Money

MONEY

Bree

“Thank you! It’s just what I wanted!”

I looked down at the nightgown my mom just gifted me. It was a lovely gift.  Problem was that it was the nightgown that I had gifted her last year. My mom had actually picked it out, and I bought it for her.  

What to say … What to say …

“This is a really nice nightgown, Mom,” I said, holding it up for her to see.

“It is nice! I really like it. It reminds me of you,” she said, smiling, completely oblivious of the fact that it reminded her of me because I gave it to her last Christmas.

What to say … What to say …

“Where did you get it?” I asked, still smiling.

She sat and thought about it for a moment.

“I’m not sure. Online, maybe?” She looked a bit confused. “I’m thinking Amazon?”

“Ahh.”

It was not Amazon. I had, in fact, purchased the nightgown from Nordstroms — not because it was Nordstrom’s and it had been expensive, but because my mom liked it.  My mom’s taste in clothes differs considerably from mine. She’s in her sixties, chic and sophisticated. I’m in my forties, and cannot think of any occasion where I shouldn’t wear jeans. The nightgown had Mom written all over it — it was taupe, flow-y, and made of satin. I imagined her wearing something fancy and super elegant on her feet to go with the nightgown. In fact, I had purchased the matching robe for her this year. She just hadn’t opened it yet. In contrast, nighttime apparel for me was usually an oversized t-shirt, track pants, and lime green Crocs. I don’t even own anything made of satin. 

And, there was the issue of size. Mom’s a trim size four. I, on the other hand, am a solid size fourteen.

What to say … What to say …

“Uh, Mom, I’m not sure that this is going to fit me.” I held it up front of me.

“Nonsense!” she said, shaking her head. “It’s perfect.”

I check the size.  

“Mom, it’s a size four. I haven’t been a size four since I was four.”

“Nonsense!” she said. “I specifically asked Frannie to make sure she got the right size.”  

I just gazed at her, placidly. It took a second before she realized that she’d just ratted herself out. She looked a bit sheepish.

“I was running a bit behind this year, and I asked Frannie to help me with some of my shopping, that’s all.”

I continued to look at her, saying nothing.

“It’s fine, Bree, I gave her the money and she bought the gifts for me. I didn’t give her my credit card. I gave her cash — cash that I withdrew from the ATM. She didn’t get my PIN number.” She looked at me a little hurt. “I’m not stupid, Bree. I know you’re sister can’t be trusted with money.”

Can’t be trusted with money was an understatement. I looked at my mom, feeling her pain.

It was Christmas morning, just Mom and I sitting around the tree.

“Where is Frannie, by the way?” I asked Mom. Last I had heard she was going to be spending the night at Mom’s so that we could be all together Christmas morning.

“Something came up at work. She said that she’d be here later.”

I knew that Frannie had lost her job last month, as well as her licence to practice law. Big surprise — she’d been caught siphoning off money from her client accounts.

What to say … What to say …

Frannie

“So, Frannie,” said Dr. Wilbur, Frannie’s therapist. “How was Christmas?”

They were in Dr. Wilbur’s office. It was the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day. Frannie looked down at her hands in her lap.

“I’m not sure that’s what I want to talk about this week.”

“Okay, Frannie, what do you want to talk about?”

“My sister Bree. She hates me.”

Dr. Wilbur and Frannie had spoken a lot about Bree, not all of it affirming.

“Why do you say that, Frannie?”

“Well, she called me up on Christmas night, and reamed me for ruining Christmas.” Frannie looked out the window of the office.

“Why did she say that?”

“She said I stole from our mother.”

“Did you steal from your mother?”

Frannie returned her gaze to her hands, avoiding Dr. Wilbur’s gaze.

“Not really.”

Dr. Wilbur tried to keep her face neutral. They had spoken about Frannie and money more often than they had spoken about Frannie and Bree.  

“Frannie,” said Dr. Wilbur, “You either stole from your mother or you didn’t. Which is it?”

“My mom gave me money to buy some Christmas gifts. Something for Bree, and something for myself.”

“Did you buy the gifts?”

“No, not really.” Frannie sighed. “I took things from Mom’s house, and wrapped them up as gifts, and kept the money.” Frannie looked at her therapist. “Including my own gift, I might add. So, technically I screwed myself out of a gift as well.”

Dr. Wilbur said nothing.

“I happened to have given Bree the nightgown that she gave Mom last year, for Christmas.” Pause. “I took things that Mom didn’t use too often. I figured that Bree and I could just give her the stuff back after the holidays. No harm, no foul, right?”

Dr. Wilbur continued to look at Frannie.

“What did you do with the money you were supposed to buy gifts with?”

“I put it in my investment account, of course.”

Frannie and Dr. Wilbur had been through this a number of times. Frannie recognized that she had a problem. She hoarded money. In fact, that was why she was in therapy with Dr. Wilbur. When she lost her law licence, the Law Society offered her a lifeline — intensive therapy, both individual and group, for one year. Take a legal ethics course. Be able to show improvement. That’s where Dr. Wilbur entered the picture. Dr. Wilbur had to sign-off on Frannie’s rehabilitation.  

Frannie’s ability to practice law was not at issue. It was her inability to keep her hands off of other people’s money that caused all her problems. When the Law Society had investigated complaints by clients about missing funds, Frannie was able to return all the money, with interest. She had not spent any of it. Instead, she had squirrelled it away in a high interest account. That was her only saving grace — the reason that the Law Society hadn’t stripped her of her licence and kicked her to the curb. Frannie had not spent any of the misappropriated funds. She had just put it all in her investment account. Unethical, yes, but not strictly illegal as she could account for every cent. But still, not something lawyers were supposed to do. They had special accounts for client funds.

In the almost two months that Frannie had been in therapy, she had admitted to having an insatiable need to take other people’s money. She likened herself to the dragon, Smaug, in The Hobbit. He never did anything with the jewels and gold he stole, he just hoarded it in his cave. Frannie was just like Smaug, but with other people’s money.

Frannie and Bree

I watched as Frannie left her therapist’s office. I met her on the sidewalk in front of the building.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, concern written on her face.

“I think we need to talk,” I said. “About Christmas.”

“I thought you hated me?” said Frannie.

I looked at her.

‘You know I don’t hate you. I’m just annoyed. And disappointed.”

I could tell by the way her face sagged that I had hit a nerve. Frannie was always trying to win the approval of all those around her. It didn’t matter who or when. In elementary school she tried to win the approval of her teachers. In secondary school, her peers. In university if was her professors, roommates, friends. At work, other lawyers, clients, even the housekeeping staff who cleaned her offices at night. But at the top of the list was me. I was older, and she had always looked up to me.

“Frannie, you have to give Mom back her money, and confess to her what you’ve done.”

She was appalled.  

“There is no way that I can do that.” She shook her head. “Bree, she’d hate me. She asked for a favour, and I stole from her. There’s no way I can give her back the money.”

We were still standing in front of Dr. Wilbur’s office.

“Let’s get a coffee, and talk about a plan.”

We walked to the café across the street without speaking. Once inside I went up to the counter and ordered two cappuccinos.

When I handed Frannie her drink, she looked at me.

“Bree, I can’t do what you asked me to do. It’s too much, too soon.”

“But you can’t leave Mom hanging. She knows what you did. You have to own it, Frannie.”

Her eyes filled with tears.  

“I can’t,” she whispered.

We sat in silence, both of us ignoring our drinks.

“Will you do it for me?” she asked, finally.

“It’s not my place, Frannie. It’s your mess, and you need to clean it up.”

“I can’t,” she repeated. “I will literally have a break down if I go into my account to withdraw money. That’s why everything in my life is automated. If I didn’t set all my accounts up that way, I wouldn’t be able to pay my bills. I can’t bear the thought of making a withdrawal. It’s almost a physical pain.”

“Okay, fine,” I said. “Give me your PIN, and I’ll take the money out. But you’re going to have to physically hand the money to Mom.”

She agreed, and gave me the information I needed to get the money out of the bank.

We met back up at Mom’s place, and Frannie made a heartfelt apology, explaining that she was trying to do the right thing now, by giving back the money.

“I thought you’d hate me,” she said to Mom, crying.

Mom’s eyes were misty as well. She took Frannie’s hands.

“I could never hate you, Sweetie.” She smiled at her younger daughter. “You have a problem, and you’re trying to get better. We’re here for you.”

Mom looked at me and smiled. I nodded my head.

“I know it’s hard,” said Mom. “Your dad had problems with money as well.”

Boy did our dad did have a problem with money. In fact, it was so much of a problem that he was in prison serving a twenty year sentence for embezzling from his company.  

Frannie hesitated handing Mom the two hundred dollars that I had withdrawn from her account. It was only two hundred dollars, but giving back the cash was extremely difficult for Frannie. She took a big breath, stuck her hand out, and handed over the money to Mom.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I hope I won’t do it again.”

Mom and Frannie hugged each other, crying.  

Bree

Later that night, once I was at home, I sat down at my computer, and using Frannie’s PIN, logged into her account.

I was shocked. She had over three point four million dollars in her investment fund.  

Holy cats! She sure knew how to invest.  

Unless …

I went back further into her records, and there is was. A giant deposit from a numbered account in the Caymans, over two point nine million. 

Dad.

He’d sent her the money before he was sent to prison.  

I worked on the computer for a few more minutes, making sure about what I was seeing. Then I phoned Frannie.

“Why didn’t you tell us that Dad gave you a boat-load of money before he went to prison?”

“I was going to, really,” she stuttered.

“Really, Frannie? When?” My voice was angry. I was angry.

“I was. Honestly. He told me to split the money three ways. I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

“He’s been in jail for almost ten years, Frannie. When were you going to 'get around to it?'”

I was furious. Mom struggling to make ends meet after Dad went to prison, having to sell the house, and a lot of her “treasures” as she called them. Me working two jobs during school, living in crappy apartments, swamped with student loans.

“I … I … I couldn’t do it. You saw how hard it was today. Imagine having to share all that money.”

“You don’t have to worry about it anymore, Frannie. I've done it for you,” I said. “And, thank you! It’s just what I wanted. Almost three million dollars.”  

I hit the enter key, and all the money disappeared from Frannie’s account, into a new numbered account in the Caymans.  

I heard Frannie scream. I disconnected the call.

I guessed stealing money was genetic, after all.