Chapter 5 - Eviction Notice from Blood
By Wednesday afternoon, the hospital discharged me with a temporary cervical collar, a fresh set of titanium forearm crutches provided by Dr. Chen’s clinic, and an armful of prescriptions I couldn't afford to fill without my insurance deductible being met.
My best friend, Maya Lin, picked me up at the surgical entrance in her beaten-up Subaru wagon.
Maya was thirty, a graphic designer with grease-stained Chuck Taylors, an unapologetic mouth, and a heart forged from pure steel. She didn't say a word when she saw the butterfly bandages over my eye and the heavy compression sleeve on my knee. She just wrapped her arms around my neck, held me tight for ten full seconds, and whispered, “I’m going to kill them, Liam. I swear to God, I am going to burn their lives down.”
“Let's just get my clothes first,” I said, leaning heavily on the new crutches as she helped me into the passenger seat.
I lived in a small, detached carriage house behind my parents’ main property—an old converted garage I had rented from my father for eight hundred dollars a month since my divorce three years ago. I had paid my rent on time every single month, even from my hospital bed.
When Maya turned the Subaru down the tree-lined driveway of the Sterling estate, my stomach plummeted.
Parked on the lawn were two large industrial trash bins.
Strewn across the wet grass, soaking in the midday humidity, were cardboard boxes, plastic storage totes, and piles of clothing.
My bed frame lay upside down near the rose bushes, one leg snapped clean off. My drafting table—the table I used for my freelance architectural renderings—was leaning against a dumpster, its tempered glass top shattered into a web of white cracks.
Standing on the porch of the carriage house was my mother, accompanied by two men in yellow work vests.
“Stop the car,” I choked out.
Maya slammed on the brakes so hard the tires skidded on the gravel. Before I could even position my crutches, she was out of the driver's door, screaming.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Maya roared, marching up the driveway toward my mother. “This is illegal! You cannot evict a tenant without a thirty-day notice, you sociopathic monster!”
Mom didn't flinch. She held a manila folder against her chest, wearing dark sunglasses that hid her eyes.
“This property belongs to the Sterling Family Trust,” Mom said, her voice dripping with ice. “Liam defaulted on his lease agreement. Paragraph twelve: conduct detrimental to the peace and dignity of the primary residence. He brought armed police onto this property. He caused his father’s incarceration. He is no longer welcome on this land.”
I managed to push myself out of the passenger side, the rubber tips of my new crutches biting into the crushed limestone. Every step sent a jolt of fire through my left hip and knee, but the adrenaline overrode the agony.
“My drafting table, Mom?” I said, my voice shaking with rage as I stopped five feet from her. “My computer? Where is the hard drive with my client files?”
Mom looked at me through the dark lenses. “The trash company took the electronic waste an hour ago. Anything of value has been seized to offset the legal fees your father incurred because of your malicious prosecution.”
“You threw away his work?” Maya yelled, stepping between us, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles cracked. “He earns his living on that drive! He has three commercial renderings due this Friday!”
“Then he should have thought about that before he ruined his sister’s life,” Mom said smoothly. She turned to the two men in the yellow vests. “Clear the rest of the porch. If this man steps one foot over the threshold, call the private security patrol.”
She turned to walk back toward the main house.
“Evelyn,” I said.
She stopped, but didn't turn around.
“You think this makes you win?” I said, the tremor in my voice vanishing, replaced by a quiet, absolute clarity. “You think if you leave me on the street with nothing, I’ll drop the charges to get back in your good graces?”
She looked over her shoulder, a small, bitter smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “You have nowhere else to go, Liam. You have no money. You have no knee. In forty-eight hours, your surgical window closes. Without Arthur’s signature to release the equity in the trust, you will be a cripple forever. When you are ready to apologize to your father and sign the waiver for the bank, you can call my lawyer.”
She walked up the stone steps of the main house, entered through the front door, and locked the deadbolt with an audible *click*.
Maya turned to me, tears of pure fury streaming down her cheeks. “Liam… oh my God, Liam.”
I stood there in the gravel, looking at the broken glass of my drafting table. The table my grandfather had given me when I graduated from design school.
I didn't cry. The tears had dried up somewhere between the hardwood floor of Lauren’s living room and the trauma bay.
May you like
“Get the boxes with my sketchbooks, Maya,” I said, my voice steady. “Leave the rest. We’re going to Frank’s office.”
***
