to her and her wheelchair in the corner of the living room and God knows how many more months of pain and struggle and tough, tough rehabilitation ahead of her, but that’s not the shadow that’s been hanging over us these past six months. Because every day, Sylvie makes progress on the physical front, but every day, that debt has hung over us, looming larger and larger as it became more overdue. We were all psyching ourselves up for what the hell would happen when it got passed over to a debt collection agency. And now it’s just... gone. Poof! Evaporated. “We have to call Dad!” Sylvie exclaims. “We have to get him home!” So we call him, and we break our incredible, not-remotely-believable news to the poor guy with yelling and tears. I don’t think he can actually understand what we’re saying, because we’re making no sense at all. “The debt is gone, Dad!” Sylvie yells finally. “There was a donation, and it’s just—paid. Boom. We don’t owe anything.” There’s a silence at the other end of the line, and then he says, in such a small voice that it breaks my heart in two, “Gone?” “We’re debt-free,” I tell him. “Some donor paid off a whole chunk of medical debt in Hudson County, and we were among the lucky ones.” “Oh my sweet Jesus,” Dad says. “Oh my sweet, sweet Jesus.” “Dad?” I say. “Go sit down, okay? This is a lot.” There’s some shuffling. Then: “We’re debt-free?” “We sure are!” Sylvie singsongs. “We’re solvent, suckers!” Dad and I both laugh at that, probably because we haven’t seen her this light in six months. The stress of this accident and its financial burden have taken such a toll on my sister, but the woman sitting next to me looks twenty-seven for the first time in half a year. “Come home!” I tell Dad. “Shut up the shop! Give everyone the afternoon off! We gotta celebrate.” “Damn straight we do,” Dad says. “Americano Italian all the way!” That makes me laugh. Americano Italian is a Jersey institution—a steakhouse-slash-cocktail bar on Broadway where the waiters wear white tux jackets and the meat is just as legendary as the live music. We haven’t been for years—not since Sylvie graduated college, in fact. “We’ll never get a reservation.” “I’ll call ’em,” Dad insists. “I’ll call ’em up right now, and I’ll tell ’em we got a lot to celebrate. My little girl had a miracle happen to her today, and we are damn well eating filet. I swear your mom pulled these strings from heaven. I swear it. I knew she’d come through for us.”
At his words, I hug Sylvie harder. I’m so freaking happy, but there’s pressure across the front of my face from all the tears that still want to es cape. “Okay, Dad,” I say. “While you’re thanking her, ask her if she can pull one more string and get us a table for four.” I wish I could have faith like Dad does. I wish I could believe that it’s Mom who’s showered us with these enormous blessings six days before Thanksgiving. But there’s something about what Tracy said that’s niggling at me. Something about how crazy it was that our debt balance was exactly one percent of the overall that was paid down. I pick up the letter from Unburdened and check the final number that they’ve forgiven. $366,143.50 Three hundred and sixty-six thousand, one hundred and forty-three dollars and fifty cents. That is not a round number. I type it into my phone calculator and multiply it by one hundred. Shit. The total donation size for whatever bundle we fell in came to just over thirty-six-point-six million dollars. That is what is technically known as a fuck-ton of money. I’m absolutely not about to share my hunch with my sister or my dad. After all, Tracy confirmed that Sylvie was chosen totally at random. But my spider senses are telling me that the timing of what is undoubtedly a Hail Mary for our family, and an insanely generous one at that, is a little suspect. I can’t help thinking that Mom didn’t pull these strings from Heaven. I think our anonymous fairy godperson may be someone who recent events would suggest hangs out a lot closer to hell.