Chapter Four #2
But now, rather than go through Ali’s phone again—and experience the unwelcome wash of grief that would undoubtedly accompany that walk down memory lane—I exchanged mobile numbers with Jake and promised to call if I needed anything.
“And you can always reach me at the firm.” He provided that information as well.
I recognized the familiar number, except that Jake’s extension was different.
My chest felt sore as I punched the digits into my phone.
I used to call Ali’s line all the time. He often silenced his mobile at the office so his meetings wouldn’t be interrupted.
Even though I hadn’t dialed the number in months, the thought that I’d never call Ali at work again made my throat swell.
“Ali had a whole other life,” I remarked to my sister as I watched Jake walk back to his car.
Lulu, who’d stayed out of sight in the kitchen, came over to look out the window with me. “What do you mean?”
“All spouses do. Think about it. Ali spent a third of each day at work.” We made our way back to the kitchen. “He was at the firm for ten years. He had full friendships with people I’ve never met. Look at Jake; he’s a complete stranger to me.”
“Is that guy a good friend of Ali’s . . . um . . . was he a good friend?” It still didn’t come naturally to any of us to refer to Ali in the past tense.
“Ali talked about him sometimes, stories about his kids’ sports activities. One of them is supposedly a lacrosse prodigy.”
“Was he at the funeral?”
“Jake? I’m pretty sure I saw him there.” Even though the entire day was a blur, I vaguely remembered Jake extending his condolences to me and the children.
We buried Ali so quickly—the day after he died, in accordance with Muslim tradition—that many of his colleagues didn’t find out about the funeral until it was over.
Some had been away on their summer vacations.
“I’ve got to go.” Lulu grabbed her tote. “It’s time to pick up the kids.” My sister had three girls, all much younger than my Ayla and Adam.
I stared at the mortgage notice glaring up at me from the counter. “I guess I have to call the bank.”
“They won’t bite.” She dug her keys out of her bag. “You’ll feel much better once you’ve cleared up any confusion.”
After she left, I forced myself to dial the bank’s customer service number.
It took effort. I resented having everything dumped in my lap.
It wasn’t logical, but handling tasks that Ali used to take care of was like repeatedly getting hit over the head.
A reminder that he was really gone, his absence permanent.
“Your husband has been dead for how long?” the bank representative asked in a way that reminded me of a doctor with a terrible bedside manner. “And it took you this long to notify us?”
“Yes.” I didn’t bother explaining that I’d barely been able to get out of bed up until a week or two ago, much less deal with the bank.
“Hold on,” he said before I could ask about the mortgage. “I’m transferring you.”
The bank apparently had a whole section devoted to “survivors.” The representative assigned to me was named Martha.
She had a warm, comforting voice edged with a hint of a southern Virginia lilt.
Her serious tone, her consideration, her “I’m so sorry for your loss” made my throat swell.
I sipped from the straw of my water bottle to keep my emotions in check.
Ali and I kept separate primary bank accounts. Our work checks were deposited into our respective savings and checking accounts. That’s how Ali set it up, and I never asked why, since both of our names were on everything. Martha, the rep, confirmed what I already knew.
“Your name is on all of the accounts, so you have complete access to your husband’s funds,” the rep told me. “We’ll need to close his savings account and move the funds into yours. Would you like me to also close his checking and move the balance to you?”
I wanted to hit “End Call” and hurl my phone against the white speckled countertop that Ali and I picked out together two years before. Ali had balked at the price, but the old laminate that came with the house had cracked and peeled so badly that I insisted on replacing it.
I released a long sigh. If only I could go back to those days when I did normal things that didn’t include taking Ali’s name off accounts. Soon there’d be no trace that he ever existed.
“Can I keep his checking account open?” I couldn’t bear to close it.
“Sure, honey. I’ll just put it in your name.”
Hearing Martha clicking away on her computer made me relax a little.
She was nice and understanding, her voice soothing.
She didn’t seem like the type of person who’d judge me for being financially clueless.
“Will any automatic payments that my husband set up continue to be paid through that account?”
“Yes, everything that’s set up should continue.”
“The thing is that I got a notice that my mortgage is overdue.”
“You did?” I heard the frown in Martha’s voice. “Let me check.”
“Thank you.” Lulu was right. This wasn’t so bad. I really shouldn’t have put off dealing with the finances. I could do this.
More clicking sounds through the phone. “Here it is,” Martha said. “The mortgage has been paid automatically on the fifth of each month for the last six months.”
“So it is up to date?” I was confused. “Then why did I get a late notice?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll tell you what,” Martha said. “I see here that the payment goes to our mortgage department. This bank holds your loan.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said, trying to prove to Martha that I wasn’t completely oblivious. “I cosigned the mortgage papers when we purchased the house sixteen years ago.”
“Then this should be very easy to clear up,” Martha said. “I can transfer you to our mortgage department. They’ll have all of the answers that you need.”
Unfortunately, Jim, the mortgage guy, wasn’t nearly as comforting as Martha.
“Could you tell me about this notice?” I asked after being transferred to him. “It says my mortgage is overdue, but the rep I just talked to said it should be up to date.”
“What property is that?”
“My house is located on Merry Pines Circle.”
“Hmm.” His polite tone carried an undercurrent of impatience. “Yes, the mortgage on Merry Pines is up to date.”
Relief whooshed through me. “So it is a mistake.”
“But,” he continued, “the mortgage for the house on Cozy Glenn Lane is in arrears.”
“The what?” What the hell was he talking about? Impatience rippled through me. The last thing I needed was for some bank screwup to needlessly freak me out. “There’s obviously been some sort of mistake. My house is on Merry Pines Circle.”
“Just a moment,” he said. “Let me look into this.” More sounds of fingers tapping a computer keyboard.
“I was right.” He sounded very pleased with himself. “There are two mortgages for the separate properties.”
“Excuse me?” I spluttered. I obviously hadn’t heard him right. “Are you saying we’re paying a mortgage on a second house?”
“Well, Mr. Abadi was. Your name isn’t attached to the loan.”
“Wait a minute.” His words didn’t compute. “Just to be clear. You are saying that my husband has been paying a mortgage on a totally separate property and the loan is only in my husband’s name?”
“That’s right,” he chirped. “His, and a holding company by the name of Five A’s LLC.”
The Five A’s. That’s what we called ourselves.
Ali, Amira, Ayla, and Adam. The fifth A was for Abadi.
A family business, obviously. Being an accountant, Ali must have set it up for tax reasons or some other business purpose.
But that didn’t explain why we were paying for a house that I knew nothing about.
“And you are sure the mortgage for that second house is coming out of a joint account?” I asked.
“It was. But that account, the one paying the second mortgage, has run out of money. That’s what triggered the notice you received in the mail.”
I blinked. “Could you give me the address of the second property?”
“It’s located at 104 Cozy Glenn Lane.”
“In what city?”
“Durham, North Carolina.”
“Where?” Ali had never been to Durham. As far as I knew.
“North Carolina.”
“When did he get the house?”
“The mortgage was taken out eight years ago. Your husband has made regular payments since then.”