Bank Frances must be using her phone’s speech-to-text feature again. I tell Emma I’m taking a quick break and go to the stock room to make the call, needing typo-free, speech-to-ear answers.
“Hazel! You got my text?” Bank Frances says after a third ring.
“Hi,” I say. “You’re back from leave already? How’s your mom doing?”
“It was three long months, but she’s doing better now. Thanks for asking. Listen, Hazel.”
Uh-oh.
“I got back this week and am still playing catch-up. They had Bobby cover for me, but unfortunately for all of us, he’s new. Mary Margaret was also out for the past month on vacation and, long story short, the monthly mortgage amounts still haven’t been paid,” Bank Frances says, her tone steady as it always is. “I’m still trying to figure out the details, but I thought you should know right away.”
I log in to my banking app. “I’m looking at the transfers right now.” I scroll down to the past few months, identifying each of my $600 payments. “They’ve all gone through successfully.”
“Ah.” Bank Frances clicks her tongue in realization. “That’s the issue. You’re still short.”
“Oh, well, yeah. My dad pays the other half,” I remind her.
“After six hundred gets paid, there’s still…” Bank Frances hums as she types. “Eight thousand left.”
“Eightthousand?” I choke out. I visualize the numbers she’s mentioned, trying to make sense of them. That makes the new mortgage amount $8,600. Andthatmakes my new monthly half… $4,300. “Maybe it’s a processing error? Our full monthly mortgage amount is twelve hundred dollars.” Not over seven times that amount. The confidence in my voice has vanished.
Bank Frances is quiet for a moment. “Look, Hazel. Another letter’s gonna go out—”
“Another letter?” I ask, my voice wobbling. “I didn’t get any letters.”
“Because you don’t co-own the house, Bobby couldn’t include you in the communications.”
Which, sure, that technically makes sense. I don’t have the same kind of relationship with Bobby like I do with Bank Frances.
“Looks like the amount increased in…”Tap, tap, tap.“May.”
The new amount is going to be impossible to afford. For me and Dad. This doesn’t make any sense.
“It’s a good thing I caught this when I did,” Bank Frances says. “There’s still time to make it right.”
The air deflates out of my lungs like a popped balloon. “Make what right?”
“The house going into foreclosure, sweetie. I’m emailing you a copy of the latest pre-foreclosure notice.”
“I’ll call you right back,” I mumble, distracted.
Increase in May. $8,600. Foreclosure.
It takes three tries to finally get through to Dad’s cell phone.
“Give me a break, ref! That’s a hold” are the first words I hear. “Hello?”
“Dad!” I shout-whisper into the phone. I’d really prefer that my coworkers and customers don’t hear this.
“Hazel! You watching the game?” Dad asks.
I slide a box filled with ribbon aside with my foot, moving as far from the door as I can. “No, we need to talk—”
“Who do you think will win?” he asks.
I pull one of the precut orange ribbons out. “I haven’t been keeping up. Can you turn the volume down for a second?”
“You’re missing a great game. I have a good feeling about it. This morning, I found a pair of sunglasses I thought I’d lost. The last time something like this happened, I won big,” Dad says excitedly.
