I gathered all my belongings into a well-worn black backpack. My possessions were scanty making the bag accommodate my clothes, toiletry bag, my laptop, and the tech gear I'd "borrowed" from the university. I powered my laptop and arranged for an Uber to transport me to the airport.
Glancing back at the dormitory – half pink, half abandoned – I couldn't help but laugh. As I shut the door, a wave of gratitude washed over me, knowing that I'd never have to return.
My steps brimmed with joy as I strolled through the deserted campus. An absurd grin plastered across my face. I eventually found my Uber driver, settled into the Ford Focus, and watched Stanford shrink into the distance through the window. My campus life rarely extended beyond essentials like groceries, so exploring Pasadena had been an unfulfilled desire. The prospect of embarking on worldly adventures without financial constraints filled my heart with excitement.
Upon arrival at the airport, I tipped the Uber driver generously, and a surge of energy coursed through me as he flashed a grateful smile. I was grateful for the ability to be genuinely generous.
Since I only had a carry-on, I glided through security in no time. With a couple of hours to spare before my flight, I decided to peruse the shops. I wandered into a boutique and marveled at the beautiful dresses. I'd been in clothing stores before, but it felt vastly different to be able to afford something.
My tattered black sweatshirt, my trusty companion for the past seven years, and my hole-ridden yoga pants, had been miraculously accompanied by a pair of Converse shoes that had endured seven years of daily wear. I marveled at their longevity.
I contemplated my usual black attire, but in this moment, I found the courage to break free from my monochrome prison. I selected five new blouses, three winter jackets, two leather jackets, six pairs of jeans, three additional yoga pants, a pair of Timberlands, Nike Free Runs, and two sets of stylish footwear. After years of exclusively wearing black, I was finally adding some color to my life.
My heart skipped a beat when I glimpsed the total: $1289.47. I handed over my card, heaving a sigh of relief as it was promptly accepted. It would take time to shake my old habits.
I changed into a stylish outfit: a black long-sleeve shirt, black ripped jeans, black Nike Free running shoes, and a comfy leather jacket. I packed my old clothes into my backpack, and, upon gazing in the mirror, I almost couldn't resist a smile. I looked incredible.
Whoever said that money couldn't buy happiness must have been a real scrooge.
I still had an hour before my flight, so I strolled through the shops again, eventually stopping in front of a large makeup store.
Curiosity led me inside, where an assistant greeted me, "Hello ma'am! How may I assist you?"
"Yeah, I have no freaking clue what I'm doing," I admitted, scanning the store for powders and brushes. As I tentatively picked up a brush, I regarded it as if it were an explosive device.
"Well, you're absolutely gorgeous and don't need makeup. But if you'd like to enhance your natural look, I have the perfect products," the assistant assured me with a warm smile.
"I'm clueless," I confessed, hoping she would figure that I was an inexperienced person in the makeup department. "Oh, I see. How about a makeover?" she offered sweetly. I hesitantly agreed, following her to a chair.
She proceeded to tend to my unruly eyebrows, which I affectionately referred to as "bushy mess." Afterward, I noticed my red and swollen forehead, amazed at how such a simple change made me appear entirely different – almost attractive.
She then curled my lashes and applied mascara to my already long eyelashes. My mascara-coated lashes were the finishing touch, along with some lip gloss. Adapting to the matte, sticky sensation of lip gloss took a while, but I gradually grew fond of it.
With patience, the assistant guided me through mascara application and introduced me to some other makeup products. I ended up purchasing them all, alongside a face wash and moisturizer.
At 2:08 a.m., I boarded the plane and settled into my seat. Reminiscing, I realized that this was the happiest I had ever felt in 20 years of my existence. It was the first occasion that my clothing was free of holes, and I was appropriately dressed for the winter. For the first time, I could wear makeup, and it was the first time I had more than $100 in my bank account. I finally felt that I was worth something, and I experienced a great sense of self-worth.
For the first time in my life, I felt alive. Closing my eyes, I fell asleep as the plane moved smoothly toward Seattle.
"I'm so proud of you, Rana!" Mrs. Jones exclaimed, nearly suffocating me in a bear-hug embrace.
"It's mainly thanks to you, Mrs. Jones. Without your tutoring, I wouldn't have made it," I admitted, and it was the unvarnished truth. She'd dedicated herself to tutoring me for an entire year, free of charge. My time at Whitmore had been enjoyable largely because of Mrs. Jones, who mentored me not only in academics but in life. I'd frequently visited her office to chat, and on some days, she even brought me lunch.
"Oh, stop being so modest. Please, dear, call me Laura. You're about to graduate; we can skip the formalities," she chided with a cheerful smile.
"How's your Stanford application coming along?" She asked, her bright blue eyes filled with hope.
"They're going well, but I had no idea it would be so expensive to apply for these programs, let alone the tuition," I replied, my gaze fixed on the conversation.
"Honey, don't let that discourage you. I have several connections at Stanford. I can relinquish your application fee and provide you with a strong letter of recommendation," Laura stated with a smile.
"Oh no, Ms. J... Laura, I wouldn't want to burden you like that," I protested. I felt unworthy of tainting her name and reputation.
"I wouldn't want you to forego your future, Rana. You're gifted, and you have an extraordinary life ahead of you," Laura said, bolstering my confidence.
"And I wouldn't want to waste the potential you've nurtured in me," I acknowledged with gratitude. Laura had been the most influential mentor I'd ever had, essentially a second mother to me. She had high expectations and hopes for me, although I wasn't sure if she'd envisioned my path involving a $5 million heist from an Italian bank account.
I shook off my thoughts, collected my shopping bags and laptop, and disembarked from the plane. Flagging down a taxi, I directed the driver to Mange, the best restaurant in town. Once there, I ordered their Thanksgiving specials while waiting for the food. As I sat in the dimly lit restaurant, taking in the elegant atmosphere – red tablecloths, candles, and art gracing the walls, all to the backdrop of soft jazz – I reflected on the daily journey past this establishment. I'd often daydreamed about what the food tasted like and what it was like to dine out. In the past, we could afford only one meal a day – either instant ramen or canned beans. There was even a time when, at the age of 12, feeling dangerously weak after school, I tried scavenging through the trash in the hope of finding something to eat.
All I'd discovered was a few stale fries and rotting food. I was brought back to reality when the hostess handed me bags of food. I offered her a generous tip, expressed my gratitude, and headed for the waiting taxi.
Next stop: St. Anderson Hospital.
By the time we arrived, it was already 10 p.m. I swiftly approached the receptionist and paid off my mother's bills in full, not stopping at that, but also securing additional medications and a pending surgical procedure. I even upgraded her treatment, exceeding my initial budget by a substantial margin. The overwhelming relief washed over me, knowing that she stood a chance of recovery.
The receptionist then directed me to my mother's room. I took a deep breath before entering.
At 3:30, my mother resembled a shadow of her former self. Her once-glowing skin had paled, and her beautiful brown eyes were now sunken. Her face had grown thin due to chemotherapy, accentuating her high cheekbones. Her previously luscious black hair now appeared disheveled and thin.
Her eyes widened as she spotted me entering. "Hi Mom," I greeted softly.
"Wow, Rana, is that really you?" she inquired, attempting to sit up but faltering due to her frailty.
I rushed to support her, saying, "Yes, Mom, it's me."
"Stanford seems to have been kind to you," she observed, laughing.
She took my face in her hands, taking in my appearance. "My beautiful baby girl, you look all grown up," she commented, her eyes gleaming with pride.
"I brought you something," I said, pulling out the food. I proceeded to tidy her table and set the food before her. Her eyes widened as she gazed at the feast that had materialized.
"Rana, what's this? We can't afford this," she began to raise her voice, and her heart rate quickened.
"Shh... that's on me. Your medical bills are settled, and I wanted to share a meal with you for the first time," I assured her with a small smile.
"Rana, how did you come by that kind of money? Oh, dear God, please tell me you're not into anything illegal," she cried, tears welling up in her eyes.
My mother jumped to a stripper as her first assumption? Really, Mom?
I quelled the anger that surged within me. Her mind immediately leaped to a stripper rather than considering the possibility of an internship or career. Her emotional reaction wasn't ideal for her health or my sanity.
"No, Mom, it's not like that. I have a new job that pays exceptionally well, and they provided an advance to cover your medical expenses," I lied. She didn't need to know the truth; what she didn't know wouldn't harm her.
"Thank goodness, dear," she exclaimed, calming down. "I'm so proud of you."
"It's all right, Mom. Let's eat. I'm famished," I said, opening my containers.
"Watch your language, young lady," she admonished, pointing a plastic knife in my direction.
"Happy Thanksgiving, Mom," I said, savoring the garlic mashed potatoes.