The Allowance Contract That Cost My Life

On the first of every month, my mother, Carol Evans, would review my performance from the previous four weeks before transferring my allowance. It wasn't money; it was a contract.

A mandatory good-morning or good-night text to your father and me earns you twenty dollars, her voice, sharp and precise, cut through the phone line. But you only managed ten days last month, which means two hundred dollars.

I gripped the phone, standing in the cramped kitchen of my off-campus apartment in Seattle.

And the three-hundred-dollar Excellence bonus is completely gone, of course. Full attendance, full communication, full grades. You know the rules.

My jaw was tight. Add that to your base stipend of one hundred and fifty, and this months grand total is three hundred and fifty dollars. Three hundred and fifty. The number felt like a physical slap.

Youll email me a written explanation for your poor performance. A signed, five-hundred-word apology and plan. When I deem it acceptable, Ill transfer the funds.

My voice, when I finally spoke, was thin with panic. Mom, I was taking my finals. I had to be at the library by five every morning just to grab a decent study spot. Thats why I missed those evening calls.

Tears were already stinging my eyes, a deep, hot shame mixing with despair. The Greyhound ticket home to Pine Grove, Idaho, for Spring Break is nearly six hundred dollars. Three hundred and fifty isn't enough. Mom, please, couldnt we just

She cut me off, her tone chillingly decisive. The allowance contract, Lara, was designed specifically for you. Its to help you break this entitlement and this deeply ingrained habit of expecting something for nothing. When will you understand my intentions?

The line went dead with a clipped snap.

Just as the wall of helplessness was about to crush me, a flash of bright, coppery-blond hair appeared in the common area of the student union. He looked entirely wrong, like a cheap caricature of a bad boy. A guy named Mitch.

He offered to buy my bus ticket. If I would just go with him.

I lowered my gaze, shame burning my cheeks. I I cant pay you back.

Mitch and the two guys flanking him exchanged a look, the kind of dismissive, condescending glance people give a lost kid.

No repayment needed, sweetheart, Mitch drawled, a cheap smile splitting his face. Just have dinner with us. Do a little celebrating. Ill give you the cash for the ticket right away.

A meal. Thats all it took to get the money to go home. The thought was intoxicating. I had to get home.

Just last week, Grandma Betty had called me from the corner store in Pine Grove, using Mrs. Hendersons landline. Shed made a point of saying shed fluffed up my quilt with the softest, newest cotton. Shed also spent an entire afternoon sun-drying my favorite pecan brittle in the yard. Take it all back to Seattle, shed said. Share it with your professors and classmates, ask them to keep an eye on you.

Grandma Betty raised me. She was seventy-eight. And last year, shed been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

Every visit now was a gifta precious, finite moment we wouldn't get back. A thousand miles away, she was waiting. Home was waiting. I squeezed the pitiful $350 in my pocket, the crumpled bills slick with the sweat of my anxiety. I took a deep, shaky breath, and then, I nodded at Mitch.

They took me to a dingy, off-the-grid rental house a few blocks from the bus station. Mitch gestured to a worn kitchen table where six bottles of cheap American beer were lined up. He slapped six hundred-dollar bills down next to them.

One hundred bucks a bottle, little girl. Finish all six, and your bus ticket is yours.

I stared at the cash. My grandmothers facewreathed in wrinkles, her eyes full of nothing but unconditional lovefloated in my vision. Youre too thin, sweetie, shed say, her hand stroking my cheek. Didnt you eat at school? Grandmas gonna cook you something good.

The tears came again, blurring the harsh lines of the room. I quickly wiped them away, giving myself a silent, desperate pep talk. You can do this, Lara. Mom always taught me that if youre a small-town kid, you have to work twice as hard and pay twice the price for what you want. This was just the price. Six bottles of beer, and Id be home. It was nothing.

I grabbed the nearest bottle, twisted the cap off, and began to chug.

I had never had alcohol before. It hit me like a physical blow, choking me, sending me into a fit of violent coughing. The men around me cheered and whistled, their eyes predatory, sweeping over my body with a sickening, vulgar familiarity. The air suddenly turned cold, and a terrifying, primal alarm screamed in my head.

I muttered something about needing the bathroom, scrambling to lock the flimsy door behind me. I immediately pulled out my phone and dialed my mothers number. She has to pick up. She has to.

It rang. Once. Twice. Then, a click. Mom, help

Her voice, loud and furious, cut me off before I could finish the word. Lara Evans, I am so utterly disappointed in you!

You always try to find a loophole. Always trying to break the system and cheat the rules. This need to get ahead without putting in the work is a moral failing! Her breath hitched with manufactured outrage. I am going to beat this disgusting entitlement out of you once and for all!

She slammed the phone down. I frantically tried to call her back, but the line went straight to voicemail.

The flimsy bathroom door exploded inward. Mitchs face was a mask of cold fury, and his hand clamped around my arm, yanking me out into the center of the room.

He was too strong. I couldn't break free. Fear paralyzed me, a cold shock that told me it was already too late to run.

I struggled, screaming and begging, but my pleas vanished into the indifferent air. They were like hunters with their prey, forcing the beer down my throat, bottle after bottle.

My vision swam, and the world dissolved into an endless, terrifying dark. I slipped into a nightmare where I was a blood-soaked lamb, cornered by a pack of wolves, helpless and waiting for the inevitable slaughter.

The next time I woke, I was on a bus heading home.

I blinked, dazed, then a wave of pure, thrilling excitement washed over me. I was on my way. I would see Grandma Betty soon.

But something was wrong. When the ticket attendant walked down the aisle, verifying each passenger, she passed right through me, as if I were thin air.

Once off the bus, I ran, my feet barely touching the ground. I had to get to her.

When I reached the edge of the village, I saw her immediately. Grandma Betty, frail and small, leaning on her old wooden cane, standing alone by the granite millstone at the town square. She was staring fixedly down the road where my bus should have come from.

A neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, walked by and gently touched her shoulder. Betty, its freezing out here. You really should go inside.

Grandma Betty shook her head stubbornly, a hopeful, heartbreaking smile on her face. She kept muttering, Just a little longer. Shell be here any minute.

I sprinted toward her, shouting, Grandma! Im home! Im right here! I threw my arms out, ready to fold myself into her familiar embrace.

My hands passed right through her body. No resistance. Nothing.

I stopped dead.

Im dead.

I had died in that rotten rental house, murdered for a six-hundred-dollar bus ticket. I died during the first Spring Break of my freshman year of college.

Grandma Betty waited until the sun had completely vanished below the horizon, and the light in her eyes faded, inch by painful inch. Shoulders slumped in disappointment, she slowly began the walk back home, her figure deeply bowed.

The old yellow Labrador, Max, who followed her everywhere, bounded up to me, whining excitedly, nudging my leg with his head. He could see me.

I followed Grandma Betty back to the house. A brand-new, sleek SUV was parked in the yard. My parents, Carol and Robert, were cheerfully unloading bags and boxes of expensive Christmas treats and gifts, their faces flushed with good cheer.

Since when could we afford a car like that?

Mom had been complaining all year that money was tight, that I needed to scrimp and save and stop asking for transfers.

My little brother, Toby, now seven, skipped out of the car and ran to Grandma Betty.

Grandma, wheres Lara? Why isnt she home yet? he asked. I wanted her to read me that storybook.

Grandma Betty gently touched his head. The bus tickets must have been hard to get, honey. She probably had to book for tomorrow.

At that, MomCarolslammed the heavy suitcase she was holding onto the gravel drive.

That spiteful little brat! she shrieked. Shes trying to punish me! Just because I docked her pathetic allowance, she refuses to come home!

She can stay gone for all I care! Ill pretend I never had a daughter! Her face was mottled with rage. She spends her fathers and my hard-earned money and cant even manage a polite phone call every day. An ungrateful little wretch!

I stood right in front of her, waving my hands, frantic. Mom, no! Im not spiteful! I didnt refuse to come home! Im here! You just cant see me!

Im not ungrateful! I tried so hard! I got the highest GPA in my entire major last semester!

But no matter how loudly I screamed or how wildly I waved, they couldn't hear me. They couldn't see me.

Grandma Betty went inside, and I followed, leaning gently against her back, just as I used to when I was little. I inhaled the familiar, comforting scent of old cotton and lavender, wishing the moment would never end.

She put on her reading glasses and pulled a battered wooden box from under her bed. She opened it carefully, revealing three small bundles wrapped in faded floral cloth.

She opened the first one. Inside was a passbook.

This is my life savings, she murmured, a gentle smile lifting the corners of her mouth. Fifty thousand dollars. Im saving it for my Lara. For her wedding. A girl needs money of her own so she can stand tall and never be looked down on by her in-laws.

She had terminal cancer and wouldn't even buy her own medicine, but she was hoarding every penny for me. My eyes were wet. So ghosts can cry.

She unwrapped the second cloth. Two heavy, golden bracelets glittered inside. Shed never worn them, but they were polished until they shone.

Grandma Betty fell silent, lost in a memory. These were my mothers, given to me on my wedding day. They are the most precious things I own. She sighed, a deep, weary sound. Oh, I just wish I could hold on a little longer. Wait for my little girls wedding day so I can put them on her myself.

I was sobbing now, a tearing, ragged sound no one could hear. Grandma, Im so sorry! I cant do that! I cant wait!

Finally, she opened the third bundle. Inside was a neatly folded piece of paperthe deed to the old property.

A thread of guilt entered her voice. Your parents already bought Toby a big house in the city, and hes only five. (She didn't know he was seven). Im just a foolish old woman, I cant buy you a mansion. But this old farmhouse it will always be here to shelter you.

If you ever get hurt out there, you come home to your own place. And if you miss me, you go to my grave on the east side of the cemetery and tell me about it. I promise you, I will hear you.

I flung myself at her, screaming the truth. Im dead! Use this money for your treatment! Forget me! Dont worry about me! Live!

But my cries were silenced by the veil between worlds. I could only watch, paralyzed, as she lovingly tucked the wooden box back under the bed, her eyes full of bright, impossible hope.

At dinner, Carol prepared a massive feast. Grandma Betty sat at the table, taking only a few small bites. She kept glancing at the door, her face a heartbreaking mixture of hope and anxiety.

Robert, my father, finally broke the strained silence. Maybe we should just call her, Carol.

My mother instantly slammed her chopsticks down. Her face darkened. Call her what? Youre both spoiling her rotten! Do you think I dont know how to raise my own daughter?

Im telling you now, no one is calling her today. She needs to reflect. We cant enable her selfish, ungrateful behavior!

Grandma Betty, already frail, was so startled by the sudden violence that she began to cough uncontrollably. Robert rushed to pat her back.

Carol spoke to Grandma Betty with a brittle, forced firmness. Mom, I have to say this. Lara is undisciplined because of how youve raised her. My allowance system is good for her.

Its teaching her the rules of the working world before she enters it. She needs to understand that you pay the price before you get the reward! No handouts!

As her grandmother, your indulgence isnt love, its a handicap. Shell be eaten alive by the real world if she doesnt learn boundaries!

Grandma Betty was a meek, gentle soul who had never raised her voice in her life, much less argued with her son and daughter-in-law. Her lips trembled as she tried to argue, but the words wouldn't come. She just sat there, her eyes welling up with tears, looking like a helpless child.

After a long, painful silence, Grandma Betty finally found her resolve. If you two wont call my girl, I will.

If you wont let her come home, I will!

She struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on her cane.

My mother was instantly livid. She pointed a trembling finger at Grandma Bettys back. See! This is exactly how youve spoiled Lara! Shell never be able to adapt to a tough environment! Shell never be successful!

Driven by a blinding, self-righteous fury, Carol stormed toward my old bedroomthe room Grandma Betty had carefully prepared for my return.

A knot of dread tightened in my ethereal chest, and I followed her in.

I watched as Mom violently yanked my brand-new, fresh-smelling quilt off the bed and threw it onto the dusty floor. She stomped on it twice, her mouth twisted in a snarl. She wants to cross me? Fine! She won't sleep under this! She can stay out in the cold!

Then, she turned her attention to the wall. It was covered in ribbons, plaques, and awardsmy achievements from elementary school all the way through high school. They were my pride, and Grandma Bettys joy.

Carol began to rip them off the wall, tearing them into small, vicious shreds.

What good are these stupid papers? Can they buy her food? Can they teach her respect? she screamed. Ungrateful, entitled! All the awards in the world dont change the fact that shes a deadbeat! A nothing!

I looked at the fragments of my hard-won honors scattered on the floor and screamed at her, a silent, raging plea.

Mom, Im not spoiled! I worked so hard!

I was hauling buckets of water to help Grandma water the garden when I was five!

I cooked, I did the laundry, I took care of Grandma when she was sick. I knew you struggled for money; I never complained.

Grandma and I lived on welfare and food stamps. I was careful with every single penny. I never wasted a thing!

I pointed to the closet, begging her to open it. Every garment inside was old, mended, patched. If she wouldn't believe me, she could ask the neighbors, the teachers. Everyone knew I was kind, devoted, and a hard worker.

Grandma Betty always told me that my parents loved me, but they were just too busy building their lives. I worked myself to exhaustion, studied until I was numb, and tried to be the perfect, dutiful daughter so I wouldn't be a burden, so they would finally like me.

Just then, a hurried commotion and the sound of heavy boots came from the doorway.

A relaxed smile spread across Roberts face. See, Carol? I told you. She came back. The kid caved.

Mom instantly straightened, her spine rigid with smug vindication.

The door burst open, and Mayor Thompson, the head of our village council, stumbled in, his face ghostly.

Carol saw him and assumed Id sent him to mediate. She crossed her arms, a cold, unyielding mask settling on her face. Uncle Thompson, did Lara send you to talk us down? Well, you can tell her no. She made a mistake, and she needs to face the consequences.

You tell her to write that five-thousand-word letter of apology and read it out loud in the town square. Otherwise, she is not setting foot in this house!

The Mayors jaw dropped. He was frantic, shaking his head and waving his arms.

Grandma Betty was looking past him, desperate. Where is my girl, Thompson? Tell me, where is she?

The Mayor looked at Carols self-satisfied face, and his own face crumpled. He stomped his foot and let out a tortured cry.

Theres been a tragedy! You blind, foolish parents! How could you push your child to this point?