Less than 2 minutes later, a middle-aged man in a suit, his forehead beaded with sweat, came rushing out with the employee. He looked at me as if he were seeing a savior. He hurriedly opened the counter door, came out, and gave me a deep, respectful nod.
“Mrs. Laura, good morning. I’m the manager of this branch. Please follow me to the VIP lounge so we can assist you as you deserve.”
Stunned, I let them lead me to a luxurious room with a soft velvet carpet, the air conditioning circulating, a cool breeze scented with a pleasant lemongrass essential oil. They invited me to sit on a leather sofa, and served me a cup of hot tea. This 180° change in treatment frightened me even more. I set the cup on the table and with trembling hands asked,
“Sir, what’s going on? I just want to withdraw the $10,000 from the card. If there’s a problem, I won’t take it.”
The manager looked at me. Then at the statement he was holding. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. His voice trembled with emotion.
“Mrs. Laura, perhaps you misremember or aren’t aware of the information. This is a special fiduciary investment account opened seven years ago with an automatic reinvestment and compound interest clause.”
I listened to these technical terms, my mind spinning, understanding nothing. I asked him gently,
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. In short, how much money is on the card?”
The manager took a deep breath, placed the statement in front of me, and with his index finger pointed to the very long row of numbers at the bottom. He said solemnly.
“Ma’am, the total balance in the account, including the initial principle, accumulated interest, and matured investments, is over $2 million.”
Boom. An explosion went off in my head, making all the sounds around me blur. 2 million. Had I heard him wrong, or had he misread it? Daniel said there was $10,000. That colossal figure danced before my eyes, mocking my poverty in the years of misery I had endured. I stared at the paper, counting the zeros over and over, feeling as if I were trapped in the most surreal dream.
Why 2 million? Why had Daniel lied to me? Why did he give me a fortune and then cast me out like a beggar?
I walked out of the bank’s automatic doors, feeling like I was walking on clouds, my feet not touching the ground. In my hand, I no longer held a worn out old plastic card, but a powerful, cold, and heavy black card. I took refuge in the shade of a sycamore tree on the sidewalk, and with trembling hands, pulled out my old cell phone with its cracked screen.
My first thought wasn’t about paying my debts or buying a bus ticket back home. It was to call Daniel. I had to demand an explanation. Why had he deceived me? Did he do something illegal seven years ago and use this method to transfer his assets to me? The idea sent a shiver down my spine. If it was dirty money, I would rather starve to death than accept it and live the rest of my days in fear.
My fingers slid across the keypad, dialing the sequence of numbers I had deleted from my contacts 7 years ago, but had never been able to erase from my memory. Each number that appeared made my heartbeat faster. I pressed the call button, brought the phone to my ear, and held my breath.
“The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.”
The operator’s monotonous voice was like a bucket of cold water. I couldn’t believe it. I hung up and called again. Once, twice, five times, always the same frigid response. I let my arm drop, a feeling of helplessness invading every cell in my body.
Of course, 7 years had passed. He was a successful businessman. He had probably changed his number long ago to avoid annoyances, especially from an ex-wife like me.
In my desperation, I suddenly remembered Ethan. Ethan was his best friend, his right-hand man in the old days. The day we went to the courthouse, Ethan was there too, leaning against a tree in the distance, looking at me with a strange expression, as if he wanted to say something, but was holding himself back in anger. For 7 years, to sever all ties with my painful past, I hadn’t contacted Ethan either. I searched my old cloud-sync contacts. Luckily, Ethan’s number was still there.
The phone rang for a long time, an eternity that tested my patience. Just as I was about to hang up, someone picked up on the other end. There was no polite, “Hello,” just a heavy horse and hostile breath.
“Who is this?”
I cleared my throat, trying to speak calmly. “It’s me, Laura, Daniel’s ex, his ex-wife.”
The line went silent. A silence so long I thought the call had been dropped. The emptiness made my skin crawl. Suddenly, a dry laugh echoed, so cold and bitter, it chilled my blood. Ethan growled each word, hissing through his teeth.
“You still have the nerve to call me, Laura? You’re unbelievable. Where the hell have you been for seven years? What rock have you been hiding under? Why are you calling today of all days?”
His shouting left me stunned. Ethan had always been a calm, kind person. He always called me sis sweetly. He had never raised his voice at me. His unjustified anger both scared and infuriated me. I stammered. What are you talking about? I’m calling to ask about Daniel. Do you have his new number? I need to talk to him urgently. It’s about the bank card.
“The bank card?” Ethan interrupted, his voice rising, cracking with emotion. “So, it was about the money. You finally remembered the money, huh? Where were you when he was suffering like a dog? Where were you when he was lying alone in the dark? Now that the money is yours, you remember him?”
I stood frozen in the middle of the street, my ears ringing from his harsh accusations. I didn’t understand anything. Daniel suffering and lying alone. Wasn’t he living happily with his young, beautiful wife? Are you crazy? I shouted into the phone, tears welling up. Where is Daniel? I want to see him and have him explain everything. I don’t want his money. I just want to know why.
“Ask him.” Ethan’s laugh on the phone sounded like a sob, a broken and tragic sound. “If you want to ask him, you’ll have to go down to hell to do it. He’s dead. He died almost 7 years ago, 3 months after you left.”
The phone slipped from my hand and fell with a sharp crack on the pavement. The already broken screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass. I stood there, a lone, dry tree in the river of people, feeling as if an invisible hand had just reached into my chest and squeezed my heart.
I don’t know how I ended up at the diner. It was a small place tucked away on a side street where our group used to meet to talk about our entrepreneurial dreams when we barely had any money. The diner was still the same. The walls yellowed with age. The wooden booths worn down. The smell of cheap coffee ingrained in every corner. Only the people had changed.
I sat hunched in a booth hugging a glass of ice water. My eyes fixed on the door. Ethan walked in, bringing the sweltering heat of the summer afternoon with him. When I saw him, I almost didn’t recognize him. The handsome, polished man of the past looked years older, his hair almost completely gray, his face etched with bitter lines, and his eyes sunken and dark.
He pulled out a chair and sat across from me. He threw a pack of cigarettes on the table and looked at me with a mix of pity, reproach, and a hint of resentment. Tell me, I began, my voice. This thing about Daniel being dead, it’s a joke, right? It’s impossible.
Ethan didn’t answer right away. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Through the white veil, I could see his eyes were red. He laughed without joy.
“You think I have time to joke about my best friend’s life? He’s really dead, Laura. Bone cancer. Terminal.”
The words terminal cancer landed between us like two lead weights. I felt my chest tighten, making it hard to breathe. The image of Daniel on the day of the divorce flashed in my mind. His loose black trench coat, his pale, colorless face, and his slightly unsteady posture, which at the time I had attributed to being drunk, or to his contempt for me.
