“I’m trying to count how many times you deferred the blame in that one sentence,” I tell her.
Mom says, “We were approached by a man we thought was a friend, and we trusted him. We trusted that—”
“I’m going to kick you out of my apartment and tell the news that you’re guilty of whatever you’re about to be accused of if you don’t spare me the prepared material and get to the point,” I tell her.
She holds up her hand lazily, saying, “Oh, Ashley, you have so much fire in you. I don’t understand why you can’t make it work with a man.”
“Get out,” I tell her, standing and pointing toward the door.
“I’m telling you,” she says. “Calm yourself.” She takes a breath and starts again. “Your father and I are about to be accused of being involved in a real estate scandal,” she says.
“Specifics, mom,” I say. “What did you do, how much time are you looking at, and am I involved somehow? The answers to those questions are the only thing I care to—”
“I am your mother, and I will not be spoken to in this way!” mom says. Her protest probably wouldn’t seem so hollow if I haven’t had to say similar things so often in the past.
Still, she continues.
“We purchased a number of houses in decent areas throughout the state,” she says. “We didn’t know the realtors were accepting multiple offers and then absconding with their ill-gotten gains.”
Of course they knew, but I’m not going to interrupt when she’s giving me the closest thing to the truth I’m ever going to get out of her on the subject.
“What’s even more outrageous than that is that these horrible people are now saying that it was us who had instructed them to do these terrible, terrible things,” mom says. “When they gave us the money from the sale of the houses, we just assumed that everything was accurate, that the amount we were receiving was legitimate. How were we supposed to know this sort of thing was going on?”
“First off, nobody’s ever going to buy that. It’s just about the stupidest explanation I’ve ever heard,” I tell her. “How much money did you spend on the houses? All put together, what was the total?” I ask.
“Six or seven million,” she answers. “Your father has the exact figures.”
“And how much did you make from the sale of these homes?” I ask.
“The money isn’t what’s important,” she protests. “What’s important is that your father and I are being slandered by people trying to get out of taking responsi
bility for their own actions.”
“I’m sure they’ll say the same thing about the two of you and you’ll both be equally right,” I tell her. “How much did you make off of the sale of the houses?”
“Again, your father would have the exact figure with him,” she stalls. I don’t respond. I just glare at her until she finally answers the question, “I believe it was somewhere between forty and fifty million.”
I whistle when I hear the sum. “That sounds like a pretty glaring problem,” I tell her. “How are you going to convince people you didn’t know what they were doing? Even with your claims of innocence peppered throughout everything you just said, upon hearing it, I’m absolutely convinced that you not only knew what they were doing, but you put them up to it.”
“You always think we’re capable of the most horrible things,” mom says. “Your father and I truly believed that the amounts we were receiving were reasonable profits.”
“You’re still missing something,” I tell her. “You told me what you did and I can figure out what kind of time you’re going to get as a result of that. The internet’s great for that sort of thing. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here. I know I’m involved somehow, otherwise you wouldn’t be telling me any of this.”
“Dear, you know that your father and I have put a lot of our money into the charity,” mom says.
“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.
“Well,” she starts, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but we’ve been experiencing a bit of a financial crisis over the past few years—what, with so much of our money going into the charity.”
“Oh, can we please stop referring to you and dad’s bank accounts in the Cayman Islands as ‘the charity’ and just tell me?” I ask.
“In order to purchase the last house, we needed a little extra money—you know how your father deplores bringing too much money back without some sort of respectable reason,” mom says. “Respectable-looking” probably would have been more accurate. “So, keeping in mind that we never intended for any of this to happen, we may have used your name and information to apply for a few loans from our bank which could help us pay off the last couple of houses.”
“How many houses were you trying to cover?” I ask. “You’re not agreeing with yourself. And what kind of loans can you apply for in someone else’s name?”
“Well, that part was an oversight on the part of your father and I,” she says. “I wanted to come here and warn you personally that you may be audited when you get your taxes back. You would have been unaware of a few of the student loans that are in your name, and so wouldn’t have mentioned any of them on your taxes. They check that sort of thing, you know.”
“Student loans?” I ask.