Page 52 of A Night to Remember

I wakeup the morning of the mediation meeting giddy with excitement. Not because I think fighting foreclosure is going to be a Tilt-A-Whirl of fun, but because I have a gut feeling that everything is going to work out. Mom is getting healthier. We will keep our house. We will pay down our debts. And finally,finallymy real life can begin. I will work in publishing until I can earn a living from my writing. I will travel the country giving readings and workshops. I will hobnob with other literary types and then go home to my cabin by the sea, where I will write until 3:00 AM while my shaggy dog lies at my feet. It’s going to beawesome, and it’s going to starttoday.

The meeting isn’t until 10:00, so I allow myself to Google “publishing jobs St. Louis Kansas City Chicago”. Could I afford rent in any of those cities? Maybe I’ll have to get a roommate. I wonder if Gabe could put me in touch with anyone in the Chicago area.

Today’s the day! I text him. He responds immediately, like he’s been waiting to hear from me.

You’re going to do great. I’ll be thinking of you! Are you going to wear that blue sweater?

He follows this up with a string of obscene fruit and vegetable emojis. I laugh out loud, shoot back a kissy face, then make my way to the kitchen.

“Kayla, what on earth are you so fired up about?” Mom asks me as I ping-pong from cabinet to counter, making my tea like an impossibly cheerful Disney princess.

“I just know today is going to go well.” I beam at her. “And I saw some good job opportunities online, and I guess I’m just looking forward to?—”

“Getting out of here?” she asks ruefully, though not unkindly.

“No, it’s not that, it’s just?—”

“You and Gabe going to look for work together, then?”

I almost drop the tea I’m straining. “Wha— ? No, we haven’t?—”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time together,” she says, studying me over the rim of her coffee mug.

“Okay, yes, but it’s nothing serious. We’re just old friends. That’s all.”

“Huh” is all she says in reply. But she continues giving me a penetrating Mom Stare until I chirp, “Welp! I better go get dressed!” and escape to my room with my tea.

I brush off her assumptions as I do, in fact, pull on the blue sweater I wore for my date with Gabe. Maybe it’ll bring me luck. I feel sorry that Mom expects me to settle down, but at the same time grateful that Gabe and I agree, more or less, about the terms of our relationship. I know he thinks dating openly would be more convenient, but clearly neither of us expects to buildour lives around each other long term. So what if some small, deluded part of me occasionally fantasizes about waking up next to my best friend for the rest of my life? That’smyproblem, not his.

We getto the courthouse early, but Meg is already waiting for us, dressed in her girlboss best: a well-fitted wool coat, wide-legged trousers, kitten heels. She greets us both with a hug, then leads the way up the stone steps and through the arched double doors. I’ve only been in the courthouse once before, on a second-grade field trip, when we had a mock trial of the Big Bad Wolf and then ate chocolate chip cookies. At the time the building had seemed palatial. Now I can see it for what it is: a small, though pretty, county courthouse in the middle of nowhere.

“Room 210,” I read from the note on my phone. “I’m sure there’s an elevator?—”

“I can manage,” Mom says, heading for the wide staircase that leads to the second floor. Meg and I exchange a look, then try as subtly as possible to spot her as she begins to climb, clinging to the wrought iron railing. We pass under an archway of egg-and-dart molding topped by a carving of a woman’s face. Justice? Wisdom? As far as I know, there is no goddess of foreclosure, so whoever she is, she must be on our side. We enter a nondescript room with a window overlooking the town square and a table that is entirely too big for the space. At its head sits the mediator, a Black woman about Mom’s age sporting a colorful geometric scarf and a serious expression. To her right, a middle-aged man in a polo shirt bearing the bank’s logo arranges a stack of folders and papers. I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank goodness it’s not?—

“Excuse me,” says a clipped voice just over my right shoulder. Meg, Mom and I have just barely squeezed into the room when Adam Wilson pushes his way past us, taking his place next to Polo Shirt Guy. He’s careful not to look at any of us as we take our seats. He himself remains standing, aggressively sliding Polo Shirt Guy’s stack of papers in front of him and rearranging them to his liking. His entire body radiates hostility.He could make refinancing difficult for you if he wanted to.For the first time today I feel afraid. I realize suddenly that I have never truly believed that we would lose our home. I was such a good student, I think, irrelevantly. I have been a good child. What more was I supposed to do?

I am not a doomscroller. I did not Google all of Mom’s symptoms when she got sick. I have not looked up what happensaftera foreclosure. I know that I cannot give in to that kind of preemptive panic and still expect to put one foot in front of the other. But now, thousands of unanswered questions rush into my mind. How soon will we have to vacate? Where will we stay? What will happen to our things? Will Mom’s credit be destroyed? My dreams of a writing life now seem impossibly naive. Never mind a cabin by the sea—where will we sleep tonight?

I steal a glance at the mediator, hoping to read my future in her face. I understand that she’s not acting as a judge in this case, but at this moment she seems like the embodiment of the unnamed goddess on the archway, capable of casually deciding the fate of all of us mortals. Meg, sensing my mood, squeezes my hand under the table. I had forgotten she was there. I didn’t tell her much about what happened with Adam at the café, but she knew I’d been shaken.

“Shall we begin?” the mediator says. She introduces herself as Stacey Green, a retired judge, in fact, from St. Louis County. Her gaze tells Adam tosit.

“Yes,” he says, sounding slightly chastised. “Mrs. Johnson, let’s review the terms of your original loan. You and your husband took out a loan of $90,000 at an interest rate of 6% with a 30-year term. The two of you are jointly and severally liable for the mortgage, but it seems that Mr. Johnson is no longer contributing financially to the household.” Adam glances at Mom with a hint of a smug smile.

“That’s true,” she admits. “I’ve been the only one making payments for years.”

“And our attempts to reach Mr. Johnson—” Adam continues.

“—have failed,” Mom interrupts him uncharacteristically, her face stern. “I know. I can’t reach him, either.”

I look at her in surprise, momentarily forgetting Adam and the threat of foreclosure. “Have you been trying to find him?” I can’t help but whisper. Mom doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve spoken and keeps staring impassively at Adam.

“Fast forward to today,” Adam continues, “and your outstanding balance before the missed payments is $21,685.62, with a monthly payment of $539.60. In 2007, you secured a second mortgage with us, at an interest rate of 7.25% and a 20-year term. The outstanding balance on that loan is $7,650.89, with a monthly payment of $237.11. You currently owe the bank a total of $29,336.51.”

I tighten my grip on Meg’s hand, twisting my sweaty fingers around hers. I should have done more. I should have studied finance instead of English and gotten a higher-paying job out of college. I should have donated plasma. I should have sold my eggs. God knows I’ll never need them.

“Let’s not beat around the bush, Mrs. Johnson,” Adam says with obvious relish. “You’ve had your chances, but the fact remains that you’re in default. I understand that you’re facing difficulties, but the bank cannot extend goodwill indefinitely. We have our own obligations to meet.”

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