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A Notebook for a Life

In a world disparaged by poverty and inequality, what difference could a little notebook make?

By Jesse HurdPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
1

“Lilly! If I catch your empty head daydreaming one more time, it will be the last day you set foot in this house!” Mrs. McCurdy’s shrill voice pierces through the silent air.

“Sorry, Mrs. McCurdy,” I mutter. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“It had better not,” she says, huffing her nostrils before turning on her heel and stomping away.

I don’t mean to get distracted. My thoughts often run away with themselves, especially when such a beautiful sunset sits above the glistening snow outside the windows. Despite that, I can’t risk losing what little money I make here. I’ll do better, or Mrs. McCurdy, the staff manager, will make good on her promise to fire me. With gusto, I resume the dull task of polishing the antiques which decorate the elaborate credenza.

When 8 PM hits, I zip to the kitchen to collect my jacket and canvas bag. Ted, the chef, passes me a playful wink, nodding toward the pantry door - a look I’ve seen many times. Excitedly, I hurry to follow him.

“Quick now, my dear,” he whispers. “Hide these before Mrs. McCurdy comes prowling.”

We quickly place some discarded food items in my bag. It’s just enough food for a small meal - little enough to hide underneath my black leather notebook and spare apron in case someone were to glance inside.

“Thanks, Ted,” I whisper with a quick hug to his eldery frame.

“Go home, now. Your brother will be missing you.”

The walk home is an hour long from Glasswood Estates with it’s expensive, massive, and immaculate homes, through a corner of the shopping district, and then into Rockwallow Division, where the majority of Denver’s residents live. It’s nearly impossible to tell where one dilapidated house starts and the other begins since they’re so crammed together. I live at Green’s Community Apartments, which is basically just a converted warehouse one step above a homeless shelter.

I stop at the last pharmacy before the streets morph into the dimly-lit, trash-covered, broken asphalt that leads home. The luminating corporate sign and power-washed walls are a stark contrast to the backdrop of Rockwallow Division. There’s a big clock on the front of the store counting down to New Years Day - 1 week, 3 days, and 7 hours until the year 2096.

“Good evening, Lilly,” the pharmacist nods as I approach the counter. “Just Lyon’s prescription today?”

“And some vitamins, please.”

“That’ll be $157.95”

“Why is it so much?” I ask

“The manufacturer bought out the only other company that makes it. Upped the price.”

“Forget the vitamins.”

“$130, then.”

I pull out the small wad of bills in my hand - the $140 that I’ve earned over the last 2 weeks. At least Ted gave me some food.

As I walk into Green Community Apartments I see Mable, the building manager, sitting at her makeshift desk, looking somewhat frantic.

“Hey, Mable. How’s it going?” I ask, startling her somewhat.

“Alright, I suppose, just a bit behind on work. Oh, and it looks like your rent is due tomorrow, by the way. Care to pay now?”

“Yeah, about that…” I mutter, staring at my feet. “Can I exchange some housekeeping again for another week’s worth of rent?”

Her eyebrows furrow. “I can try to arrange that, but the landlord has been awful snippy about cash payments. You’re not the only one trying to exchange work.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Lyon’s medicine got more expensive again,” I explain, not bothering to hide the worry in my voice.

Mable lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry, Lilly. I’ll do what I can. No promises”

“Thank you.”

I take the stairs to the second floor, follow the long, foul-smelling hallway to the end, and turn my key in the wiggly door knob. Our room is about 8x10, with 2 twin beds, a toilet, sink, minifridge, one cabinet, and one table. After kicking off my shoes, I sit on Lyon’s bed, and run my fingers through his curly, brown hair.

“Hey sis,” he groans in a sleepy voice. “How was work?”

“Just as awful as always,” I grin. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a million bucks. I think I might go out and look for work tomorrow,” he says before starting into a fierce coughing fit.

“You’re a terrible liar, and you won’t do anything except stay in bed and rest.”

“You can just keep taking care of me sis, I gotta do somethin’ too.”

“You don’t need to do anything except get better,” I whisper, choking back my own tears.

He squeezes my hand. We both know he won’t get better without proper treatment. That’s the worst part - he’s perfectly curable. He has a tumor growing in his abdomen. Eventually, it will kill him. A long time ago, the technology to cure him didn’t even exist. Nowadays all he needs is surgery and a course of specific intravenous medication to eliminate any residual cancer cells.

I tried to get him treated. Pleaded, begged, swore to spend the rest of my life paying back the $17,000 price tag. You can’t get medical care without upfront payment. Ted sometimes tells me stories about life in America when he was a boy. He says back then medical care was still really expensive, but they would always treat you no matter what and let you try to pay it back later. He says a lot of people could afford health insurance too, and were something he calls “middle class,” whatever that means. All I know is that there are the rich, and the rest of us. I once asked the older folks here what happened that changed things. They started talking about politics, using words and names I recognized, but didn’t really understand. Then they all started fighting over who’s fault it was and why. I never bothered to ask about it again.

Next week will be Lyon and I’s 19th birthday. We’re twins - abandoned at birth, which is common. A lot of people accidentally have kids they can’t afford to feed. Birth control is a luxury most people can’t afford and very few families foster or adopt children like they used to. Now, the foster care system just gives homeless children under 16 a place to sleep and eat in bunkhouse-style buildings. All children 10 and older are hired out for work to pay for the whole program.

As Lyon sleeps, I scribble my day down in my little black notebook. I don’t have many pages left, but I keep using it anyways, even though I won’t have the money to buy another one this nice. It’s made of soft, black leather. The binding is strong, the pages thick and crisp. 3 years ago, when I first started working for the Philipson family, I saw it unused in the trash can of the families’ only son and heir, Gabriel. He must have caught me staring at it as I emptied the bin, because he told me to keep it if I liked it.

Sleep eventually comes, but so does 4 AM. Before leaving, I wake Lyon up for his medicine. All it does is slow down the tumor’s growth a little and take all our money, but every day I have with my brother is worth the cost. Every time I buy it, I fear it will be the last day I can afford it.

Mrs. Mcurdy is already in the kitchen as I arrive at the Phillipson house, barking orders to the employees as they walk in. Ted is working on breakfast with Tiffany. Beth, the personal shopper, is starting the list for her morning run. The day is no different than usual, although Beth shares some gossip with Ted, Tiffany, and I during our brief lunch break.

“So, we all know Gabriel’s 21st birthday is next month,” she says. “Well, I overheard his father and him in the office earlier. He’s giving Gabriel money to start his own business with. $1,500,000!”

“That’s so much,” I say, wide-eyed.

“Hardly a fraction of what Mr. Philipson makes in a year though, I’m sure,” Tiffany comments. She’s not wrong.

I work exceptionally hard today so Mrs. McCurdy can’t find a reason to fire me after daydreaming yesterday. As I reach Gabriel’s room to clean, I see him inside reading something. Raising my hand to knock on the doorframe, I pause. He’s reading my black leather notebook. I’m paralyzed somewhere between anger, embarrassment, and terror. Eventually, his eyes shoot toward my frozen face, surprised.

“Sorry, Lilly,” he mutters, “I didn’t realize what time it is… and I shouldn’t have taken your journal. I found it on the kitchen floor, you must have dropped it on the way in. I opened it, and just sort of kept reading…”

He abruptly rises to his feet, shoves the notebook in my arms, and hurries down the stairs and out of the house to his car. I stand there dumbstruck for a moment before taking my notebook back to the kitchen and tucking it in the bottom of my bag. For the rest of the day, work consumes my attention.

After walking home many hours later, I find Lyon laying in a puddle of his own vomit, coughing.

“Are you ok?” I ask, filling a glass of water and throwing our only towel over the vomit.

“Yeah, sorry, sis, *cough* I tried to *cough* make it to the sink.”

“Shhh, it’s ok, don’t worry about it,” I say, cradling his head as tears start to drip down my cheeks.

“Will you read me something from your notebook?”

“Of course.”

I open my bag and notice my notebook isn’t in the bottom where I buried it, but sitting on top. There’s a thick envelope sticking out of the top with a note.

Lilly,

I hope this is enough. If it isn’t, come find me, please.

-Gabriel

I open the envelope and start shaking. It’s full of $100 bills - 200 of them.

“Lilly,” Lyon whispers, “what is that?”

“It’s… $20,000. Exactly.”

“What did you do? Please tell me you didn’t do anything bad for that.”

“It was Gabriel, I caught him reading my notebook today. He must have read about you, and the surgery you need”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Right now, we don’t say anything. We go straight to the hospital!”

____________________________________________________

Sitting in the waiting room while Lyon is in surgery, I pull out my black leather notebook and begin writing down the day’s events on the last remaining pages. Someone sits down next to me and I look over to see Gabriel’s deep gray eyes.

“Will he be alright?” he asks, concern lacing his features.

I smile brightly. “Yes, he will be.”

“Good,” he sighs.

I glance down, twisting my feet against the legs of the chair. “Another week and he wouldn’t have been. I don’t think I could have kept on living without him. What do I have to do to pay you back?”

“Dad gave me money today to start my own real-estate business. I want to build an apartment complex that gives people a safe, clean place to live, priced to fit their income. I’ll need a manager - you. I’ll give you a salary increase, and provide health insurance for you, Lyon, and everyone we hire. You’ll also get an apartment provided with the position. If it works, maybe someday we can build more of them.”

“I accept 1,000 times!” I say, unable to contain the excitement in my voice. “You have no idea how much this will change people’s lives… and mine... and Lyon's...”

“Today gave me an idea of my ability to make a big difference at such little sacrifice for myself. I’d like to do a lot more of that.”

“When do we start?”

“Tomorrow,” he says with a grin, extending his hand toward mine.

“I can’t wait,” I say, returning his grip with a firm shake - a promise for good things to come.

science fiction
1

About the Creator

Jesse Hurd

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