My Sister's Money

I stand on the corner of the street, waiting. My thoughts are tangling together, growing more frustrated by the second – he’s late as he always is – while I shiver in my dress; it's completely inappropriate for a winter night. White, strapless and floor-length, the material is thin and it’s just hilariously old fashioned; any young person crossing my path tonight will either laugh or stare. I’m used to it though – it’s worth it for the amount of money he pays me, and trust me, I need that money.

He finally arrives in his fancy car and I shuffle through the snow quickly, hoping my feet aren’t turning blue yet. He makes me go bare foot too, whether it be winter or summer. I don’t understand and I don’t think I want to understand. I just accept it; it’s easier than fighting it and trying to get another job that pays the same amount of money.

He drives off, me in the passenger seat beside him. Our conversation goes the same way as every other night. Yes, I do this every single night; anything to get enough money. I don’t care about how tired I am or how I’m probably going to flunk out of university. I don't even care when people judge me because of this job. Those are just a few disadvantages that are nothing when I think about what I'm putting the money to.

Out of the people that know about it, some call me an actor. That's probably the best way to put it. Some even go as far as to call me a prostitute, but I’ve never actually had sex with the guy. A few have called me a dance teacher, but that’s so wrong; he already knows how to dance, did before I even knew him. Someone even once called me a counsellor that was making him hold onto his grief rather than let it go.

I started this job about six months ago, after the other girl he used quit, and I was getting pretty close to the sum of the money I needed. I know I’m acting the part of his dead wife, who’d died three years ago from cancer. To be honest, I think this is the only thing keeping him going. Doesn’t that make me feel special? Being honest again, it doesn’t, it’s just going to make me feel really bad when I quit. Maybe he’ll just get another girl that looks similar to how his wife looked – although younger – to replace me.

Suddenly, he slams his hand on to the steering wheel and I realise I’ve forgotten to answer. I used to do that a lot when I first started, but I quickly learned not to because of how scary his anger can be. Knowing apologising just makes it worse, I say, “Yes, I agree. It is warm tonight, isn’t it?” No matter how cold it is, that’s still the line I have to say. Only recently did I realise he's reliving the night before his wife was taken to hospital and told she had cancer. I only realised this because one of my brother’s friends was talking about how destroyed he became after taking his collapsed wife to hospital the morning after that one summer night, when it was unusually warm.

He calms down and replied, “Yes. It’s not affecting you too much, is it?” I never understand that line but then again, I never understand many of the lines we go through. I shake my head slowly and a second later, speak a no. Every movement, every word, has been practised through and has to be exact.

“That’s good. Shall we go straight home then?” Our boring conversation continues on until we reach his house and I know I have to wake up properly now, because if I don’t, he’ll notice.

He walks me through his door and, like every other night, we have dinner – something fancy I don’t know the name of – at his large dining table. Sometimes I wonder why he didn’t hire a professional actor; with the amount of money he’s got, surely he’d be able to. But no, he hired me, someone who’s never acted before in their life and just wanted a job to get the money I needed.

After dinner, we dance and even though I personally don’t like dancing, I go along with it. The night passes; we do the usual things and then we go to sleep in the same bed. I’ve never liked sleeping in a stranger’s bed but I don’t let out one single complaint. The morning is the same dull, slow breakfast and conversation and then he drives me to the hospital, where I start to walk home, a new envelope of money in my pocket. Depending on how well I’ve acted, the amount of money changes. An excitement is bubbling in me just like it did yesterday and the day before. I’m so close to the amount I need!

I arrive home and rush to my room, pausing to say a quick hello to my parents; they know about my job but they’re just as distressed as me to get the money we need and, seeing how they’ve both lost their jobs and are still looking for new ones, they’re relying on me.

When I’ve made it to my room, I pull out my wooden box and count out the notes again, just like I do every other morning. It’s still the same amount and, with trembling fingers, I open my new envelope and add those notes to the others. Finally finished counting, I sit still for a moment and then another moment, just staring. Then, coming to my senses – well sort of, anyway – I let out a screech of delight and shove the notes into the box again, racing out of the house with my parents following behind, exchanging confused expressions.

Running as fast as I can, I actually begin to cry with happiness, each tear containing a little part of my joy and relief and just plain happiness. I’ve finally earned enough money to allow my sister the operation she needs to stay alive.