Page 90 of Cash

THIRTY-ONE - Kimberly

I didn’t recognizethe phone number, but I picked up the phone nonetheless. Hoping that it wasn’t Cash calling from one of his friend’s phones, I raised it to my ear.

“This is Kimberly.”

“Kimberly, this is John. I’m going to need you to stop by the office at your best earliest convenience.”

“John? I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about. John who?”

“John Fillmore with Fillmore and Ruffin, Kimberly. It’s regarding your account.”

I hadn’t left my home in nearly two weeks and had no intention of doing so. At least not yet. I looked like hell, felt worse, and feared I couldn’t drive without having an accident. Whatever news he had regarding the status of my retirement account could wait until I was in a better psychological state.

“I’m kind of sick,” I said. “Can we get together sometime next week?”

“I’m afraid we need to do it sooner than next week.”

“Can we discuss it over the phone?”

“I’m afraid not. I can’t express the importance of this meeting, Kimberly. If there’s a way, we need to get together today.”

The tone of his voice led me to believe something was terribly wrong. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“What do you mean? How can it not be?”

“We can discuss matters further when you’re here. When can I expect you?”

“Can you give me two hours?”

“I’ll see you at two,”he said.

I looked at the phone’s screen. He was right. It was noon, and I hadn’t so much as showered or had a bite to eat. I let out a sigh, nodded, and then agreed.

“I’ll see you at two.”

* * *

I saton the couch and blubbered. As if I didn’t already have enough reasons to cry, I now had another. I wished Cash was with me, so he could hold me and tell me everything would be alright.

But I knew I’d never see him again.

And, it wasn’t going to be alright.

Without the interest income from my investment account, losing Cash would be the least of my worries. I cried until I was out of tears. Then, I cried some more. I cried until my stomach heaved, and continued crying until I made myself sick.

While I sat on the bathroom floor and dry-heaved into the toilet bowl, the doorbell rang. I knew it wouldn’t be Jennifer or Cash, because they both knocked on the door. I dismissed it, knowing there was no one on earth that I was interested in seeing.

While I tried to convince myself to stand, it rang again. Frustrated – and at wits end – I rose to my feet and stumbled toward the door, prepared to give whoever was invading my moment of sorrow a piece of my mind.

I yanked the door open.

The young woman standing on my porch looked familiar, but in my current state of mind, I couldn’t name her.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t--”

“Andy,” she said. “We met at Goose’s.”