Chapter 5: The Morning She Called The Bank
Diego left at seven thirty. I heard the front door close from the kids' room where I'd slept on the floor between their beds. His shoes on the hardwood, his keys, the soft click. He didn't knock.
By eight, Teresa was in the kitchen. She had changed out of the burgundy dress into a cream sweater, but the pearl necklace was still on. She was at the stove with a spatula, making scrambled eggs. The belt was not visible. The suitcase was still by the front door where I'd left it.
"Morning," she said without turning around. "The kids should eat before they go play."
Sophia sat at the table in her pajamas, the lavender dress folded over a chair now. The blonde doll was upright against her water glass. My son was in his navy shirt, legs swinging.
I poured coffee I didn't drink. I kept my phone face down. Last night after they'd gone to sleep, I'd found the old Memo Savings statements folded in the junk drawer, the paper copies Diego used to print for taxes. I slipped one into the diaper bag.
"You two want to go to the park?" I asked the kids. My voice was even.
Sophia looked at me quickly. My son nodded.
Teresa turned, plate in hand. "They just sat down to eat."
"We can eat after," I said. "They need air."
She studied me for a second, then smiled. "Of course. Fresh air is good."
Outside the air was cool. I pushed the stroller even though my son wanted to walk, so I could keep the diaper bag under the seat. Sophia held her doll tight against her chest with both arms the whole block to Elm Street Park. I didn't rush them. We stopped so Sophia could pick up a leaf. We stopped so my son could look at a truck.
At the park, I sat on the bench closest to the fence where the swings were. The kids ran to the small play structure. I could see them both.
I took out the old statement and my phone. My hands were steady until I had to dial.
I called the number on the bottom of the paper, not the app. An automated voice answered. I pressed the numbers for an existing account. I entered the account number from the statement when it asked, then the last four of Diego's social like I'd done with him before for the car payment.
"Thank you for calling Memo Savings, this is Carla, how can I help you?"
I swallowed. "Hi, Carla. I'm calling about our joint savings. My name is Veronica Morales, my husband is Diego Morales. I wanted to check some recent activity because our balance looks wrong."
She asked for verification. I gave my date of birth, my address, the last four of my social. She typed. I watched my son go down the slide.
"Yes, I see the joint savings ending in 4401," she said. "What did you need to know?"
"There should have been around eleven thousand in there last month," I said, keeping my voice low. "Can you tell me about recent transfers out?"
A pause. Typing. "I see three outgoing transfers in the last six weeks. One for four thousand five hundred on March second, one for three thousand on March nineteenth, and one for three thousand eight hundred on April fourth."
My throat tightened. "Were those authorized? Where did they go?"
"These were authorized online by the primary, Diego Morales, to an external account," she said. "An account under the name Teresa Morales at the same bank."
I wrote the numbers on the back of the statement with a pen from the diaper bag. My handwriting slanted.
"Can you repeat the amounts and dates once more? And the name on the receiving account?"
She did. I wrote them again to be sure. She gave me reference numbers for each. I repeated them back. Sophia called out, "Mom, look," holding her doll up on the top of the slide. I waved.
"Is there anything else I can help you with today?" Carla asked.
"No," I said. "Thank you for your help."
I ended the call and sat with the phone in my lap. The birthday money from my mom, two hundred dollars in an envelope for Sophia, had gone in on March first. It was gone the next day with the rest. The savings we'd built for the security deposit if we ever moved. Three transfers. Teresa's name.
I folded the statement and put it back in the bag. I zipped it closed. I breathed in through my nose until my chest stopped feeling tight.
Sophia ran over, doll bouncing against her. "Are we going home now?"
"Almost," I said. "Five more minutes and then we'll walk back."
We walked back slow. My son held my hand. At our block I rehearsed what I'd say once in the kitchen.
Teresa was at the sink when we came in. She'd made toast.
"How was the park?" she asked.
"It was good," I said. I unzipped the stroller and got the kids water. "I called the pediatrician while we were out. About Sophia's arm."
Teresa's hands paused on the plate she was drying. "Oh?"
"They said to keep it clean and watch it," I said. "They can see her Thursday if it doesn't fade."
She nodded. "Good. That's good you called."
May you like
I put the diaper bag on the counter and didn't open it. The paper with the reference numbers was inside, folded twice. My son climbed onto a chair. Sophia sat beside him and set her doll carefully in her lap, smoothing its lavender dress with her palm.
I stood at the kitchen counter and watched Teresa butter the toast, and I didn't say anything else.
