Mrs. Perfect

“That was for you, Dad.”

“Thanks, pumpkin.”

It’s one of those clear, cloudless autumn days where the sky seems extra blue and the colors on the ground extra red and gold. Nathan asks me if I mind if he takes the girls to lunch, just the four of them, a father-daughter treat before they go looking for Halloween costumes.

I’m glad he’s so good with them. But as they drop me off at the house and I watch the four of them leave together, I can’t help feeling a little left out. I want to have fun, too.

Four hours later, Jemma comes home with a red devil girl costume. Tori is—of course—a pink princess, and Brooke is a Bratz pirate. I didn’t even know the Bratz dolls were now making costumes for real girls. I glance casually at the price tag from Jemma’s red devil costume: $44, without the accessories. Have costumes always been so expensive?

While buying costumes, they also picked up pumpkins, one for each of us, and we line up in the dining room, the good table surface covered by thick layers of newspapers, and carve our pumpkins.

In keeping with the spirit of things, I heat apple cider on the stove, spicing it with cinnamon sticks, and find the CD of Halloween music that includes unforgettable favorites such as “Thriller” and “Monster Mash.”

Leaning against the counter, I smile to myself as the girls dance around the family room, doing their version of the Twist.

This, I think, my mug of cider pressed to my mouth, is why we fall in love and get married and have babies. This. Three little girls shimmying and shaking and doing the Twist.

Chapter Twelve

Saturday night after the girls go to bed, Nathan and I sit in the family room watching an old movie. He’s in the soft leather armchair, legs outstretched on the matching ottoman, while I curl up on the couch. We’re not exactly talking, but I don’t mind. It’s nice just being here, together, like this.

An hour later, as the movie goes to commercial break, I look at him and see that he’s fallen asleep. I’m not surprised, since he’s on a different time zone from us. Quietly I turn off the TV, find the quilt he used last night, and cover him before dimming the lights.

I’m just leaving the room when I hear his voice. “It’s been a good house, hasn’t it?”

Standing in the doorway between the large, casually elegant kitchen and the spacious but cozy family room, I nod. “I love living here. The girls love it, too.”

“Let’s go Monday to talk to someone. I’ve got the number of a financial planner that specializes in situations like ours. Maybe he’ll have some advice for us.”

“I thought you were flying back tomorrow night.”

“I can push the flight back a day. I think it’s important we talk to someone sooner rather than later.”

“Sounds good. Thanks. Good night, Nathan.”

“Good night, Taylor. Sleep tight.”

Early Monday afternoon, Nathan and I are to go see Michael Burns together at Burns & Bailey Financial, and I spend a long time standing in my closet trying to decide what to wear. We’re seeking financial advice, so I know I shouldn’t arrive dressed to the nines, but at the same time, I want to present a polished, even sophisticated image. We’re in debt, but we’re still successful people.

I settle on black, very straight-leg wool pants and a flame cashmere turtleneck sweater with my Miu Miu camel wool coat over all. My black patent Jimmy Choo heels are the perfect shoes and really pull the look together. It’s appropriately autumn but still smart.

“You look nice,” Nathan tells me as we get into my car, although he’s driving.

“Thank you.” I smile, yet I’m nervous. I cross my legs one way and then the other, struggling to get comfortable and thinking how odd it is to feel like a stranger with my own husband.

“You’re sure Annika will be here this afternoon?”

I nod. “She’ll pick up Tori and then meet the girls’ school bus.”

“God, I don’t want to do this,” Nathan mutters as we take 92nd Avenue to 8th Street.

It’s not even a five-minute drive from our house to the Burns & Bailey office in downtown Bellevue, but it feels much longer. Nathan’s tense. I’m tense. The strain is almost unbearable.

Burns & Bailey Financial is located on the twentieth floor of one of the Bellevue Place Towers adjacent to the Hyatt hotel. Nathan parks underneath the building, and we take the first of two elevators to reach the Burns & Bailey office.

Nathan and I are quiet during the ride up to the twentieth floor. Hopefully, Mr. Burns will be able to give us some guidance on how to start working our way out of debt without losing everything.

The office is large and plush in an understated financial decor sort of way—lots of soothing marine blue paint, a thick carpet on the floor to muffle sound, a series of framed black-and-white prints of Mt. Rainier and the Puget Sound on the wall.

The receptionist shows us down a narrow hall to an office at the end of the corridor. “Mr. Burns.” She knocks on his door and then opens it. “Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Young are here for their one-thirty appointment.”

Mr. Burns is actually a man our age, a little thick in the jowls and with thinning light brown hair. “Call me Michael,” he says pleasantly, standing and gesturing for us to sit in the chairs facing his desk.

We sit. Sliding a pair of wire-frame glasses on his nose, Michael reviews the paperwork Nathan faxed earlier in the day. He studies it as though he’s never seen it before, and maybe he hasn’t, or maybe he has and his memory just needs refreshing.

After a few minutes, he pulls off the reading glasses and leans back in his chair. “You know, you aren’t the first couple this has happened to. Lots of people are dangerously extended. . . .”

Nathan shifts next to me, his jaw set.

“Americans have a love affair with credit. All it takes is one unforeseen tragedy, a death, divorce, a layoff—”

“So what do you suggest?” Nathan interrupts, his voice pitched so low that it’s like nails on a chalkboard. He hates this. He’s in his own personal hell right now.

“I’d file Chapter thirteen, reorganize your debts, and work on paying your creditors back.”

I glance at Nathan. I don’t understand. “Can we do that?”

Nathan’s jaw thickens. “If we wanted to file bankruptcy.”

I blink. “Oh. I didn’t know that’s what Chapter thirteen was. I thought Chapter eleven was bankruptcy . . .” My voice fades away as I realize it just doesn’t matter. The fact is, this highly recommended financial guru is charging us $400 to recommend we file bankruptcy, and all I can think is, This is the best he’s got?

“You’d erase a huge portion of your debt,” Michael adds, “and you’d have a shot at protecting your remaining assets.”

“What about the house?” Nathan asks bluntly.

“You might be able to save it. It’s expensive property, but you’ve taken out numerous loans against the house. . . .” Michael glances at our tidy stack of paperwork. “However, on the upside, Mr. Young, you are employed, and the fact that you are earning wages and wish to start repaying your creditors will certainly help as you work out a repayment plan.” He pauses. “Of course, the court must approve your repayment plan and your budget.”

Nathan glances at me. His misery is palpable. I feel the same way. Save the house, but publicly declare that we’re shit at managing our affairs?

“It sounds worse than it is,” Michael continues pragmatically. “Once the court approves your plan and you’ve been appointed a trustee, you’ll have three to five years to pay back your creditors. You’ll make monthly payments to the bankruptcy trustee, who will distribute the funds to the creditors. Once the repayment plan is completed, your unpaid debts are discharged.”

Michael Burns makes it sound so easy. By filing Chapter 13, we’d buy time to reorganize our debt and then pay the bills as agreed in our approved plan. Piece of cake.

Except we’re now treated no better than wayward children who’ve become war

ds of the court with a trustee appointed to watch us.

Michael must see the distaste on my face because he admits quietly, “It’s tough on the ego, but consider your children. Maybe, just maybe, this is the best thing for your daughters.”

Nathan stiffens. “How did you know we have daughters?”

Michael smiles kindly. “My daughter Maggie is in the same class with Jemma this year.”

Nathan gets to his feet. “We’ll think about it,” he says.

We awkwardly shake hands and exit the office. Nathan doesn’t speak as we ride the first elevator down to the lobby.

“I could use a drink,” he says as we leave the elevator.

“Me too.”

We walk through the Hyatt, heading for the hotel’s new wine bar. It’s still early yet, and the happy hour crowd hasn’t arrived. We practically have the place to ourselves and sit at a small table not far from the bar.

The bartender comes out to take our order from behind the bar. “What can I get for you?”

“A glass of red,” Nathan says.

“We have an extensive wine list by the bottle and the glass—”

“Syrah or Cab. The house wine’s fine.”