Chapter 11 Hazel #2
I pull one of the precut orange ribbons out. “I haven’t been keeping up. Can you turn the volume down for a second?”
“You’re missing a great game. I have a good feeling about it. This morning, I found a pair of sunglasses I thought I’d lost. The last time something like this happened, I won big,” Dad says excitedly.
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 of Sweet Valley High in 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 new amount, 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.”
“A plan,” I say flatly. “And what’s that?”
“I’m in Atlantic City.”
“You’re in Atlantic City.” I walk to the very back corner of the stock room. The part where the light doesn’t fully reach. “Like, right now?”
“Just ’til Wednesday.” Dad’s tone switches back to upbeat. “I showed up at brunch right as they brought out a new hunk of roast beef. My luck changes today. I can feel it!”
An hour ago, I might’ve said, Same. But this? What’s happening right now isn’t lucky. It’s very, very bad. So much so that I’m starting to think Logan’s and my luck flipped back.
Great. Now I’m officially in too deep thinking that Logan’s theory is real.
“I’m going to win back enough to cover at least a portion of the payments,” Dad says when I’m quiet.
He’s probably using what he took out in the refinancing to fund his trip. This is like the time he took the money my grandparents left us in their will, which only covered one college tuition, and tried to double the money. He lost every penny.
Have I learned nothing from the past? Of course this was going to happen again.
I bite the inside of my cheeks. Hold back everything I don’t know how to say. He sounds happy.
“I’ve put too much into it. I can’t stop now. I’m due for a win,” Dad adds. “And don’t worry, I’ve got a strategy. Jim’s with me, too.”
Jim. His pocket-size golden toad he carries with him for luck. He’s had it for so long that Jerry named his van, Frogger, after it.
I don’t mention how trinkets won’t save him. Or how his odds are the same every time he gambles. Putting in more money doesn’t mean better chances. He never hears me when I say this. Special strategies, good feelings, hope, and wishes will not result in wins.
“A strategy,” I mutter. “Are you working?”
“Not at this exact moment, no,” Dad jokes. My silence must speak volumes because he adds, “I’m in between jobs right now. I’ve got a lead.”
I rub my temple with one hand. “Okay, well, right now we need to sort this out with Frances. This is serious—”
“Can you talk to her?” he says. “Last time we talked, she threw me off my game. I’m in a good place right now. There’s something in the air, too.”
I don’t want to leave Bank Frances hanging, especially when she might be our only hope. And I don’t want either of us to be the reason why Dad’s high comes crashing down. That’s the last thing he needs in Atlantic City.
I pick at the fraying ends of the ribbon. “Sure. I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s my girl. What would I do without you?” he asks.
Question of my life.
“Game’s almost over. When I’m rolling in dough, you’re the first person I’m calling, okay?” he says. “Promise.”
I nod at the corner I’ve tucked myself into. “Yeah, sure. Bye.”
The call disconnects. I don’t want to move.
Don’t want to think. I just want to stay here in the half darkness.
Let everything fall apart. Even when I try to keep it together, it still breaks.
What’s the point in trying when it always comes down to this?
I can hardly keep my head above water as it is.
It’s even harder when Dad keeps dragging me down.
I stand there for who knows how long, my eyes going blurry as I stare at a toppling pile of boxes filled with ribbon and candy.
To the right of that is Emma’s filing cabinet.
Corners of bank statements and contracts poke out of the drawers that won’t close.
The side is dented, the black metal etched with long white scratch lines.
The key lock is missing, making the entire point of having it useless.
This part of the store is a disaster compared to the orange creamsicle just past the door.
My phone buzzes in my hand, startling me. There’s a pile of shredded ribbon on the ground.
Logan (5:01 PM): Toffee is so hangry right now omg
Logan (5:02 PM): And he escaped down the hall and made it to the second floor somehow??
Logan (5:02 PM): Then he started using my cast as a scratching post when I carried him back up
Logan (5:03 PM): This cat, I swear
Logan (5:04 PM): That was an unhinged number of texts in a row, I apologize
As quickly as a puff of air escapes my nose, I inhale another just as fast. It reminds me I can still breathe. I haven’t sunk yet.
Logan (5:07 PM): I’m thinking of ideas for how to increase my luck, too. I don’t want you to think it’s all on you. I really appreciate you and your help.
Logan (5:08 PM): That’s what I meant to text in the first place