The gas service was a hurdle because Mom’s credit score had recently suffered a catastrophic implosion. That implosion possessed a name, a social security number, and a six-pound Pomeranian. It was Brooke.
A year prior, Mom had foolishly co-signed a massive, predatory business loan for Brooke’s inaugural entrepreneurial venture: Luxury Picnic Consulting.
To this day, I cannot formulate a coherent explanation of what Luxury Picnic Consulting actually entailed.
The business survived exactly three months before collapsing under the weight of its own pretension. The debt, however, proved more durable. Because Mom’s credit was temporarily radioactive, she couldn’t secure favorable utility terms.
“Just put the gas account in your name, Rupert,” she had begged me. “Temporarily. Just for a few months until Brooke gets back on her feet.”
That was three years ago.
The utility account was still registered under my name. The monthly invoice was automatically deducted from my checking account. In theory, Mom reimbursed me. In reality, her reimbursement schedule was a work of chaotic fiction. Some months she forgot. Some months she transferred precisely half the amount. Other months, she would call me, her voice dripping with sorrow, to explain that Brooke was “going through a profound emotional transition” and needed financial shielding.
