“He was still in a lot of debt.” The words left my mouth of their own accord, probably from all the years of defending Mitch.
“That’s what I surmised when he asked a few questions to sniff out whether or not we had any money.”
A week ago I would’ve been outraged, probably would’ve kicked my mother out of the house for saying such a thing. Today, I let her go on. After all, what did I know about this man I’d married?
“I asked him to do one thing for me. Just one,” she said, staring into space and shaking her head at the memory.
“What?”
“I asked him to please make sure that you finished school and got your degree. He promised he would. Two months later you called me to say that you were dropping out of school to have the baby.”
I swallowed hard. I’d never had that baby. She’d been my first miscarriage. When I’d physically healed and thought it might be a good idea to go back to school, Mitch talked me into working as his receptionist instead. He said that way we could get rid of some of our debt and put more into the practice.
“And that’s why I jumped at the chance to have you buy the house with me instead of him. I wanted to make sure you were never without credit.”
“What?”
But seriously ... who was this woman? Had I really been such an awful daughter that she’d had to sneak around to help me?
Mom sighed deeply. “Look, I had to have my father cosign on my first bank account back in the early ’70s. Then, after your father left me, I would’ve gotten stuck with a higher mortgage rate if I hadn’t been working in real estate and thus known the laws of the time. The last thing you want is to have no credit.”
And here I’d thought the last thing I wanted was a divorce.
“Do you have your slush fund?” she asked.
I nodded affirmatively.
“How much?”
“Ten thousand.”
Air hissed through her teeth. “It’s not great, but it could be so much worse. And you do have your father’s money. How much do you owe on the house?”
“Less than a year’s worth of payments,” I said, a spot behind my left eye beginning to throb. I paced more to avoid the feeling of being interrogated.
“After you meet with Paloma, we’ll need to find you a job. I’m not sure—”
“Mom. Do we have to do this right now?”
“You need my help, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
I couldn’t find the words.
“Okay, okay. That’s enough for now,” Mom said in a softer voice. “We’ll take a break.”
She got up to hug me, and I leaned into her. If only I could be six for just a few minutes, then I would be small enough to fit in her lap and let her arms encompass my whole body.
“Unless you’d like for me to go through your financials and—”
“Mom, stop. Just be my mom, won’t you?”
“How about you take a nap.” She led me to bed, even handing me an eye mask to help me forget that it was broad daylight outside. “Now, we’re not going to do this every day.”
Her tone of voice reminded me of the time we had cake for breakfast on the morning after my eleventh birthday. I said the same thing I said that day: “I know, I know.”
She kissed my forehead and left the room quietly.
