Eliam looked toward the entrance.
“Let's sit somewhere,” he said.
“No.”
“Mara, people are coming out.”
“Then we can stand beside my car.”
He followed me across the road.
A woman carrying a grocery bag walked past us.
Two teenagers laughed near the bus stop.
The world kept moving.
I wanted to shake it still.
“Start with the leave,” I said.
He set his bag on the hood of my car.
“It's administrative leave.”
“Did you get fired?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm still employed. But my manager told me not to report to the office until an internal review is finished.”
I waited.
He rubbed his forehead.
“There's been a problem with expense approvals and vendor access.”
“Are you accused of something?”
“My account approved changes I say I didn't make.”
“Your account?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn't tell me.”
He looked down.
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“I thought I'd have an answer by Friday.”
It was Wednesday.
He'd already spent five working days pretending to go to the office.
“Where did my mother come into this?”
He pulled a folded sheet from his bag.
“She contacted me three weeks ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“She needed help with her house.”
I laughed once.
It didn't sound like me.
“Of course she did.”
Vivian had lived in the same modest bungalow for thirty-one years.
After Dad died, she'd asked me to co-sign a loan against it.
She said she needed money for necessary repairs.
I asked for estimates.
She wouldn't show me any.
I suggested we meet with a financial counselor.
She accused me of treating her like a child.
Then I learned she'd already borrowed against the property once.
The funds had gone to cover my younger brother Graham's failing business.
Dad had spent his last year worrying about that debt.
At his funeral, Vivian had told relatives I'd refused to help because I wanted the house for myself.
People I'd loved for years stopped speaking to me.
I asked her to correct the story.
She refused.
After months of arguments, I ended contact.
I'd missed birthdays.
I hadn't gone to Thanksgiving at her house.
I knew none of that erased her right to get help.
But it didn't create a right to send my husband behind my back.
“Did she ask you to sign something?” I said.
“No.”
“Did she ask for money?”
“Not exactly.”
I stared at him.
“Eliam.”
“She received a foreclosure notice.”
I leaned against the car.
Traffic moved slowly behind him.
“She's behind on the mortgage?”
“Several payments. There was a servicing change, and the amount she thought was due wasn't what the statements showed. She's also behind on the older home-equity loan.”
“Did you verify that?”
“Not all of it. The counselor here is reviewing the documents.”
“Then why are you involved?”
“She called me because she said she didn't want to upset you.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked at me.
“She sounded frightened.”
For a moment, I couldn't answer.
My mother had frightened me too.
Not with threats.
With how easily she made other people responsible for fixing whatever she wouldn't face.
“What did you promise her?”
“I'd drive her to two appointments. Help organize the statements. Nothing more.”
“Have you given her money?”
He hesitated.
I felt sick.
“How much?”
“Eight hundred dollars.”
“From where?”
“Our checking account.”
I closed my eyes.
We kept an emergency fund for repairs and unexpected expenses.
We had an agreement to discuss anything over three hundred dollars that wasn't a regular bill.
He knew it.
He had agreed to it.
“Did you tell her it was a gift or a loan?”
“A gift. It covered the electric account and groceries.”
“And you hid it.”
He didn't argue.
“Was it the only payment?”
“Yes.”
“Show me later.”
He nodded.
I asked why the resource center was involved in his work problem.
He pointed at a different section of the sign.
“They also offer employment counseling. I'm meeting an adviser about what happens if my job doesn't come back.”
There it was.
Two crises.
Two people making decisions about my life without speaking to me.
One was my husband.
The other was the mother who had taught me how exhausting secrecy could be.
“You've been here every day?”
“Not every day. Monday I met with a union representative. Tuesday I spoke with a lawyer. Last Thursday I went to the office to collect my personal things. The rest of the time I've been looking at applications.”
“Have you been using our savings?”
“For the eight hundred. And a consultation fee.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred and fifty.”
I stared at his hands.
The one with his wedding ring was trembling.
“Were you ever going to tell me before the money ran out?”
“We're not close to running out.”
“That's not the point.”
“I know.”
He said it quietly.
This time, it sounded like he meant it.
But knowing he'd done something wrong wasn't the same as fixing it.
The resource center door opened again.
Vivian stepped outside.
She saw me immediately.
Her expression moved from surprise to relief.
“Mara.”
She hurried toward us.
“I can explain.”
I lifted a hand.
“Not yet.”
She stopped.
I hadn't raised my voice.
I hadn't insulted her.
I had simply refused to let her begin with the story she wanted me to hear.
I turned to Eliam.
“You and I are going home together.”
Eliam's car was still warm when we stood beside it.
He kept glancing at the center door.
I realized he was worried Vivian would come out and hear the argument.
That made me angrier.
For years, I'd been the person expected to make everyone else's embarrassment comfortable.
At Dad's funeral, I'd waited until the guests left to ask where the latest loan documents had gone.
Graham called me inappropriate.
Vivian said I'd spoiled a day of mourning.
I remembered going home with flowers from the service and setting them beside the kitchen sink.
They died before I changed the water.
Eliam hadn't been part of that argument.
He'd known about it because I told him afterward.
He'd held me while I cried.
He'd heard how humiliating it was to be accused of wanting my father's money.
Now he was working with the same people who'd made those accusations.
“Did you ever tell Vivian how that affected me?” I asked.
He looked startled.
“No. I thought that would be inappropriate.”
“But meeting her without telling me was appropriate?”
He winced.
“No.”
“What did she say about me?”
“Mostly that she was ashamed.”
I studied him.
“Did she say that, or is that your interpretation?”
“She said the words.”
I wanted to believe him.
I also wanted to hear them from her.
A delivery truck pulled into the loading area behind the resource center.
A volunteer carried a box toward the door.
I wondered how many people came here for help without telling their families.
Maybe secrecy was common when someone was frightened.
That didn't make it harmless.
Eliam reached toward me.
I took a small step back.
“Don't,” I said.
He lowered his hand.
I could see how much that hurt him.
I had no energy to soften it.
“I want you to understand something,” I said. “If my mother needs help, I won't stop her from getting it. But I won't be made the villain because I won't pay whatever Graham borrowed.”
“I don't think you're the villain.”
“Then stop acting as if you need to protect people from my reaction.”
He looked at the pavement.
“That's fair.”
I didn't feel victorious.
I felt as though we'd finally found the real subject of the conversation.
He reached for his bag.
Vivian looked frightened.
“But my appointment—”
“You have a counselor inside,” I said. “Use her.”
Vivian blinked.
Then Eliam said something that made the whole conversation worse.
“Mara, your mother didn't know I'd been put on leave.”
I looked at him.
He nodded toward her.
“She thinks I'm taking vacation days to help.”
I turned back to Vivian.
She was staring at her shoes.
My husband had not only lied to me.
He had been lying to her too.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: At Our Kitchen Table, I Asked for Statements Instead of Reassurances
I Followed Eliam to the Red-Brick Building and Saw the Woman I Had Avoided for Six Years
Part 2 of 16
