“I’m referring to your house.”
And then I snap back to reality. This is a scam. A sophisticated one, no doubt. They somehow found out about Dylan and are using that against me, but they’ve gone too far.
“I don’t have a house,” I say, my bigGotchamoment.
I hear the rustling of some papers in the background. “I’m sorry, perhaps there has been a misunderstanding.” My jaw unclenches with relief. “My records show that you own the house at the address 3240 Thistle Thorn Lane, is that not correct?”
“That’s my mother’s house,” I say, but the words have no sooner left my mouth than I’m hit with the cold shock of realization.
My mother’s house is my house.
I mean, it’s her house, but it’s my name on the deed. My grandfather updated his will shortly before he died so that the house would go to me. Mom was in a bad place at the time, and they worried she wouldn’t be able to handle the responsibilities of home ownership, so they left it to me. The deed was transferred a few weeks after my 18th birthday.
But it was only ever symbolic. The house is my mother’s. The plan was always that she would live here, and then maybe I would, eventually, but I’ve never thought of it asmyhouse.
But apparently Michael Kateb at the First Union Bank does.
“You can’t take the house,” I breathe into the phone.
“I assure you that we do not want to.”
“No, you can’t. You just can’t,” I say, more firmly. Because this is the truth. This house has been a safe haven for my mom, a place she can live comfortably on her piddly disability benefit. If she loses the house, she’ll be on the street.
“I’ll get the money.” My own voice sounds very far away, as if I were underwater. “Can you give me some time?”
A hissing noise, like he’s sucking air in through his teeth.
“Miss Des Rochelles, you are already six, almost seven months behind.”
“I understand. And I’ll get you your money, I just need some time.”
A long silence from the other end of the phone. I hold my breath. And then, “You have thirty days.”
I exhale. “Sixty.”
“Forty-five, or I escalate this to Collections right now.”
“Forty-five,” I say, nodding. “Thank you.”
I hang up, and hug my legs into my chest, resting my forehead on my knees. Forty-five days. How am I supposed to come up with fifteen thousand dollars, plus finish paying the landlord back, plus make payments on my credit card, plus pay the other outstanding bills and buy groceries and pay for my bus pass and also find another two grand and change for the next loan payment, all in forty-five days?!
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Cleo, you’re missing everything, come on!”
I pull a deep breath in, hold it, and then slowly let it go. “Coming!” I push myself to my feet, steadying myself against the wall.
In the living room, my mom is transfixed by the TV. It’s the only new thing in the house, a modern flat screen that seems out of place amidst the ceramic kittens and the floral print wallpaper. But given how much time she spends watching it, she had to get something good.
“What’s happening?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t notice the tremble in my voice.
She doesn’t. She launches into a detailed description of all the drama, but her words don’t land. I try to listen, but my eyes keep sliding around the room. This room where she grew up, and where I grew up, too. The framed family photos faded yellow by the sun. The watercolour painting of three purple lilies that a client gave her, back when she still worked at the insurance company. The brown corduroy recliner where Gramps used to sit, the armrests and seat cushion shiny and threadbare.
Who would my mother even be without this house? Where wouldshe go? How could she manage paying rent and starting over when she can’t even hold down a job?
But then there’s something that gets my attention. A woman with a breathy voice is saying “Are you ready for your next adventure?” An image of a campfire burning on a sandy beach fills the screen. The camera pans out slightly, and in the background, there is a couple sitting with their foreheads touching, blissful smiles on their faces.
And then it fades to black, before a web address appears. My breath catches as I realize what it says:
