Check that again

I can definitely use twenty-thousand dollars. In fact, it’s exactly what I need, at exactly this moment in time. My phone rings morning to night from bill collectors. I’m living on a cash basis these days (and not much of it). And, as it happens, I’ve just negotiated a payment settlement with the IRS - for twenty-thousand dollars I do not have. It might as well be a million dollars.

But . . who in the heck is Richard Gandry? I stare at the check written out to me. I’ve never heard of this person in my life.

Handwriting: neutral. Can’t determine if male or female writer.

Date: March 6, 2015- over five years ago.

Bank: Wells Fargo, branches in virtually every city.

Location: a nondescript little black notebook I just found in an old purse of Mom’s. What the heck?

Going through Mom’s stuff is gut-wrenching, but I’ve become accustomed to it – I’m like a kid just holding her breath and eating those Brussels sprouts. One cool part though? It can be kind of a treasure hunt, because she stashed cash all over the place. Growing up, I had to dust her room thoroughly each week, and back then I knew several of her stash locations. “A lady,” she told me, “must make sure she always has her own money put away.” That money’s presence, week after week, gave me a sense of security.

Since her Alzheimer’s, I’ve been going through the personal corners of her life for years, to an extent that feels undignified. Looking for misplaced things. Bringing order to the drawers and surfaces she chaotically jumbled. Her disease marched on and closet purges became regular. She became skin and bones because she forgot to eat, and terribly, her body simply stopped accepting nutrients from her food. Long before memory care, she stopped working. From a shoulder-pad-wearing 90s-style icon who was never seen without lipstick and highlighted hair, she morphed into a ratty tie-dye shirt, ill-fitting bra, and orthopedic shoe wearing, split-end-sporting, shifty-eyed woman.

I’ve gone through her jewelry to rescue the quality pieces before they disappeared; I’ve simplified her beauty product arsenal. Regularly, I found relics of her autonomous days: hem tape, large jars of Vaseline (a multi-purpose beauty product my friends and I have never used in our lives), a marijuana one-hitter. Finding cleverly hidden hordes of cash in the course of these unwanted missions is satisfying at a high level. But, while forgotten folds of currency give me a thrill . . .intentionally hidden money? It’s different. It seems to come with a message, or a motherly caution. “Take care of yourself.” “Put some away.” “There’s a reason I had this, and you should, too.”

The little black notebook I find today is a random collection of appointment reminders, incomplete sentences, and scraps taped in. Aside from the Gandry check, there are business cards, receipts, torn pictures, unused stamps, and it gives off a vibe of disjointed thinking.

Obviously, it’s from the phase of her disease when she left prolific notes for herself- or for us. Little commentaries, really, or observations. “Put this powder on the baby at the beach.” “Me, Frank, Millie and friend at a park in Pennsylvania,” on a photo. “Shampoo, yogurt, paintbrush.” She never embraced using calendars or diaries. Instead she relied on us to help her manage- the calendars were actually for us.

I flip through the entire thing page by page, looking for any other mention of Richard Gandry. None. No other notations around March of 2015, either.

I’m reluctant to read through this notebook now, because then I’ll be immersed in the upsetting realities of Mom shattering one piece at a time. As it is, every trip through a drawer or closet is confrontational: “what was she thinking when she put four ugly old keychains on a weird rope?” “this abandoned painting makes it obvious she couldn’t translate her ideas to the canvas anymore,” or “here’s another message to herself – ‘Dina, Tuesday, 8:30, Aquafit.’”

It’s sad; I’m sad. The spidery penmanship is unusual for her. There are records here that only we would recognize are her lap times: “3/12: 100 Free - 1:25.” Freestyle. She was an athlete, and met my stepdad at the pool, both of them competing at the Masters levels in Nationals. Swimming, with 50 years of muscle memory, was one of the last things she had to give up.

I’m relieved when I get through the notebook, and I don’t know what to do with it. There were no clues about Gandry, but I’m not ready to trash this evidence of my mother’s last semi-coherent months. I’m at a loss, sitting on the floor of her closet. By reflex, I dial my best friend.

“Whaaaat!?” she drawls out over the phone. “Oh my god girl- the check is from your real dad, who your Mom kept secret your whole life! That has got to be it!”

My best friend has a great imagination and employs it well. I grin. “Depending on how rich he is, maybe my actual Dad won’t even mind at this point!” I crack up.

“Well, you have to get to the bottom of this. Get back in there and look for clues!” she orders cheerily.

“I’ve looked, and I’m swamped already,” I complain. “You know I can’t waste my time on fake news. You know what I hear right now? My kids crashing into furniture and cackling. They need distractions, spankings, and Jesus, and I have to give all of those to them,” I say.

“Girl. I know you’re barely scraping by,” she observes, “and I also know you are the most randomly lucky person I’ve ever met. It sounds to me like you can’t afford not to figure it out. You know what you always say? God sends us just what we need, at just the right time. Go make those kids earn their keep and help you look,” she wisely advises.

I hang up, smiling. In any case, this Richard Gandry dude’s identity is at least a secondary concern. Because first things first - is this check even still cashable? What’s the law on that? I mean, if it isn’t cashable, my main problem is still finding $20,000 – and I don’t give a rip who Gandry is. Or wait, do I?.

Later, I’m standing on the edge of the pool, holding my daughter’s warm squirmy body. She whoops with delight, knowing I’m going to throw her in. A daredevil, she’s ecstatic about it. “One . . .” I threaten as I swing her slightly. “Two . . .” I say as I swing my own body back and forth. The dark blue water quivers invitingly. “Threee!” I yell, and fall over the edge with her, releasing my arms as we plunge. Oh my goodness I love the feeling of the water closing over my head. It fills up all the space between my hair strands and makes them gently wave around. I hear her above the surface laughing, and I pop my head back up, grinning.

“Mamaaa!! You fell in!” she observes excitedly. “I’m so clumsy!” I joke back to her.

“Can we do a dolphin ride?” she asks. My son pipes in from the other side of the pool where he’s diving for pennies: “Then me, then me!”

“Of course, y’all. Now - you have to help and kick, don’t forget,” I remind her.

The dolphin rides remind me, predictably, of Mom. She taught me and my brother how to swim this same way. The kid goes on your back, arms over your shoulders, and you swim the length of the pool. You can do any stroke you want - breaststroke, freecrawl, my weird stroke with a corkscrew leg pattern. I urge them to straighten their legs and practice kicking as they float on my back. We swim underwater at the end, so they can practice breath holding.

My kids absolutely love it. I love doing it with them, but here at Mom’s house, I feel a tightness in my heart. I want her to be the one teaching them to swim. I always visualized the water as the place she’d take the lead with them. They’d associate her with swimming, like I always did.

But now, their fingers are pruny and they demand snacks. I settle them in with a picnic and a board game, and decide a quick call to Wells Fargo is something I can handle. The bank will be all business, and I don’t have to necessarily think about Mom. Wine: optional. Five minutes later, I’m hanging up with a grimace. Short version from the bank: bring it in and we’ll see.

I search online for Richard Gandry. Problematically, I have no idea where Gandry is from. Geography matters. I get Richard Gendry, and a Robert Richard Gandry from the 1940 census. Fail.

So . . . how did she convince this stranger to write me a check for $20,000? The thing is, she often exaggerated about me. For instance, she’d tell people I was “fluent” in French - I’m not. I’m a halting, basic conversationalist and have still never done an immersion program, though I’ve wanted to since college. I resented her exaggerations – self-serving brags- divorced from the everyday reality of “me.” They made me feel unseen. And that was all before the Alzheimer’s.

So really, who knows what she told Richard Gandry? Ol’ Ricky could very well be under the impression that I am an accomplished equestrian, starting a nonprofit to help troubled youth through riding lessons. His would have been my first donation. Or Rich could have been her sugar daddy . . . an affair on the side . . . and my bank account was going to be her “stash” account, safekeeping her escape money for a rainy day. I snicker to myself at that one.

* * * * * * * *

Kelly at Wells Fargo is handing the check back to me. I’ve been here for sixty-seven minutes waiting, dispensing lollipops, playing “twenty questions,” and now the kids are glued to my phone, not destroying the lobby.

“So sorry that took so long. Our branch manager tracked down where the account was out of, and we had to speak to that branch’s manager,” Kelly explains.

“Oh? Fantastic. What branch was that?” I ask with a gleam in my eye.

“Well, we can’t disclose any information about the account, for confidentiality reasons,” she says. “Umm, based upon the age of the check, we aren’t required to honor it. Usually checks over 180 days old are evaluated on a case by case basis.”

Hmmm, I think. I wait. She goes on.

“What I can tell you is this: the account is still open, and it is theoretically possible that the check could be honored. In fact, if you want to try to cash it, the best thing for you to do is leave it with us. Management will contact the account holder about whether he authorizes the check now,” she finishes.

I look away, focusing on a ficus tree in the corner.

Is Gandry one of those secrets that should stay a secret? A creep who will want something unsavory in return for this five year old windfall?

Or . . . is he a winning lottery ticket Mom left me. I look at the kids, engrossed in a puzzle game. Without $20,000 falling out of the sky, we are looking at years of thrift store shopping and PBJs.

I think about a saying my friends and I repeated often in our twenties. “Just be sure you come away with a good story.” The next generation adapted this to: YOLO.

I look up at Kelly, and we smile at one another. I hope this is the most interesting thing in her work week. She hands me a pen, and I wonder who she will tell about it over drinks later.