the check (pt.2)

When her mother had essentially refused to speak with his own mom — and by transitive property, him — he was overcome with guilt. After the phone call, his mom had conceded that she was grateful that he hadn’t been the one in the front, repeating that she did feel terrible for the other mother, but not as terrible as she would have been if he had been the one to die instead. He couldn’t say anything to her at the moment, and slightly nodded his head in understanding, not agreement, but once he got back to his room, he stared at the bandages on his left arm in the bathroom mirror and proceeded to throw up into the toilet.

Somehow, life moved on.

But he dreamt about her. Several nights in a row following their abrupt camp-wide return home, she occupied a space in his subconscious, and for years afterwards. He wasn’t the type to remember his dreams, but these were imprinted into his mind, and he didn’t think he’d be able to forget them for as long as he lived.

She was only 16 at the time of her death, and he hardly knew her otherwise, so most of the dreams were what-if scenarios and fulfillments of her “never had she ever”s played out with the aid of his subconscience. They went to Disneyland together, and he heard laughter bubble out of her at the sight of Goofy (which may or may not have been her favorite character, but that is what his mind projected). They ate lobsters together, him waving the meatless claws at her nose and her shying away from him, disgusted and yet fascinated by his odd sense of humor. But more often than not, he dreamt of stealing her first kiss at some point in the dream, sometimes in nightmares of those last six minutes together. He didn’t believe it was for any romantic reason, since he hadn't been particularly attracted to her when she was alive, but then again, the dreams were so vivid that they inevitably did confuse him once he woke up. She always turned pink afterwards, the way she did during the game, and she would always ask (partly flustered and partly pleased), “Does your hair naturally stick up like that?”, to break up the awkward silence that ensued between them.

The dreams made him feel somewhat sick and other times crazy for dreaming — borderline fantasizing — about a dead person, especially one he had known for only three weeks. It didn’t make for a very good first date or internship interview topic: “I held a dead person in my arms for five whole minutes before realizing that she was dead.”
“Oh, really? How was that possible?”
“We had zipped ourselves up in a double bass case to hide from a scorned-and-vengeful teenage gunman at camp and we got unzipped eleven minutes later by the police.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. She smelled like apples and rosin.”
“Okay.”
Of course, such an exchange never happened outside the confines of his slightly (or more than slightly) perturbed mind. He did confess to his college roommate, Jake, who would later become his best friend and best man. He admitted that he didn’t know how to respond to the story, and he didn’t blame him. There wasn’t much anyone would be able to say but just, “Wow.”

After a seemingly countless number of nights filled with imaginary interactions with Navah, he finally met a girl who wasn’t scared off by this ghost that haunted him. She made him feel like a normal person, trauma and guilt and general male immaturity aside. More importantly, she made him laugh, like really laugh, again. And he married her the year they turned 28 and they moved to San Francisco the year after that, six years after he had sent Navah’s mother the first check.

-----

When the second check arrived in her mailbox, she was newly anxious to meet the donor. Though she had already given up hope of ever receiving an explanation, let alone a response, from Magnolia Daly, not a day had passed without her pondering this woman’s existence.

Magnolia Daly. Had Magnolia Daly ever lived near her? Had she just been oblivious to a neighbor that had lived upstairs or down the street, maybe a former coworker in another grade or a congregation member who was either too old or too young for her to know? The postmark on the envelope indicated that it had been sent from within the city, not from Seattle this time, but when she went back with the mailman to the post office from where he picked up the mail, the workers really had no way of helping her out short of digging through each box when it was emptied — surely a bit too much to ask, right, Miss?

But she really didn’t know what to make of the mystery, and she didn’t feel right accepting yet another large sum from a woman she did not know and could not, at the very least, thank. Though she eventually deposited the check again, she didn’t need the money as much as she did the last time, and decidedly set the check’s sum apart so that she would be able to return it when she finally met the woman. Being uncomfortable with the Internet herself, she had asked a coworker to do a Google search, but was told that nothing significant had come up.

Six months from the second check passed rapidly before she finally got a lead.

She had entered a local store for a cup of coffee and a place to read, but the place was a bit crowded and there was a shortage of open tables. As she loitered briefly, coffee mug in hand, she saw a man start to pack up and headed over to claim the table. Moments later, a bespectacled woman came up to the same table and asked to share it. She obliged, knowing that she wouldn’t take up too much room with just her cup and book. The woman smiled in gratitude and camaraderie and pulled out a thick stack of papers with a small note attached to the front. She took out the binder clip that held everything together and set it and the note aside.

Absentmindedly turning the page of her book with one hand, she sipped from her mug held in her right hand, then briefly lost her grip as she set it down on the table, causing a small amount of her latte to splash over onto the note. She darted up, apologizing, and went over to get napkins to clean up the spill. The woman waved her hands, insisting that it was all right, it was only a small spill and it was just a cover note anyway, and it was while she was cleaning off the table that she got a good look at the now splotched piece of paper: teddy bears on the border.

She did a double take, then peered a little too closely for it to be considered normal behavior (after all, it wasn’t as if she was looking for stains to clean out). She tried envisioning the teddy bears on the envelopes, the checks, and found that there was an eerie similarity between the decorations she had memorized in her mind over the past three and a half years and the decorations that appeared before her.

Trying to cover up her burning curiosity with a tamer, more appropriate one, she asked what the woman was doing. The woman was an editorial assistant at a small publishing company in the city, and this was the first manuscript left in her charge — a new author they were thinking about debuting. She politely asked if it was any good, feigning moderate interest in its literary merits, and the woman replied that the first ten pages so far were rather captivating, albeit a bit sad and strange. She then asked if the woman wouldn’t mind sharing the name of this new author, just so she’d be able to be on the lookout for the title when it hit bookshelves. The woman hesitated, unsure if she was able to share somewhat confidential information with a complete stranger, then gave an awkward laugh before saying:

“Magnolia Daly.”

-----

Promising to deposit the exact amount into her account, he had asked his mom to send the money for him, knowing that if he used his own check, Navah’s mother might refuse the money, or worse, feel highly offended and hurt. Over the phone, all those years ago, his mom had only introduced herself as Maggie, no last name, so he figured the name wouldn’t be easily recognizable. In addition, his mother had kept her last name after marriage, being a writer who wanted to eventually publish something with her name on it, separate from her husband’s name, influence, and bank account. This made making a connection between him and his mom not as immediately perceivable, which was perfect.

“Why do you have to do this?” Jake had asked at a company luncheon.
“I don’t know. It just feels right.”
“I think it seems like...too much.”
“Too much money? Does it come off as burdensome, do you think?”
“No, it’s just creepy. And sad. I just think that if she ever found out the reason behind the check...she would be crushed, like as a mother.”
“I mean, it sounded like she wasn’t holding up that well from what Mrs. Dixon said, though.” Mrs. Dixon was the receptionist at the school where Navah’s mother taught until the economic crisis that occurred a few months before he started sending checks; Mrs. Dixon had also been his babysitter when he was a toddler. It was somewhat of a fluke that she had mentioned to his mom during yoga class how Navah’s mother — who sometimes let her borrow art books to browse when she was bored in the front office — was a phenomenal teacher, but now on the verge of being let go. At the mention of her last name, his mom immediately recognized it — it was rather unusual and memorable, Mrs. Dixon admitted as well — and relayed the information to him. At that point, he had been working in investment banking with Jake, straight out of college, and had been lucky enough to not have his livelihood mangled by the Great Recession; he worked constantly to keep his mind focused on something in the present because otherwise, the past kept threatening to keep him from living.
“But that’s not the point, kiddo. I know you’re thinking of this with good intentions, but it’s almost like you’re trying to make up for a person’s life with money, you know?”
He stared at his best friend for a while, collecting his thoughts before saying, “No. This is something I want to do.”

His mom, at first, didn’t agree with the task either — not because she thought he was out of his mind (which he could see others thinking), but because she was afraid it would eventually stir up trouble that should be left in the past. But he insisted that it would actually help him to heal, to know that he could help Navah’s mother out in this literal way, particularly in this time of need.
“I’ll stop once she gets back on her feet.”
“So a few months, you think?”
“However long it takes.”
He probably could have stopped with the first check since good news arrived about seven months later; Mrs. Dixon informed them that Navah’s mother had been able to get one part-time job at an arts-and-crafts-related non-profit and another as a kids’ educational events coordinator at the art museum. But he wanted to keep an eye on her, make sure nothing went awry. And when the economy went into a double-dip recession three years later, he didn’t bat an eyelash before sending off another check.

© 2012 by Sarah R.