I can practically see him in the living room now, on the La-Z-Boy he won in a sweepstakes. To the left of the TV would be the sliding doors with a porch overlooking the lake. I read every issue ofSweet Valley Highin that living room. It’s also where I beat Grandma, Grandpa, and Jerry at every game of Monopoly. I was always the banker.
Doesn’t feel like much has changed.
“Bank Frances called,” I say, cutting to the chase. “She told me about the pre-foreclosure notices. Please tell me there’s been some misunder—”
“Jesus,” Dad says quickly. The sound of muffled cheers from the crowd on TV becomes quieter on the other end. “I was going to tell you about those, okay? I had some other things to take care of first.”
Not a misunderstanding then.
On my phone, I pull up the email Bank Frances sent with the latest foreclosure letter. It’s time-stamped from two months ago. The words become a blur. I make out just enough to start piecing things together.
“We have until the end of this month to pay the missing amounts before they open a foreclosure case,” I say, reading the letter.
“Your monthly amount was supposed to stay the same,” Dad mumbles.
“My amount was supposed to stay the same,” I repeat as I process his words. “But your amount… increased? You were just, what,going to pay eight thousand dollars on your own?”In what alternate universe?I stop myself from asking.
“You didn’t need to concern yourself with this. I needed the cash, and Bill needed his car paid off,” Dad says, as though this absolves him.
Slowly, it clicks into place. Dad remortgaged the house, keeping my monthly payments the same so I wouldn’t know. And somehow, he expected to be able to pay more when, really, he couldn’t pay any of it. Which explains all the missing payments.
My heartbeat throbs in my ears. “Did you take out more cash on the house… to pay off Uncle Bill’s car payments?” I manage to ask in a steady tone.
“I had some other things to pay off.”
“What kind of things?”
“Things,” Dad says firmly. I hear between the lines:none of your business. “I just need some more time. Luck wasn’t on my side. I need you to believe me, Hazel, I was gonna figure it out.”
Too late for that.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the letters? About the refinancing?” I know this is pointless. With Dad, there are always excuses.
“You weren’t supposed to be impacted,” he says.
“I’m impacted when you miss payments.” I don’t want to feel like a nag. I don’t want to have to state what should be obvious. “There’s over twenty-four thousand dollars to make up for. If we don’t pay it, they’re going to open a foreclosure case. Do you know what that means, Dad? We could lose the house.” This comes out in a level tone. I’m trying to get through to him without a hint of emotion, so I don’t frighten him off or upset him.
The full weight of the potential consequences lands squarely on my chest. I sit down in Emma’s desk chair, crossing one arm over myself. I just paid off Jerry’s hospital bills and my student loans. I have enough in my savings to pay down one month at the newamount, which would leave me with only one month left for my rent. And that doesn’t include the fact I still need to eat and would like to have running water.
But after next month, I’ll be wiped out.
My mind whirls into overdrive. I really need to focus on getting that manager job. The higher salary still wouldn’t cover the new monthly mortgage payments, but it’d be something. Then, when next year’s lottery payment comes in, I’ll be able to cover more.
“We can probably get them to give us more time,” Dad says with the confidence of someone who hasn’t earned it.
“There’s no more time. There’s a process,” I say, standing to pace. I’m trembling a little. Cold, probably. “I’m trying to help you here.”
“Let’s not pretend you’re not trying to help yourself, too,” Dad snaps. “Maybe I should just die, and then you can have the house. Would that make you happy?”
My stomach churns. “Of course it wouldn’t. And you’re not going to die. I just—”
“I know, I know, I shouldn’t have done it, okay, HazeyDazey?” Dad says, pulling out all the stops, childhood nicknames included. “You think I want to lose this house? I live here. Your mother’s father built it. It’s all I’ve got left of her. This house means something to me, too.” There’s enough annoyance in his tone that makes me back down.
I grit my teeth. Finalizing the divorce has distracted me, and I let this fall to the wayside. Have I really not checked in with Dad in the past few months like I normally do? How could I have let this happen?
“We can still fix this.” I say it calmly, or risk losing him completely. Sounding like we’re in this together has always been more productive than it being him versus me.
Dad lets out a loaded sigh. “I have a plan, okay? I’m taking care of it.”
