Chapter 10 - My Father’s House
My younger brother Chris called that week.
Sarah had apparently told my mother we were “tight on money.”
My mother told Chris we were “in financial trouble.”
Family translation.
Chris asked:
“Need a loan?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“Not your business.”
“So bad.”
I nearly hung up.
Then he said:
“Don't do what Dad did.”
I stopped.
“What does that mean?”
“You know.”
I did.
Our father lost his job when I was seventeen.
Never told us for almost three months.
Every morning he put on a shirt and tie and drove away.
I had forgotten that until Chris said it.
Or not forgotten.
Stored somewhere inconvenient.
He spent his severance maintaining normal life.
Then credit cards.
Then mortgage trouble.
By the time Mom found out, the house was already several payments behind.
We lost it the following year.
I sat in my car outside work.
Sarah had done nearly the same thing.
Not identical.
Close enough to make my chest hurt.
Chris said:
“You okay?”
I almost lied.
“No.”
He waited.
I told him about Sarah's job.
Not all details.
Enough.
Chris was quiet.
Then:
“That's rough.”
“Yes.”
“You angry?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Sarah said the same thing.”
“She always liked me.”
“She does not.”
“Fair.”
Then Chris asked:
“What did you know?”
I frowned.
“What?”
“With Dad.”
“I was seventeen.”
“I know.”
“You asking if I caused foreclosure?”
“No.”
He laughed softly.
“I’m asking if you noticed.”
I stared through the windshield.
Dad stopped ordering takeout.
Sold his golf clubs.
Got angry when I asked for money for senior pictures.
I noticed.
I did not ask.
Because asking might have produced an answer.
“What does that have to do with now?”
Chris said:
“You have this thing where if somebody says money is okay, you act like checking would insult them.”
I went quiet.
“That is very specific.”
“You did it with Mom too.”
After Dad left.
Mom handled everything.
I never asked how.
Chris worked during college.
I went away and assumed the mortgage on her smaller apartment, tuition arrangements, utilities—somebody had it.
“Sarah told me we were okay.”
“I know.”
“That was a lie.”
“Yes.”
“I was supposed to audit my wife?”
“No.”
Chris paused.
“You were supposed to know your own household.”
I hated him for about thirty seconds.
Then:
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“Great.”
“Don't become Dad now.”
“What does that mean?”
“Don't decide the only way to recover is to earn harder until nobody can talk to you.”
Martin.
Ross.
Sixty hours.
Hotels.
Chris knew me too well.
I ended the call with less dignity than I started it.
At home, I told Sarah what he'd said.
She looked stunned.
“Your dad pretended to go to work?”
“Yes.”
“You never told me.”
“I haven't thought about it in years.”
She stared.
“That is exactly what I did.”
“Yes.”
“Are you comparing me to your father?”
“I’m trying not to.”
She almost smiled.
Then:
“What happened to him?”
“He and Mom never really recovered.”
Sarah went still.
“Because of the money?”
“No.”
I thought.
“Because after she found out, every conversation became about whether he was telling the truth.”
Sarah looked down.
My father got work again.
Lower pay.
They saved the house for several months before losing it anyway.
The marriage lasted another six years.
Technically.
They stopped trusting each other's answers long before divorce papers.
Sarah asked:
“Did you trust him after?”
“As my dad?”
“Yes.
“With money?”
“No.”
“Did you forgive him?”
I thought.
“Some parts.”
That answer scared both of us.
She asked:
“Do you think we're them?”
“No.”
Too fast.
Sarah heard it.
I corrected.
“I don't know.”
Better.
Painful.
Then Sarah said:
“I don't want every grocery receipt to become a trust exercise.”
“Neither do I.”
“But right now?”
I looked at her.
“Right now I want to know.”
She nodded.
“I can handle that.”
“For how long?”
“I don't know.”
No deadline.
May you like
Trust had no payoff schedule.
That was unfortunate because I had become very fond of spreadsheets.
