Chapter 33

Justine

I was winded as I came in the house with the girls. Winded and happy. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt that kind of happiness—the kind that didn’t come with any guilt attached. When the phone rang, I assumed it was Liza, calling because the due date for my piece in the newsletter had slipped my mind. I was trying to pay attention again to the things that used to matter in my life. I picked up the phone, prepared to make an excuse to Liza about Mark losing his job, to promise her I would get back on track. Instead I heard a pause just before a male voice asked for me. I should’ve hung up.

“This is her,” I said. I decided that wasn’t grammatically correct. Shouldn’t I have said, “This is she”?

“Ma’am, my name is Steve, and I am calling on behalf of the collections department for Madison Furniture. Are you aware you’ve missed two payments on the furniture you purchased from them?”

“Ma’am?” he asked. “Can we make arrangements for payment? I am trying to collect on a debt you owe.”

I stammered for an answer. “I—we—my husband … My husband lost his job, and we—”

“Ma’am, you made a promise to pay for this furniture. Perhaps there’s a family member who could help you with the payments until then?”

I thought about my parents, the humiliation of calling them to ask for help. I was on a sinking ship, and I could either try to bail out water or just bail out. A simmering anger began to bubble just below my skin. But who was I angry at? Myself for living so close to the edge financially, for blindly trusting Mark to make things okay? Or him for losing his job? At the moment I couldn’t decide. I just knew I had to get off the phone with this man who was pushing me to pay a bill we couldn’t pay. We’d been slipping further and further into debt the more Mark didn’t make quota, the less income he brought home. Losing the job was just the signature on the bankruptcy notice. We had been living in denial for months, fooling ourselves into thinking that we were safe if we stayed inside the bubble of our affluent neighborhood, not realizing that’s the problem with bubbles: They shimmer and shine, but they burst easily.

“I’ll talk to my husband, and we’ll make arrangements,” I said. “If you’ll just give me a few days.”

“Ma’am, you don’t have a few days. If you don’t pay, this is going to our legal department. I can call you back this afternoon. I hope you’ll have made a plan by then. I suggest you do.” He disconnected the call without saying good-bye or extending any basic courtesy to me. I wondered who would want a job like that? An angry person who enjoyed being rude all day? Or just a person who needed money so badly he was willing to do anything? Would Mark reach that point? Would I?

I stood there holding the phone for a minute, wondering what I could do, wondering what Mark could do. Should I make the effort to call my parents and borrow the money to catch us up? If I did, I was bailing water out of a boat with a gaping hole in the bottom. There was more where that came from—more bills we couldn’t pay, more money we didn’t have. The creditors were lining up: mortgage, car payments, credit cards. I didn’t know much about our financial situation—I never wanted to know—but I did know it was bad and getting worse.

My friends at church would tell me to pray, to trust God, to read the Bible. But I couldn’t do that. I was tired of pious answers from prideful people who would do nothing more than offer their pity, then gossip about me behind my back. “First she lost that part, then he lost his job.…” I could see them shaking their heads, so secure in their own safety, unaware that the same wolves that had found us lurked in the shadows of their own landscaped lawns.

I threw the phone across the room. It hit the refrigerator and broke into two pieces, breaking just like I finally did inside. “Why?” I screamed at no one, but then realized I was screaming at God. “Why would You let this happen? I’m not even sure You’re there.” I sank to the floor and sobbed, my breath coming in heaving gasps. My hands were clenched in fists, and I stared at them, wondering what I could punch. I looked up to see Cameron and Caroline at the bottom of the stairs, clutching each other and staring at me with fear in their eyes. I could see my sister and me in the same pose a long, long time ago, watching my mother cry because we were going to lose our house. I remembered the fear in my belly, the knowing that something was dreadfully wrong, and the powerlessness to stop it that made me feel so small and helpless.

I had vowed I would never let that happen to my daughters. I stood up and backed away from them, edging toward the door. I had to get away. I had to find a way to escape the fate that was upon us. When I had a plan, I would come back for them.

Grabbing the keys, I babbled out some nonsense and fled. It was only after I was in my car that I realized where I was going and who I was headed for: the one safe place in all of this, the one thing that made sense in my life anymore. I pictured his face, and a peace settled over me. I exhaled slowly, breathed in and breathed out as my heart rate slowed. I imagined falling into his arms, telling him all that was wrong. I imagined him telling me I was safe, telling me he would take care of me.

I rolled down the window of my car and let the warm air wash over me. I had tried to stay away. Even when he called to tell me that he’d moved out, that he wanted me, that the night we’d spent together had changed everything. Even then I’d resisted, told him he’d have to stop calling. I’d been strong only to find that none of it mattered. My commitment to Mark and the girls wasn’t going to save my family. As I pressed on the accelerator, all I could think was that I didn’t want to save my family anymore. Right or wrong, I just wanted to save myself.