The one time Dad hit a $30,000 jackpot, he just had to go and buy Jerry a used Volkswagen Westfalia camper. It was all Jerry needed to give up his apartment and go “find himself.” He promptly named it Frogger and poured his life savings—and a portion of mine, to invest in what he sold to me as a “startup loan”—into renovations, a lime-green paint job, maintenance, and photography equipment.
I tidy the tongs and scoops to distract myself with a task. “How much will insurance cover?” I look at my phone screen after a too-long silence. Still connected. “I didn’t hear what you said.”
More silence.
“Then you heard me,” Jerry finally says.
“You don’t have insurance?”
It’s pointless asking. Of course he doesn’t. Health insurance requires a job or money.
On the other end of the phone, I hear sheets rustling and the beeping of machines. Probably what Jerry’s hooked up to. It’s an awful image in my mind.
“I was on Danielle’s, but then she quit her job last month when we had a few leads,” Jerry says.
Leads. Not even sure things. No contracts in place. They gave up health insurance because a brand might be interested in them.
“Jerry, how much is your accident going to cost?” I ask.
“Nothing firm yet, but I think it might be forty-five thousand dollars based on some discussions and Googling. Because I know you’re going to ask, yes, I looked into the hospital’s payment plans. I requested hardship assistance, and because I did have some earnings last year, they should cover half,” he explains.
Jerry has looked into this already? That’s new.
Before I can say anything, he adds, “I know you just sent money last week, but I don’t know what to do about the ten-thousand-dollar down payment. Can you please just tell me what to do? You have good credit, right?”
This wasn’t a call for comfort. It was—as expected—a call for cash. Does he think I have that kind of money lying around? I mentally add up what I have in my savings and the two-week payout I’ll get from my company. I should also be getting paid out for all the PTO days I didn’t take, which was most of them, give or take a sick day or two. This down payment alone would wipe out three-fourths of my bank account.
I feel like a body floating, and I’m just watching myself move around Sweet Escape. I’m a husk of myself. I hear the words he’s saying, but I don’t feel the weight of them.
“I… yeah?” I decide not to pile on to his situation by sharing thatI’ve been laid off, but I do say, “I already have all my bills and the house—”
“Grandma and Grandpa’s lake house?” Jerry asks. “You’re still paying that off?”
“Dad can’t afford the mortgage on his own, so, yeah. And once it’s paid off, we agreed that it would be mine.”
“I didn’t realize you still wanted it.”
Jerry and I used to spend our summers with my grandparents at their lake house, just the four of us. Dad would get a break from us. We’d get a break from him. My happiest childhood memories all happened there. It was where I could breathe. Relax a little. Be a kid.
My grandparents had a pontoon namedWishful Sinkingthat we’d take out every night to watch the sunset while we drank pink lemonade. Then, in an ironic twist of fate, in the summer of ’09 we lostWishful Sinkingwhen it sank after a heavy rain. The loss didn’t deter us. Our nightly boating turned to sunset swims.
The lake was where I learned how to swim. It made me realize we didn’t need anything fancy to enjoy the water. And when the waves were rough, Jerry and I sat on the dock playing cards while our grandma grilled and Grandpa made his famous blackberry pie with homemade whipped cream.
But then my grandparents died within a year of each other. Dad inherited the house, and we moved out of our apartment rental and into my grandparents’ home, which was fully paid off. Moving in after such a painful loss was like pressing on a fresh bruise with all the strength I had.
It drudged up losing Mom, too. Dad grieved her death by gambling, chasing losses and dopamine hits. He’s still grieving.
At sixteen, I only had a couple of years there before heading off to college on a swimming scholarship. I found moments of peace in my daily swims, this time at sunrise. On very quiet mornings whenI had the lake to myself, I could hear the motor of the pontoon, feel my grandparents’ laughter, and taste the blackberry pie. Being in that house, it reminds me of Mom and her parents. It reminds me of what it felt like to be carefree. I want that feeling again.
My rational thinking stops my memories from taking on a too-vibrant hue. Dad owned the home free and clear, until he didn’t. After one too many bad bets, he took out a mortgage on the house a few years after moving in. I worked my way through college, setting money aside for tuition, textbooks, and the house, pocketing whatever remained. For years, this is how it’s been.
“Yeah. I want the house,” I say quietly.
“Okay, well, it sounds like the remaining amount will be a payment plan. If you can get a loan, I’ll pay you back. I swear. With interest! Easiest money you ever made,” Jerry says with the casualness of that time he happened to be driving through Chicago during Lollapalooza. Though asking for leg surgery money is not the same as asking for concert tickets.
I let out a thinking noise because I don’t know what else to say.
“I didn’t know who else to turn to,” Jerry says. “Did I ever tell you you’re my favorite sister?”
