The Check My Aunt Held Up Had Never Been In My Hands

My aunt asked me to thank her for helping my sick son, then held up a check with my name on it. I had never seen that check.

Around us, forks stopped moving.

We were in the family dining room at Bay Lantern Children's Hospital in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The tables had paper flowers. A woman near the door had been taking pictures for the hospital newsletter.

My son, Eli, had saved his little cup of pudding for last.

"Six thousand four hundred dollars," Aunt Celia said. "And June still came here asking for more."

I looked at the paper. Then I looked at her.

"What money?"

She gave a tired smile to the people at our table.

"This is the hard side of helping family."

I was thirty-three, with brown skin, a thick black braid, and work shoes I had glued at the toes.

My aunt Celia wore a cream pantsuit, small gold glasses, and a pearl pin shaped like a bird.

She ran Cypress Basin Linen in Lafayette. I worked there fixing torn sheets and counting bundles on the late shift. For thirty hours a week, I earned $14 an hour. She also chaired the small foundation that paid for this lunch and helped families stay near the hospital.

Eli was eight. His kidneys did not work as they should. His care team had planned eight weeks of close visits and treatment in Baton Rouge.

We lived almost an hour and a half away.

I had asked the foundation for help with a room and travel. A woman on the phone had said my request was approved. Then Celia had called and told me there was a problem with the funds.

That morning, a hospital social worker had invited us to lunch so we could meet her and talk about other help.

I had $386 in my checking account. I had brought crackers in my bag in case lunch cost money.

"I never got a check," I said.

Celia tilted the page toward the man beside her.

"Then perhaps you should explain where it went."

He wore a board member's name tag. His name was Leon Pike.

"Celia," he said quietly. "We shouldn't discuss an application here."

"I agree. But she keeps asking our staff."

"I asked once."

Eli put down his spoon.

"Mom, did we spend somebody else's money?"

Every face near us seemed to turn toward him.

I reached for his hand under the table.

"No, honey."

"Then why is she mad?"

Across the room, the social worker stood up. Mara Teal had a yellow folder tucked under one arm.

"Eli," she said, coming over, "the volunteer has those paper boat kits you wanted. Your mom and I need to talk about some forms."

He looked at me first.

I nodded. The volunteer's table was right beside the open door. I could see every chair.

"Save the pudding," he whispered.

"I will."

When he was out of earshot, I held out my hand.

"Let me see it."

Celia pulled the copy against her chest.

"You don't get to make a scene."

I heard someone set down a glass.

"You stood up," I said. "You said my name. You showed them a check. Let me see it."

Leon turned to her.

"Give June the copy."

She placed it on the table as if she were setting down something dirty.

It was dated three weeks earlier. The line for the name said June Bell. The amount was $6,400. A note at the bottom said FAMILY STAY AND TRAVEL.

My street address was wrong. It was the linen company's address.

"That isn't where I live."

"It was safer to receive it at work," Celia said.

"Who received it?"

"June, don't do this."

Mara pulled out a chair beside me.

"Did anyone give you funds, a room, or travel vouchers?"

"No."

"Did you authorize someone to collect this grant?"

"No."

Celia's smile went away.

"She forgets things. She's under strain."

I had forgotten a load of towels once. I had forgotten to buy sugar for a school sale. I had not forgotten $6,400 while counting quarters for the hospital parking lot.

The newsletter woman lowered her camera. Leon asked her to step outside with him, and she did.

Mara said, "We can check the payment record."

"This is foundation business," Celia said.

"And June is the named recipient."

My hands shook so much that I laid the paper flat.

I had worked for my aunt for eleven years. She knew exactly how much I earned. She knew I had used my last paid day off the week before.

Still, she had watched Eli ask if we had taken money.

"I want the back of the check," I said.

An hour later, Mara brought me a copy supplied by the foundation's bookkeeper. Eli was beside the volunteer, putting a blue sail on his boat.

I turned the page over.

Under my printed name were six words in my aunt's neat hand.

"June Bell, by Celia Voss, agent."