Chapter 8 - The Clean Slate
On the morning of November 30th, the Chicago sky was slate gray, and the first light flurries of the winter were drifting lazily through the air, melting as soon as they touched the black asphalt of North Paulina Street.
A large, white twenty-six-foot U-Haul truck was parked at the curb, its hazard lights blinking.
Two young men from a local moving company were carrying a heavy oak dresser down the concrete front steps of the building.
I stood across the street, leaning against the fender of a silver Subaru Forester I had leased two days prior. Marcus Vance stood beside me, wearing a long wool overcoat, holding a manila folder containing the formal surrender documentation.
Teresa walked out of the front entrance carrying a plastic laundry basket filled with framed family photos.
She had aged ten years in three weeks. Her hair was pulled back into an unkempt bun, her floral apron was gone, replaced by an oversized winter coat that looked several sizes too big for her shrinking frame. She didn't look at the neighbors who were watching from their front porches. She didn't look at the street.
She walked straight to the back of the U-Haul, shoved the basket onto the metal floor, and stood there, staring into the dark interior of the truck.
Vanessa’s Audi pulled up to the curb ten minutes later.
She got out of the car, but she didn't look like the polished, immaculate marketing director who had spent five years sneering at my freelance work. She was wearing gray sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, and no makeup.
Her condo in Evanston had been listed on the Multiple Listing Service forty-eight hours ago as a "Short Sale / Pre-Foreclosure Opportunity." Marcus had informed me that she had reached an agreement with her lender to surrender the deed in lieu of foreclosure to avoid a formal deficiency judgment, but her credit score had been reduced to ash. She had signed a lease for a four-hundred-square-foot studio apartment in Rogers Park, three blocks from the elevated train line.
Vanessa walked up to Teresa, said something sharp and quiet, and Teresa snapped back at her. The two women stood by the rear bumper of the moving truck, arguing in hushed, bitter tones, their breath misting in the cold morning air, pointing fingers at one another.
Neither of them looked across the street at me.
Arthur was the last one to exit the building. He carried two vintage aluminum suitcases—the ones he had bought when he first came to Chicago in the late eighties. He walked to the back of the truck, set the suitcases down, and handed a small silver ring containing four keys to Marcus’s associate, who was waiting by the front steps.
The associate walked across the street and placed the keys into my open palm.
The metal was cold against my skin.
"They have fully surrendered possession," Marcus said, checking his watch. "The surrender affidavit is signed by both Arthur and Teresa. The property is legally, physically, and unreservedly yours, Daniela."
"Thank you, Marcus," I said.
We watched as the moving truck’s diesel engine roared to life, spewing a small cloud of white exhaust into the winter air. Arthur climbed into the passenger side of the cab. Vanessa got back into her Audi. Teresa got into the driver’s side of the silver Corolla.
One by one, the three vehicles pulled away from the curb, turned right onto Armitage Avenue, and vanished into the city traffic.
The street returned to complete silence.
I walked across the asphalt, pushed open the heavy front door of the apartment building, and climbed the four flights of stairs.
Apartment 4B was unlocked.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The apartment was hollow. The brown leather recliner was gone. The floral sofa was gone. The framed prints of Catholic saints and Spanish coastal villages had been stripped from the walls, leaving behind pale, square outlines on the aged beige wallpaper.
In the kitchen, the counters were bare. The stove was cold.
I walked over to the stainless steel sink—the sink where twelve days ago, my mother had dumped my daughter’s dinner to prove a point about power and control.
It was completely clean.
I turned the brass faucet handle. Clear, hot water poured from the spout, swirling down the drain with a clean, steady rush.
I pulled out my phone and dialed the number for a local contracting team I had hired the previous week.
"David?" I said when the contractor answered. "The unit is empty. You can bring the crew in tomorrow morning. Strip the wallpaper down to the brick. Tear out the old linoleum in the kitchen. We’re putting in white oak floors, new recessed lighting, and a brand-new nursery in the second bedroom."
"You got it, Daniela," David said. "We'll have it looking like a completely new home in three weeks."
May you like
"Not a new home, David," I said, looking around the empty, sunlit living room. "A safe one."
***
