At least according to Google.
Also complicating the situation is the lack of a death certificate.
Although David is presumed dead under state law because he’s been missing for five years, there’s no death certificate. I can’t petition the court to get one, either. Only a spouse, parent, or child can do that, and I’m not any of those things.
If I had a death certificate, I might be able to convince a sympathetic bank employee to allow me access, especially if I also produced our marriage license.
Even more especially if the person lived in town five years ago. Nobody talked about anything else for months.
I’d get sad sack bonus points, for sure.
Additionally, David didn’t have a will, so I’m not the executor of his estate, either…not that there was any estate to speak of. He had less than two thousand dollars in his checking account when he went missing. He didn’t own any property. The modest investments we made were in a brokerage account solely in my name. The plan was to add him as a beneficiary to all my accounts as soon as we got back from our honeymoon, but that never happened for obvious reasons.
So I’m not his wife, I’m not his family, and I’m not his executor. I’m pretty much not anything but shit out of luck.
I’m gonna try anyway.
At ten after four, I park in the bank parking lot, turn off the car, and stare at the double glass doors of the entrance, giving myself a pep talk. I don’t bank at Wells Fargo, so I don’t have an in with anyone, a friendly account manager or familiar teller I could try my luck with. I’m going in totally blind.
I hesitate just inside the doors, looking around to see if I recognize any of the tellers. There are three of them, but they aren’t people I know. The teller I decide to approach is a young redhead with a friendly smile.
I know I’m going to hell for hoping she might have a tragic romantic past and take pity on me when I have to trot out my woeful story.
“Good afternoon! How may I help you?”
“I need access to a safety deposit box, please.”
“Certainly. Let me just verify the signature card. What’s the name on the account?”
Smiling pleasantly, I say, “David Smith.”
“Just a moment, please.” She pecks away cheerfully at her computer keyboard. “Here it is. David Smith and Natalie Peterson.” She looks at me. “That’s you, I assume?”
My heart pounds. I’m on the account. How could I be on the account? Maybe Google was wrong. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I’ll just need to take a peek at your ID, please.”
I fumble through my purse, pull out my wallet, and hand over my driver’s license, hoping she won’t notice how badly my hands are shaking.
If she does, she doesn’t mention it. Her cheerful smile remains fixed firmly in place.
She holds my ID up against her computer screen, then nods. “Yep, that’s you all right! Gosh, I wish I had your hair. It even looks good in a DMV picture. My license picture makes me look like a corpse.”
The bank has a copy of my driver’s license.
David took my license out of my wallet and opened a safety deposit box without telling me.
What the actual fuck is going on?
When she hands my ID back to me, I ask casually, “My cousin wants to rent a box, too. What does she need to open one?”
“She just needs to bring in two forms of ID, sign the lease agreement, and pay the key deposit and first year’s rent. The smaller boxes start at fifty-five dollars annually.”
“She wants to have her mom be on the box lease, too. Does she need to come in personally, or can my cousin just put her mom’s name on the lease?”
The teller shakes her head. “Everyone who’s on the lease must be present at the time of execution, provide a signature, and present two forms of approved ID.”
So Google was right after all. The plot thickens.
“Great, I’ll let her know.”
Beaming, she says, “Here’s my card. Just tell her to ask for me when she comes in, and I’ll make sure she’s taken good care of. Come on around over here, and I’ll let you into the room where we keep the boxes.”
I stuff the card into my purse and follow the teller on the opposite side of the counter as she walks to one side of the lobby. She presses a button on her side of the counter. The door unlatches with a soft mechanical snick.
Grateful I put on extra-strength antiperspirant this morning, I follow her down a small corridor lined with employees’ offices, then we turn into another hallway.
“Here we go.”
She opens a door. We enter a wood-paneled antechamber. From a clip-on holder attached to her belt loop, she removes a set of keys. She unlocks another door, then we’re inside the safe deposit box facility.
It’s a long rectangular room, lined on three sides, from floor to ceiling, with metal boxes of various sizes. Against a bare wall on the other side of the room are an empty wooden table and an office chair on wheels.
The room is freezing cold, but that’s not why my teeth are chattering.
“Box number, please?”
I dig through my purse, find the key, and read off the numbers on the top. The teller walks toward the opposite side of the chamber. She stops in front of one of the boxes, inserts another key from her set, and pulls out a long wooden box from inside.
“Take as long as you need,” she says, placing the wooden box on the table. “When you’re finished, just hit that button, and I’ll come back in to lock up.”
She nods at a small red button mounted on a metal plate beside the main door. Then she leaves, taking the last of my composure with her.
I collapse onto the chair, drop my handbag onto the floor, and stare at the closed wooden box on the table in front of me. I shut my eyes and take a few deep breaths.
Cash? Gold? Diamonds? What do people keep in these secret boxes?
What did David keep?
“Only one way to find out,” I whisper.
I fit my silver key into the lock.
It takes three tries for me to get the lid open because my hands are shaking so badly. When I finally manage it, all the breath I’ve been holding comes out in one huge, loud gust.
The interior of the box is simple. Metal lined. Nondescript, like the key itself. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but what I find isn’t it.
There’s nothing but an envelope.
A single white business envelope, identical to the one the key was in.
If I find another key inside there, I’ll lose my shit.
When I pick up the envelope, however, I can tell there’s no key inside. It’s weighted differently. Light as air. I run my fingernail under the seal and slide out a single sheet of paper.
It’s a letter, folded in thirds.
Gulping, emotional, my whole body trembling, I unfold it and begin to read.
Nat,
I love you. First and always, remember that. You’re the only thing that has ever made my life worth living, and I thank God every day for you and your precious smile.
Tomorrow, we’ll be married. No matter what comes after that, it will be the best day of my life. Having you as my wife is a privilege I don’t deserve, but am so grateful for.
I know the years will bring many adventures, and I can’t wait to share them all with you. You inspire me in so many ways. Your beauty, heart, kindness, and talent have always overwhelmed me. I hope you know how much I support you.