By Rashida Murphy
“I’m sorry ma’am, the card has been declined.”
Sharifa panicked briefly, looked around for Rhys, saw him near a row of tiny trains further inside the shop and waved at him to come to her. He didn’t see her, and the skinny boy wearing black nail polish was now waving the card right in her face. She frowned and said, “Sorry. I’ll get my husband.”
The punk whose name tag said Gee, shrugged and swept aside the scarves and tote bags Sharifa had placed on the counter and picked up the book he’d been reading.
“Rhys!” Sharifa tapped him on the arm, and he turned, smiling. “Something’s wrong with this card. Can I have yours?”
Later, bags tucked under the wrought iron table at the café they found around the corner, they sipped their coffees and tried not to grimace.
Rhys took off his windcheater and dropped it on the empty chair beside him. “Americans are coffee drinkers, right? How come this stuff tastes so horrible?”
“Maybe we don’t know where to find the best coffee in town. We should stalk those snappy office goers and see where they get theirs.”
They laughed and Rhys brought up the declined card again. She knew it bothered him even though her ANZ card was still working. She rarely used it because of the $2000 limit. But they’d used it to pay for the watery coffees and the horse carriage ride through Central Park earlier, and she knew there was enough to cover them for a week, if needed.
“Give us a look at that card.” Rhys put his hand over hers.
She sighed and placed it on the table.
“Shari. Love. This isn’t your card.”
“What do you mean? Of course it’s my card. I’ve been using it in Vegas casinos, for crying out loud.”
“Look.”
He was right. The name on the card said Sabiha Evans, not Sharifa Evans, but the signature was hers. Her writing. It didn’t make sense.
Sharifa withdrew her hand from his. “No, before you ask, I haven’t left it lying around, haven’t picked up someone else’s by mistake. You know me, Rhys. Paranoid from way back. I grew up in a country where you assume you’re going to be robbed, so I never take chances. This is seriously weird.”
“I know love.” Rhys’s hand covered hers again and he shook his head. “It’s the name that worries me. And that signature. It’s yours. How can this happen?’ And who’s this woman? Got a sister you haven’t told me about?”
“Yeah right. Also married to someone called Evans.” Sharifa tried not to sound annoyed. “This isn’t my fault.”
“Never said it was.”
They were meeting friends at a waterfront restaurant in New Rochelle, and arrived ahead of time, barely speaking to each other. An early thunderstorm prevented them from walking around the neighbourhood, and now they checked their phones, avoiding eye contact.
“Please …,” started Sharifa, wondering what she was pleading about, and Rhys looked back, nodding.
“I won’t say anything.”
“Thanks. I mean, maybe we can mention it?”
Mark and Andy were strolling towards them, hand in hand, and they both got up and hugged them, waving towards the table they’d booked.
“It is bizarre.” agreed Andy, looking at the card Sharifa had placed between them. “Spooky, almost. Have you gone to the Embassy? I mean, this could be fraud on a grand scale and you’re just at the start of your holiday. You don’t want to be aiding and abetting crime.”
“Andy.” Mark laughed. “Stop scaring them. Yes, it’s weird and we are in New York, but it doesn’t need to be quite so dramatic. Ring the bank and cancel the card. You have others?”
“Yes,” said Rhys. “Mine is fine. It’s Shari’s that’s gone whacko.”
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Andy and Mark insisted on driving them to their tiny hotel room in midtown Manhattan, where they’d spend the rest of the week. Promising to update their friends on The Great Card Saga, they fell asleep almost immediately, Sharifa dreaming of kittens walking on windowsills.
The man from the bank was not helpful. Despite Sharifa repeating her name and date of birth and typing her password on the link that was sent, the outcome was the same. There was no record of her ever having an account with them. Yes, they had Rhys, but not her. No, they couldn’t cancel a card that was never issued to her. Cutting up the card into little strips seemed to be the only option until they returned to Australia.
.
A week after they got home, Sharifa stared at the envelope from the bank before ripping it open. Inside, a letter informing her that her replacement card was enclosed and that she should change the password at her nearest branch. A new card, with a blank signature strip, in the name of Sabiha Evans.
Rashida Murphy is a writer living in Perth, Western Australia. She is the author of a novel and a collection of short stories. Her novella titled Old Ghosts is forthcoming next year.
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