I grabbed my purse. “I need air.”
“How nice for him.”
I couldn’t put the surgery off anymore.
Dr. Evans had said my insurance would cover part of it, but not enough. There would be deductibles, hospital fees, medication, and whatever help I needed afterward.
So Thursday, I put on my best church shoes, tucked Walter’s card into my purse, and took the bus to the bank.
My hands shook. Driving felt foolish.
The young teller smiled. “How can I help you?”
I couldn’t put the surgery off anymore.
I slid the card across the counter. “I’d like to withdraw the balance.”
“Of course.”
“It should be $2,000,” I said. “I need it for medical expenses.”
Her smile softened. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. I’m still upright.”
She typed, then held out her hand. “Can I see your ID?”
I gave it to her.
Her smile faded.
“I need it for medical expenses.”
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Can you confirm your name?”
“Sylvie.”
“And Walter is…?”
“My husband on paper. My ex-husband in every way that mattered.”
She checked the screen. “Please wait here.”
“Did he cancel it?”
“No, ma’am. I need my branch manager.”
“Can you confirm your name?”
“For a two-thousand-dollar withdrawal?”
“I understand,” she said softly. “But we should have contacted you sooner.”
My fingers tightened around my purse strap. “About what?”
A few minutes later, the manager, Mr. Cooper, came out holding a sealed envelope.
“Sylvie?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at my ID. “Your name is the authorized cardholder on this account. That’s why we can speak with you about it.”
