Chapter 7 - The Foreclosure of Lake Forest
The private road winding through Lake Forest was lined with century-old sugar maples that had dropped their leaves, leaving the branches bare and skeletal against a pale, leaden November sky.
At 1:30 PM on Friday, the driveway of 1442 Sheridan Road was blocked by two white county sheriff’s cruisers, their amber lights flashing in the cold afternoon light, accompanied by a heavy thirty-foot commercial moving van bearing the logo of State Asset Recovery Logistics.
A small crowd of neighbors—women in designer puffer coats with manicured labradoodles, retired corporate directors in cashmere sweaters—stood at the edge of the stone pillars, watching through dark sunglasses as four movers in denim coveralls hauled an antique gilded mirror down the front limestone steps.
On the front lawn, driven into the frozen turf beside the brick mailbox, stood an official metal sign: BY ORDER OF THE CIRCUIT COURT OF LAKE COUNTY: FORECLOSURE WRIT EXECUTED. PREMISES UNDER RECEIVERSHIP.
My mother stood on the flagstone portico, wrapped in an old woolen coat she had borrowed from Aunt Clara, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching the movers with an expression of paralyzed, venomous disbelief.
Beside her, Fallon sat on a wrought-iron patio chair that had been dumped onto the dead grass, wearing an oversized pair of dark sunglasses to hide her puffy, makeup-free eyes, clutching a small leather jewelry case to her ribs, weeping silently into a silk scarf.
Her Porsche Macan was gone; the dealership had repossessed it twenty-four hours after the felony indictment hit the regional business journals.
A sleek black Audi sedan pulled to a halt at the foot of the driveway.
I stepped out of the passenger side, wearing my dark wool coat, flat leather boots, and gloves. Beside me climbed Marcus Vance, holding an aluminum clipboard with the court-certified inventory list.
When Sibil saw me, she descended the three limestone steps, her heels clicking an erratic, desperate rhythm against the stone.
"Sloan," Sibil choked out, her hands coming up in a frantic, clawing gesture before falling back to her sides. "Sloan, tell these men to stop. Look at what they’re doing to your father’s house. They’re taking the dining room chandelier. They’re packing the portraits."
I didn't stop. I walked up the driveway, stopping on the brick walkway five feet from where she stood.
"They're taking the assets that were pledged to secure your mezzanine debt, Sibil," I said, my voice completely calm, devoid of any cruelty, carrying only the flat weight of an audited conclusion. "You valued that chandelier at forty thousand dollars when you signed the collateral schedule for Oakhaven Capital. You told the lenders it was family equity. Now it’s satisfying your liabilities."
"Where are we supposed to sleep tonight?!" Fallon wailed from the grass, pushing her sunglasses up into her greasy hair, her face blotchy and swollen. "Miles won't take my calls! His father changed the locks on our apartment in Tribeca! They said our marriage was a fraudulent enterprise!"
"Your marriage was a fraudulent enterprise, Fallon," I replied, looking down at my sister. "You spent eighty thousand dollars of his trust fund to buy imported roses, and then you threw chemical acid into my face so you could pay the invoice with a viral video. You have no credit. You have no sponsors. And according to the state licensing division, Ward Media has been dissolved for criminal wire fraud."
"You're a monster," Fallon wept, burying her face in her hands. "You're an absolute monster. How could you do this to your own family?"
"I didn't do this to you, Fallon," I said softly. "You did this every time you posted an edited video of someone else's misery. You did this every time you looked at me and laughed because I worked for a living. You spent five years pretending you were an empress, and all you were doing was burning through your father’s life insurance."
Sibil stepped closer, her breath pluming white in the freezing air, her eyes wide, glassy, and completely detached from the reality of the street.
"You can't leave me with nothing, Sloan," Sibil whispered, her voice cracking into that thin, pathetic reed. "I am your mother. The society pages... the auxiliary board... what am I supposed to tell people when they ask where I live?"
"You can tell them the truth, Sibil," I said. "Tell them that you spent twelve million dollars of money that wasn't yours, and that the bill finally came due."
Marcus Vance stepped forward, handing a small brass key to my mother.
"What is this?" Sibil asked, staring down at the metal in her trembling palm.
"That," Marcus said, "is the key to a two-bedroom furnished corporate apartment in Des Plaines. It’s four miles from O'Hare. The rent has been prepaid for sixty days by the estate receiver. It has a dishwasher, a coin-operated laundry room on the second floor, and a bus stop directly across the street."
Sibil looked at the key as if it were an unexploded grenade.
"Des Plaines?" she gasped, horror twisting her features into a grotesque caricature of her former pride. "A coin-operated laundry?! I am Sibil Vance-Ward! I have a box at the Lyric Opera! I host the winter gala at the Drake!"
"You had a box, Sibil," I said, turning my back on her, walking back down the brick path toward the idling Audi. "The opera canceled your patron status yesterday morning when your corporate credit card declined. And the only gala you’re attending this winter is your formal sentencing before Judge Martinez on December twelfth."
"Sloan!" Sibil screamed behind me, her voice tearing through the quiet, frozen trees of Lake Forest, high and ragged and desperate. "Sloan, look at me! I am your mother!"
I didn't turn around.
I climbed into the passenger seat of the Audi, closed the heavy door, and let the quiet, leather-lined warmth of the car seal out her voice forever.
May you like
As we backed down the driveway and turned south toward the highway, I looked in the side mirror.
My mother stood alone on the frozen grass of 1442 Sheridan Road, holding a two-dollar brass key in her hand, watching the moving van haul her gilded mirrors toward the interstate until the trees closed behind us and the house disappeared into the gray Chicago mist.
