Page 8 of The Significance of Moving On

Chapter Four

“Where am I supposed to go?” My blood pressure spiked, I was sure of it, sure I was on the verge of a stroke. I felt the pulse pounding in my forehead making me sweat profusely—and I began shaking, shaking uncontrollably. Though, just like every other time since this mess began, Casey swooped in to play hero, to throw the lost puppy a bone. Holding me up in every way another human being could hold a person.

“You’ll stay with me. We’ll figure it out,” he said.

That happened over a week ago. My brother has been gone three weeks.Three weeks.

I’d be willing to bet when Casey made the offer, he wasn’t counting on my living arrangements becoming a permanent condition. Surprised didn’t begin to cover how I felt when I read the official letter sent by the court. A big yellow manila envelope handed over by a process server. I got the “Chantal Bradley, you’ve been served” and everything. Some bank was suing me for the balance of a savings account my father apparently took out for me and my brother. Tom couldn’t touch the money because we both had to be present to sign on withdrawals. I didn’t even know that was a thing. Because both our names were on the account, and Tom owed big time, they think that money should be theirs. It could help me a good little bit. By staying at Casey’s house, what with being his roommate, my expenses would be lower.

Casey sits next to me in a pair of gray dress slacks, blue and white pinstriped dress shirt and blue tie waiting for the official judgment to be handed down. My knees keep bouncing frantically. I had to hire an attorney. For this case and for companies that might come after the money in the future. He took out the insurance, but it’s for me. Apparently, my life is insignificant enough that we don’t even warrant a courtroom. They’ve seated us in an arbitration room, which is pretty much a glorified name for a conference room.

My attorney, Mrs. Gibson, who assures me I have nothing to worry about, sits two chairs down. She’s generally a pleasant woman, dark hair always pulled back in a loose bun. She’s only in her mid-thirties, but the shiny, black pantsuit makes her appear older than she actually is. Maybe older isn’t the right word—mature?

In any case, we wait and wait. It’s not like the amount, even with the accrued interest, would come close to touching what he owed. I mean, twenty-five grand. That’s all. If I’m allowed to keep it, thirty-five hundred will have to go to repaying Casey for helping me take care of my brother. Then there’s the lawyer’s fees. With what’s remaining, along with the money I saved from my dad’s social security because he died when I was a minor, that’s all the money I have in the world.

I’ll probably have to quit school all together to try and find a job. I need an apartment and an inexpensive car to get me back and forth to work. Public transportation sucks in this city.

It feels like the foot attached to my frantically bouncing knee is about to jackhammer a sizable hole through the beautifully polished, newly scuffed hardwood flooring. Thankfully the judge—his honorable whoever—breezes into our little room. He’s smiling, giving each of us a nod.

Sitting across from me is the representative from the bank and his attorneys. Plural. Three. Three attorneys for a twenty-five grand policy seems excessive. But it’s when the lead attorney jokes with the judge about improving his swing with eighteen holes of golf on Sunday that I know I’m in trouble.

“Has everything been explained to you?” The judge then asks me.

I nod. “Yes.”

“Then let us begin.”

An hour and a half later, after both sides have given argument for and against me keeping said money, the judgement gets handed down in favor of the bank, less the cost of my attorney’s fees and any court costs that would have been attributed to me.

So now the money from social security is all the money I have left in the world. I don’t know exactly how much is in the account, my brother always took care of me. The money got wired direct deposit.

I know I should have looked weeks ago. But my life had fallen apart. Casey made it where I didn’t have to.

“Do you understand what this means?” Mrs. Gibson asks.

“Yes,” both Casey and I speak at the same time. God, I’m glad he’s here next to me.

“Okay then.” She slides over a document for me to initial in several spots. It basically allows the insurance company to issue checks to the bank and my attorney. I’ll never see a dime. While we wait for the bank representative to initial his portions, I pull up my bank’s website and log in.

My heart drops.

There is far less money in the account than should be. A horrible thought hits me. Tom had to be on the account for me to open it. “No.” I whisper and hang my head hoping and failing to fight back the tears. Casey must hear me because his hand gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze while I continue to stare at the phone shaking in my hand.

What am I going to do?

Mrs. Gibson signs the document and slides it back in front of me again. Then I slap my signature down too. That’s it. I’m dismissed. And broke.

•••

When we round the corner onto our street, we both see it at the same time, because I look from it to Casey back to it again. The shock of it all. Am I really seeing what I’m seeing—For Sale? Is that a For Sale sign in my brother’s yard? My yard? Meadowbrook Realty. No, no, no… it’s a mistake. Wrong house. I know what the man in the brown suit said, but he was wrong… because this… thisiswrong.

“You can still go in, take what you want,” Casey, the voice of reason, says to me, confirming what I clearly know in my heart. They’re taking the last of my Tommy from me. Our home. What a day to see this.

The universe hates me. I think, I think it wants to make it as if Tom never really existed at all.At all.No home. No family. No… maybe it wantsmeto not exist.

“Tally, talk to me.” His voice reaches through my mounting panic attack to pull me out, at least momentarily. “What’s going on up there?” Casey brushes the backs of his fingers along my temple. But I’m too fragile to open my mouth, fearing if I do, I’ll crumble just like an over baked cookie being scraped off an ungreased cookie sheet. I fear I might already be crumbling. “Okay. I’m here. Remember, I’m here.” How does he understand without me having to explain it? People are supposed to ask nosey questions, to be pushy. Why doesn’t he? Why isn’t he? “Do you want to go in now?” he asks instead.

No.No no no. Inside my head I’m screaming the words, but all he sees is my head shake and all he hears is my breathing. My brother’s carelessness landed me in the middle of a shit-storm. How long did he have to not pay on his mortgage for them to foreclose already? Is that how he paid for my last year at Edgewood?

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