Here She Lies

telling you all along.”
    He was right. The first suspicious charges made more sense than they ever had and the e-mails made as little sense, but somehow they were part of this.
    “There are 800 numbers listed with some of the credit cards,” Bobby said. “Let’s start calling them.”
    He recited a MasterCard customer service number and I dialed. Three a.m. not being peak business hours,there was no wait for the “customer care specialist,” who turned out to be a young Indian man introducing himself as Don. My call had clearly been routed overseas and normally I might have coaxed him a little, asked him for his real name (Sanjay? Rajeev?) but not now. I told him I had never received a bill for this account and he confirmed that it had been open for nearly two months, generating two monthly bills, both of which had been sent to my home address in Lexington and both of which had been answered with the minimum payment.
    “But that’s not possible,” I said. “I didn’t make those charges and I didn’t pay those bills.”
    “But, ma’am, they have been paid.”
    “Can you find out who paid them?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Far off in some other country, his fingers clicked away. “Here it is. You paid them.”
    “But it wasn’t me!”
    “Do you feel these bills may have been intercepted, ma’am?”
    And then I got it. The accounts had been opened in my name, but someone had intercepted the bills before they reached me, which was why we never knew about them.
    “I know they have been.”
    “We can put a fraud alert on your account, if you wish.”
    “I wish.”
    I listened as he typed some more.
    “All right, ma’am. It is done.”
    “Thank you. Now can you do something else for me? Can you please read me the bills?”
    “Every item?”
    “Are there that many?”
    “I will read them.” And he did. And there were. Dozens and dozens of outrageous charges had been made to this one credit card, things I would never buy in a million years. High-end electronics. Car supplies for the Jaguar. Home furnishings. Expensive hair salons in three different states. Top-of-the-line skin-care products. Men’s clothing. Women’s clothing. When he read off an eight-thousand-dollar charge to a jeweler, I nearly choked.
    “Where?”
    “Jewelry.com, ma’am. Would you like their 800 number?”
    I wrote it down. He read off a few more items, but his voice had become a drone in my buzzing brain. Eight thousand dollars on jewelry? I had never owned a decent piece of jewelry in my life! I watched Bobby watch me hearing Don list the financial degradation of my (formerly) good name. The concern in my husband’s expression was painful. Bobby Goodman was a practical man; he wouldn’t waste eight thousand dollars on jewelry for me or Lovyluv or anyone else. When Don got to the end of the list, his voice trailed off as if he were ashamed. I felt it too; there was something almost obscene about such brazen spending.
    “Thank you, Don.”
    “My pleasure, ma’am. What I mean is—”
    “That’s okay. You didn’t buy all that stuff... did you?”
    There was silence.
    “I’m kidding.”
    “Oh, I see.” And he forced a laugh. “Ma’am? If I may make a suggestion? You might contact a credit agency and ask them also to post a fraud alert. It doesn’t matter which one, they will share the information.”
    “I’ll do it right away.”
    “Is there anything else I can help you with today, ma’am?”
    Night, I wanted to cry. It’s night, not day, and this isn’t happening to me.
    “Thank you, no.”
    Bobby went online to find out how to post a fraud alert with Equifax while I dialed the 800 number for Jewelry.com. Being an Internet retailer, it employed a twenty-four-hour customer service center to handle their calls. Again I was routed to India, this time greeted by a young woman whose real name undoubtedly was not Mary. I asked her to look up the purchase and gave her the date and amount.
    “Yes, here it is. Earrings, ma’am. Diamonds. They must be very beautiful. I hope you are enjoying them.”
    “I’m not enjoying them. I don’t have them.”
    “Did you purchase the optional insurance?”
    “I didn’t purchase anything.” I tried to explain, but she continued to think the earrings themselves had been stolen.
    “The credit card may offer insurance, ma’am. You may wish to call the credit card company.”
    “I just did.” Frustration. But it wasn’t Mary’s fault. “Just one more question. Do