The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg Read Online Free Page A

about that.

    No, no, no. No problem . . . I can read this afternoon while you're out.

    You feel guilty? Did you have a Jewish parent, too?

    Yeah, I'm funny. I'll do my best to be concise.

    I knew the money was real when I quit my job. I wasn't risking anything when I quit.

    I'd taken the check to the Wells Fargo branch in the neighborhood. I thought the check was fake, probably . . . I mean come on, you know? But . . . thought I should make sure. Then it wasn't fake, because the teller made a phone call and her eyeballs blew up and she took it, deposited it, and asked me about my other accounts, then she sent me to a cube in the corner, to the personal banker at the branch, Hector, who smiled across his whole bald head and shook my hand really hard. And then Hector insisted I make an appointment with a “wealth manager” in an office downtown, Linda, which I did from Hector's phone, and then I took the bus and took a fast elevator up to the twenty-third floor and walked into this—this office in a skyscraper down there and . . . Linda was so chipper. It was a lot of money. People don't have bank checks for that kind of money, except me, apparently. And I was fine with getting her help, too, you know, even if I don't necessarily like what Linda's about.

    Oh. Well, I suppose I don't know what she's about. Linda has been great to me, really. She got an accountant set up. And I want to preserve as much as possible for the kids. Grow it for the kids. Linda helped me make trusts . . .

    Protecting my kids. Those are big trusts, Barry. My kids have more money . . . not that money will protect them . . . Well, it sort of will. On one hand, anyway. Money goes a long way in this world. Huge insecurity for me . . . growing up . . . was fear of being poor . . . though we weren't that poor, I found out. My mother didn't tell the truth about money from Dad . . . I don't want to talk about Mom. My kids will not fear for their material security. This is the only way I can help them.

Letter 7
August 26, 2004
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    Dear Mom,
    If you know about my death, if you're even cognizant, it isn't your fault. Okay? I mean, you did good work with not much in the way of resource. You made a decent home out of nothing. And look how David turned out. He sure is one of life's big winners, don't you think? That cat can really earn cash. And his wife is hot. You didn't have anything to do with me dying, Mom. You were David's mom, too, and he's great and his wife smells like expensive lotions. It just isn't your fault I'm dead.
    Well, I kind of take that back.
    In a sense it is your fault. Biology. Genetics.
    I think I've read that depression is ninety percent inspiration and ten percent perspiration. And while I have perspired—yes, I fed the fire for years, muscles straining, mind trolling for the darker meaning up the silver clouds—I can't be blamed for the inspiration, can I? That's on you. I have to blame you for my biology. You did inspire me, breathed life into me, gave me my chemicals and my brain configuration and my combustible hardwiring, etc. For my biology, I must place responsibility squarely on your shoulders (and on Dad's—we can't forget).
    But something else . . . you couldn't have known. You couldn't have thought straight about reproducing your own vulnerable infrastructure back in the sixties. You probably thought being blue was a personal problem. And, so, it was a thoughtless act, making me—thoughtless, because you couldn't have thought, “I don't want to make a sad child.” You shouldn't blame yourself. I'm not going to blame you for anything. Biology is out of your control. So okay? Don't blame yourself, Mom.
    And . . .
    Do you remember Martha's Vineyard? You rented me a three-speed to use around the campground. But one day I biked out of there without letting you or David know. I was 13. And I biked along that busy country road, past the gray million-dollar clapboard homes, through the sea air, until I hit the quaint