Chapter 7
7
ZORA
I ’m blinded by the tears welled in my eyes as I wade through the past due bills, collections notices and finally a certified letter from the bank.
A foreclosure notice.
It’s been years since I’ve had a panic attack but the familiar tightness in my chest and shallow breathing makes me aware of how close I am to losing it.
But things only get worse.
I shuffle through the many statements from the hospital and various doctors.
Despite my father’s attempts to sound upbeat during the last few times we’d chatted over the phone, I could hear the undertone of worry and tiredness in his voice. I’d asked him several times what the matter was but like always he’d tell me that I worry too much and that he’s fine.
Deep down, I knew he was lying but all these notices confirm my worse nightmares. No. Even in my dreams, I couldn’t have imagined things to be this bad. The money aside, the healthcare alone was enough to send me spiraling. It was clear my father was sick but how could he have let things get this bad without letting me know?
How had he gotten himself into so much debt? It would actually make sense if it were just the pile of medical bills, but his bank statement told a different story.
I noticed over the past few years, there were huge withdrawals from his savings account way before these bills started piling up. His entire savings was wiped out, several CDs were cashed in and borrowed money from his IRA’s. He’d taken out a mortgage on this house that was paid off years ago. When all was said and done, he’d spent well into the hundred thousands. His retirement money was gone.
If I dig into my savings, I might have enough to pay some of these hospital bills and give enough to the bank to hold off the foreclosure for a few months until I figure something out. But then what? I had some valuable keep sakes from my mother I could possibly pawn but the thought of parting with those items that connected me to her memory sent a gnawing act directly into the center of my heart.
My father has lived humbly most of his life. He used to run a hole in the wall diner in town that supported our family as it had become a big hang out for teens on Friday nights and senior citizens in the mornings.
He made a decent enough living to provide for me and my brother all the things we needed even though we didn’t always have designer labels and fancy gadgets like the rest of our peers, we never went without. And he worked his finger to the bones with a smile on his face, even through the rough times.
After my mom passed from breast cancer when I was 10 and my brother 14, he was our rock, who kept the family together even though I could see he was hurting. He never let on how much pain he was in from her death, but I could see it in his eyes.
Once I caught him staring at her picture with tears in his eyes, but when he noticed I was watching, he immediately put a smile on his face. My father is the kind of man who would rather suffer in silence than to be a burden to anyone else. Yet he does so much for everyone else, including neighbors, the patrons who used to frequent the diner and even strangers. He once gave a homeless person the coat off his back because it was cold.
Seeing how much trouble he’s in now not only breaks my heart but also scares the shit out of me because I don’t know how to get out of this mess. I twirl one of my two strand twists around my finger as I try to come up with solutions.
The obvious solution for most people would be to go to other family members for help but my dad is an only child to only children who passed before I was born. My mom was also from a small family and the only people left on her side, are distant cousins I haven’t seen since her funeral.
I could go to the bank and ask for a personal loan. My credit is decent but the amount I’d need to borrow didn’t make this scenario likely because it would raise my debt-to-income ratio beyond what most financial institutions would lend.
The least I could do is try but then what? I can’t go back to my job in New York when my father is clearly sick. There’s absolutely no way I could focus on my job knowing he needs to be taken care of. I can’t depend on my brother who is likely the culprit behind my father’s debt in the first place. It’s the only reason I can see my father going into this kind of debt.
For as long as I can remember my brother Langston has been selfish and the only person he cares about is himself. He would always complain when he didn’t get the designer labels or best sneakers. So, my dad would make him work in the diner to earn the money to get the things he wanted. Even when he worked, he complained and pawned his work off on me or another staffer.
Things really got bad once he entered the tenth grade when part of the town was redistricted and he ended up switching high schools, which happened to be the one where all the rich and upper middle-class kids attended.
Langston had already been insufferable but after the move he became a monster. Nothing was ever good enough. He complained about the size of our house, the kind of car my dad drove, the state of the diner and having to work at all. He always talked about getting out of this town and making something of himself, something better than my father ever was.
Whenever I’d call him out on his shitty attitude toward our dad, my father would just say siblings should get along. I know Langston’s words hurt him but he pretended as if they didn’t. It’s why I feel nothing but contempt for my older brother.
And now my brother’s selfishness caused our only surviving parent financial ruin but I’m certain it’s been a detriment to Dad’s health.
The profound hopelessness I’d felt only moments prior morphs into a murderous rage. If my brother was standing in front of me right how, I would quite possibly kill him.
It briefly occurs to me that Langston may be in some type of trouble. Maybe it’s a drug problem. How else could he go through all this money so quickly, but it doesn’t abate my anger. For someone who has professed to one day be better he had no problem taking money from him.
I massage my temples to stave off the oncoming migraine that’s threatening to come. A quick look at my phone tells me it’s well past midnight and there’s nothing I can do for the rest of the night besides, turn in for the night and figure out what to do in the morning.
As I’m heading to my bedroom, however, I hear a loud crash coming from my dad’s bedroom. I race down the hall and practically kick his door open to find Dad kneeled over on the floor. There are various items on the floor surrounding him like a lamp and alarm clock and a glass, likely items from his nightstand.
“Dad!” My heart seizes as if an icy hand has wrapped itself around it seeing my father on his hands and knees, gasping for breath.
He attempts to wave me off but I’m instantly at his side. I notice the beads of sweat dotted along his face. “I…I’m o...kay.”
“You’re clearly not. I’m calling an ambulance.” I place the back of my hand against his forehead. He’s burning up!
I stand to go get my phone but he clutches my wrist. “No. Just…get me a glass of water. I can…sleep this off.”
“Dad, I’m not going to take that chance and I’m not going to argue with you about this.” I snatch myself out of his grasp and hurry out the room to retrieve my phone. My father may not want to make a fuss but clearly he’s in need of some serious medical treatment if those hospital bills are any indication.
With phone in hand, I quickly call 911 and explain the situation to the dispatcher who assures me someone will be there as soon as possible.
Soon is not enough because when I return to my dad’s side he’s unconscious.