Rainy Day Stories

Mortgage Madness -- A Tale of Obsession

Sheila is a stalker. It's a compulsion -- an addiction, to be sure. Her sweaty hands grip the steering wheel of her Fiat 500 as she cruises down the same street for the 10th time today. A couple walks leisurely by her target and she panics when they glance towards it.

"No! It's mine. All mine," she mutters. Why hadn't she been updated? She couldn't believe she hadn't gotten a call yet. As if her thoughts were the catalyst, Sheila's cell buzzed.

"Hello!" Her anxiety returned. It wasn't the real estate agent.

"Doug, I can't talk right now. My dream house is on the market. After all these years I am so close to making my dreams come true. I'll talk to you later." Doug was her on-again, off-again boyfriend. She had more important things on her mind.

A car horn blasted right behind her. Sheila pulled over to the curb giving the other driver a dirty look. They offered her a one-finger-salute in return.

"The nerve. Don't people have any decency anymore?" No one answered her question because, obviously, she was alone. Sheila stared up at the house remembering the first time she'd laid eyes on the Tudor home.

She was 8 years old riding her purple stingray with its high handlebars and banana seat. Her dad had put a bell, a white wicker basket and purple, white and blue streamers that came off the ends of the handlebar grips. Her best friends, Pam and Mary, were riding with her down the sidewalk. Sheila stopped awestruck when she spied the Tudor house with beautiful rose bushes in full bloom. It looked like a house out of one of her storybooks. A place that a princess might hide from their wicked stepmother or a witch.

It was love at first sight.

Over the years, she had passed by the Tudor hundreds -- no, thousands of times. As a young bride, she hoped that a "For Sale" sign would pop up on the lawn. Her husband realized after a few years that Sheila felt more love for "that damn house" than she did for him. They divorced soon after.

She would run past the house every day back when she could still run. In her eyes, the house was beautiful in every season. She dreamed of summer weddings in the yard. Weddings that never happened. Little boys throwing a baseball back and forth while little girls had tea parties in frilly dresses in the gazebo. Those dream children were never born.

Without her realizing it, Sheila's friends no longer called to set up outings. They were too busy leading lives enriched by their families, vacations, and careers. She could have taken that big promotion in New York City, but didn't. Her dark hair had streaks of silver in it. The years had passed as had her youth.

The cell phone buzzed again. Sheila scrambled to answer it with fumbling fingers. Her face fell. Her house had been sold to someone else.