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“I know that’s what you want to believe,” Meg says. “And I want that to be true too. But you have to protect yourself, even if that means facing some painful truths.”
Truth?Every word she says is a lie.“I don’t think that was a legitimate call,” I tell her. “I think it was a phishing scam. Someone trying to get me to hand over my social security number. It happens all the time.” Will she flinch? Look away?
But she pulls her phone out and opens her web browser, and I watch her Google Citibank, pulling up their website. She holds her phone up so I can see it. “Here’s the number; let’s call and check.”
Is this some kind of test? Does she think I won’t make the call in front of her? I dial and navigate through several automated options, until I’m placed on hold. While I wait, shrieks of laughter from the playground filter through my growing panic.
This time, I speak to someone named Paul. I read off the account number Natalie gave me and step away from Meg to give him the last four digits of my social security number. “The balance is $31,125,” he confirms.
I close my eyes, the sounds from the playground growing fuzzy. Not a phishing scam, but real debt—one so large, I have no hope of paying it off.
“Ask about recent transactions,” Meg says.
My eyes fly open, and I study the way she watches me, her eyes wide with compassion and worry. Why would she want me to ask this? What does she want me to hear?
In response to that question, Paul rattles off several large cash advances, all local to us, and a few charges at the supermarket. “Can you tell me what the billing address is?” I ask.
He gives me a PO box in Brentwood. I glance at Meg again, knowing how easy it is to set one up online.
Paul’s voice cuts in. “The statements are sent to an email.” He reads it slowly. “Calistasniece at Yahoo.”
My gaze cuts to Meg, the breeze blowing strands of her hair across her face, which is open and concerned. I remind myself she’s had years to perfect the expression. “Thank you,” I say to Paul, then disconnect the call. Meg places a hand on my arm and I jerk it away, desperate to go somewhere I can think. Figure out how she could have done this.
“You need to file a police report,” she says again. “I can go with you if you want.”
I look at her, incredulous, imagining the two of us at a police station, Meg by my side helping to craft the narrative. At what point would she slip and share details of Scott’s gambling? A subtle mention that would skew an investigation away from her.
I’m going to have to tell Scott. I can’t conceal a $30,000 debt from him. A small voice floats up from deep inside of me. What if Meg is right? What if it’s Scott after all?
Not for the first time, I wonder what my life would be like if Scott weren’t an addict. Or if I’d left him instead of staying and working through the steps with him. Things would be so much clearer now, not having to navigate around the constant doubt, the voices that invade my sleep, always questioning what he says. Always wondering if it’ll happen again. Pushing me to look for the cracks, trying to figure out what’s real inside my own relationship.
Just then, Meg’s phone rings. She glances at the screen and says, “It’s the buyers for Ron’s house. I have to take this.”
She steps away, her back to me.
God, she just never stops. Even in the midst of stealing $30,000 I don’t have, she’s still trying to spin these mythical buyers. I wonder who’s really on the other end of that call. Veronica? Someone else? I strain to hear her side of it, but the sounds from the playground and the breeze carry her words away from me.
She hangs up and returns to the park bench. “Sorry about that.”
I stand and toss my mostly uneaten taco in the trash. “I need to go,” I tell her.
She gives me a hug, her expensive perfume enveloping me, but my body remains stiff, my arms at my side. “Call if you need anything.”
***
I wait until Scott gets home, needing to see his face when I tell him what’s happened. To reassure myself that my loyalty isn’t misplaced.
I’d driven home on autopilot, and by the time I arrived, the tiny seed of doubt had grown into a small stone sitting inside of me. The possibility that he might have done this. Because it is possible. Just because I can’t find the evidence doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.
When he arrives, he takes one look at me and says, “What’s wrong?”
He keeps his eyes on mine as I give him the details, reading from a page where I’d assembled all the information. The date in June when the credit card was opened, shortly after my first outing with Meg. The debt in my name. The most recent charges and cash advances and, finally, the email address associated with it.
“That fucking bitch,” he says when I’m finished.
I stare at him, searching for a hint of a lie. A flash of guilt before being shuttered behind the outrage building there.
My silence catches his attention, and he pulls back. “Wait a minute. You think it was me?”
