Lucky Girl

by Jamie Pacton

It’s a picture of me, holding a lotto ticket. You can’t make out the numbers, but it’s clearly something I could get in trouble for. Or at the very least something that would make the police investigate and cast doubts on anyone else who cashes the ticket for me.

  “So you’re blackmailing me? That’s your evil plan?”

  “Think of it as I’m giving you a deadline to help you do the right thing.”

  “Fuck you, Holden,” I say, standing up.

  He cringes. And then his eyes harden. It’s like watching him turn from the boy who might do the right thing with the money into someone else.

  “Love you too, Jane. Let me know by Sunday at midnight.” Holden walks back to his car. I somehow manage to not throw a broken dump truck at him as he pulls out of my driveway.

  Hot tears stream down my face as Bran gets out of his car and walks over to me.

  “You okay?” Bran asks. “What did he say?”

  In a halting voice, I fill Bran in on Holden’s proposal.

  “Don’t decide tonight,” Bran says. “Maybe we can come up with something. You want to stay over at my house?”

  I shake my head. I’m exhausted and just want to curl up in my own bed. “I’m going to take a shower and sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Bran gives me a hug and then drives away. Once he’s gone, I try to make sense of things.

  So, my ex-boyfriend is my best option for cashing the lotto ticket.

  But he’s also blackmailing me, so naturally I don’t want to give him anything.

  But what other choice do I have?

  My heart is still in pieces. When does this hurt get easier? Why let anyone close if it’s just going to end badly?

  This is so much worse than I thought.

  I do need Holden to cash this ticket, but I deeply don’t want him to have any of this money.

  What am I going to do?

  “Go take a shower,” I say out loud to myself. “You can figure out everything else from there.”

  Heeding my own advice, I head into my house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE NEXT DAY, SATURDAY, I SLEEP IN WAY LATER THAN I MEAN TO because I was up half the night, worrying about the lotto ticket. I stumble out of bed and make my way down the hallway. A bunch of shoes fall as I squeeze past Mom’s door. She’s nowhere in sight, but her door is cracked.

  “Mom?” I call, pushing open the door ever so slightly.

  My breath catches in my throat as I flick on the light. I haven’t been in this room in years. When we moved back after Dad died, Mom and I retreated to our own corners of the house. Grandma’s room was in between ours, and we somehow staked out our own territories. I didn’t disturb Mom’s space. She didn’t disturb mine.

  But oh my God. I should have looked in on Mom a little sooner. If the rest of the house is any indication of how grief has shaken her, her room is an intimate portrait of just how lonely and heartbroken she is.

  I step inside the room, and it’s like stepping backward in time.

  Everything looks exactly the same as it did in Mom and Dad’s old bedroom from our house in Nashville. She’s painted the walls the same shade of turquoise, the bedspread is the same gray one, all the same photos—including ones of me from the time I was a baby until I was twelve—hang on the wall. Mom’s dresser is crowded with a jewelry box, photos, and books. Dad’s dresser, which I didn’t even know she still had, is sitting in the same way it used to, below a window, and on top of it is a half-empty bottle of his cologne and a pile of his books that still have bookmarks in them. Stacks of newspaper cover the floor, and there are boxes all over the room. Carefully, so I don’t knock anything over, I walk to the dresser and pick up the cologne, spraying a small bit in the air.

  Instantly, my dad is in the room with me. Putting his arm around me after a tough day at school. Taking a walk with me outside and lending me his sweater because it was chilly.

  I inhale deeply, wanting to savor this moment with my dad’s ghost. Which is, of course, what Mom must do. Putting down the bottle of cologne, I walk toward the bed. It’s not made up, and one side has clearly not been slept on. Somehow, there’s a space that’s exactly Dad-shaped there. Mom must fix the pillows in such a way to keep it.

  It’s both incredibly sad and a bit creepy.

  Moving away from the bed, I open the closet doors. Half the clothes are Mom’s and half are Dad’s. I didn’t even know she’d kept all his things. Why keep a dead man’s clothes in a closet?

  Because he’s gone, that’s why. And this is how she can have some small part of him still here.

  Even so, this sanctuary Mom has built to him can’t be helping her heal. I run my hand along one of Dad’s old sweaters. It’s dark blue and has patches at the elbow. Surely Mom won’t miss it among the other three dozen or so shirts in the closet.

  I pull it from the hanger and slip it over my T-shirt. It feels a little bit like I’m wrapping myself in armor. Or in the strength of my firefighter father, who would march into a burning building and try to do something about it.

  Closing the closet door, I walk out of Mom and Dad’s room—no, just Mom’s room—and walk toward my own.

  MY PHONE DINGS WITH A TEXT A FEW MINUTES LATER.

  BRAN: You hanging in there? Worried about you.

  JANE: I’m fine. Just need some time to think.

  BRAN: What are you going to do? I’m working all day, so I can’t hang out.

  JANE: Not sure, but I’ll text you when I figure it out. <3

  Once I put my phone away, I ask myself the same question: What am I going to do? I can’t stay at home and stew all day.

  My eyes fall on the Whale Watcher sweatshirt that Holden gave me.

  Suddenly, today has a goal: find a spot where I can burn this wretched thing. I stuff it into my backpack (after I take off the whale enamel pin Holden gave me; that goes in the trash) and grab my phone and a lighter.

  Before I leave my room, I check that the ticket is still in its hiding spot. Yep. Still in Sea Change, still on my bookshelf. Maybe I should take it with me? But then, what if I lose it? Or get mugged?

  Mugged? Good grief, Jane. This is Lakesboro, not New York City. No one is going to mug you.

  Fine. Fair point. It can go with me, and given Holden’s deadline, I feel safer somehow having the ticket on me.

  I stuff Sea Change into my backpack as well. Then I head downstairs, navigating around the piles of stuff, praying nothing new has popped up since last night to trip me.

  I stop in my tracks on the way to the kitchen. Where the one wedding dress we found on Big Junk Dump day once hung, Mom has added the other one we found at St. Vinny’s. But somehow, that’s not all. The wedding dresses seem to be multiplying. Now five more wedding dresses, all in various states of disrepair and decay, hang in the living room.

  My house is officially Miss Havisham’s parlor. I half expect Mom to be sitting in the middle of the dresses, eating moldering wedding cake and shouting at me. Something about all these wedding dresses undoes me.

  Like, I knew Mom was a hoarder, though we never really said the word. And I knew this was a problem—I even looked up why people hoard, and it all has to do with mental illnesses that can be addressed through therapy—but somehow this room full of wedding dresses, which she clearly went back to the thrift store in Madison for and she clearly spent hundreds of dollars on, is evidence of how sick Mom really is.

  Would she even let me help her? Is her obsession with saving other people’s cherished things and memories really harming anyone? If I don’t mind living among her mess and it’s not unsanitary, is it that big a problem?

  I don’t have answers to those questions, and I’ve got big enough problems of my own. At least for today.

  I fill an old pop bottle with water and throw the last granola bar in the cupboard into my bag. The cabinets are empty except for a bag of rice and an old ramen package. I put that in my backpack too. Who knows how long I’ll be out today.

 
Head full of possibilities, I slip out of the house and into the chill of a late October morning. The grass is wet with dew, which soaks into my sneakers, but the sun is out, promising it’ll warm up a bit later. Snatching my bike from the pile of other bikes Mom has “rescued,” I pedal away from the house as fast as I can.

  A FIFTY-TWO-MILE BIKE PATH RUNS THROUGH MY TOWN AND THEN INTO the countryside. The path was carved out by glaciers long ago, and it’s one my favorite places to disappear into nature. I steer my bike through town, heading toward the trailhead. I pedal quickly so I don’t run into anyone I know. I have my hood up, and there’s no reason anyone should recognize me. But still, a raw edge fires my nerves as I turn left at the main stoplight in downtown. If I’m lucky, I won’t bump into anyone I know.

  But of course, I’m not that lucky. As I’m waiting at the stop sign on Main Street for my turn to go, a car pulls up beside me. I glance over quickly, and Holden’s eyes meet mine.

  Shit.

  He starts to unroll his window, mouthing something, but I don’t want to hear it. All I feel when I see him is rage. Whipping my bike around, I head left before it’s my turn to go. A station wagon with a headless deer carcass tied to the top (because hunting season in Wisconsin, ew) nearly runs me down. The driver slams on his brakes and honks at me.

  I wave an apology and pedal as fast as I can to get off the street before Holden can follow. It takes some darting around town, but I make my way to the bike trail without Holden catching up to me.

  And then, as I steer my bike onto the long stretch of hard-packed dirt and gravel, something in me lifts. I pedal hard, putting my body into it as I race away from town. I’m heading east. That’s all I know and all I care to know. Above me, the trees are a fire-bright tunnel of orange and red, and the wind makes them creak like ships on the water.

  Harder, faster, I pedal, putting every worry, fear, care, and anxiety into the simple motion of my feet. Up, down, forward. Always keep moving forward. It’s not a race, but yes, it is. A race to stay away from those who would hurt me. Who would take what I have. Who want to use me for what I can give them.

  I skid to a halt all of a sudden, scaring a gray squirrel running across the path. My breath comes in staccato gasps, and I put my feet firmly on the ground.

  Is this what it will be like forever if I cash the ticket? Racing to get away? Not sure who to trust?

  I take a long sip of water and look around. I’m farther down the trail than I’ve ever been. My phone just barely has cell service out here.

  BRAN: Jane. Are you okay? Checking on you again.

  I can’t leave him hanging. I could disappear entirely from the rest of the world (well, except for maybe Grandma—I’d send her a postcard), but I can’t just vanish on Bran. I take another long swig of water and reply to his text.

  JANE: I’m taking a day to think. Heading into nature for a while.

  BRAN: You know I hate when you do this, right?

  Disappearing into nature is my favorite coping strategy when life gets to be too much or when I just need to think. Before I got the job at Bran’s family’s pumpkin farm, I’d walk the fields and woods by my house for hours, putting miles under my feet, not coming home until it was nearly full dark. Bran has given me many lectures about how ill-advised all this wandering is, but part of me still needs to move through outdoor spaces to make sense of the chaos in my head.

  JANE: You know I’m going to be an oceanographer and will be off the grid for weeks at a time?

  BRAN: That’s different. You’ll have a boat and a crew, not just be wandering the woods in the wilds of southern Wisconsin.

  JANE: I swear, I’m fine. Don’t worry.

  BRAN: Can you hear my long-suffering sigh from there? At least tell me where you are generally, so I can send out a search party if I don’t hear from you tonight.

  JANE: Why are you the best? Seriously. Thank you for worrying. I’m headed east on the bike trail. I’ll text you when I get home later tonight.

  BRAN: Be safe. And don’t worry about this lotto ticket mess. We’ll figure it out.

  JANE: Not so sure about that, but if you see Holden, please feel free to shove him into a trash can or something.

  BRAN: Will do.

  I put away my phone, and that’s it, my last contact with another human for a while. Slipping my phone into my backpack, I climb back onto my bike. Not sure where I’m going, but with miles of path before me, I’ll figure it out.

  Eventually, by the time the sun is almost overhead, I stop. I’ve been biking for what feels like hours, and my legs ache. Plus, I have to pee. I steer my bike toward a small state park that’s directly off the trail. It’s not much, just some picnic tables, a bathroom, a small playground, and a collection of fields for people to play in.

  At the playground, a family sits around a picnic table, eating sandwiches. It’s a mom, dad, and a toddler. The little girl runs back and forth between her parents and the playground, giggling as she tosses leaves onto their heads and then runs away. I remember doing exactly the same thing with my parents when I was younger. My dad would make a huge leaf pile from the old oaks in our backyard in Nashville. Then I’d go down the slide on my play set and land in the leaf pile with a whoosh. I can still hear Mom laughing as she and Dad chased each other around the yard, flinging piles of crinkling leaves in the air. I ran up behind them to add to the leaves, and then Dad swooped Mom off her feet and into the pile. He tumbled in after her, and I jumped in too. Laughter, the crunch of leaves, my parents’ arms around me. All the feelings of home.

  I turn away from the happy, laughing family before they see me. No reason to creep them out by staring.

  As I walk through the park, missing my family is a bone-deep ache inside me. It’s a tangible feeling that the wind can’t whip away. That nothing can fix. I might have won the lotto, but there’s no amount of money to bring back what we had.

  That kills me.

  I wander the park until my hands are blocks of ice and the wind finds its way into my layers. After a quick trip to the park restroom, I return to the picnic area and playground. The family is long gone, and I bend over one of the fire pits, shoving the sweatshirt from Holden into it. I add a few sheets of papers and then light it with the lighter I brought from home.

  The wind takes the first few sparks, and the flame sputters, like it doesn’t want to burn. I cup my hands around it until flame bites into the hood, the sleeves, and lastly the Whale Watcher logo. I have to turn away as the hungry flames devour everything that Holden and I could’ve been.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  WHEN I GET BACK HOME, THE SUN IS SETTING. MOM’S TRUCK IS IN the driveway, and smoke rises from the backyard. I can hear Mom out there, singing along to the country music on the radio. Which means she’s drunk, because that’s the only time she lets music fill her up so much that she’ll sing anything. I walk around the house, careful not to impale myself on any of the rusty toys or playground equipment.

  Mom stands on one side of the firepit. She’s wearing a jacket that belonged to Dad and dancing to the music. Her best friend, Doris, sits in a lawn chair next to the fire, drinking straight from a bottle of whiskey.

  “Jane!” Mom calls, gesturing me over. I’m too tired to hang out, especially with Mom and Doris, but I walk over to Mom anyway.

  “How’s it going?” I ask. Doris offers me a sip of whiskey, and I take it. It burns all the way down.

  “Happy almost-birthday, baby girl,” Mom says, raising a beer bottle. “I can’t believe you’re nearly an adult.”

  She throws her arms around me in a sloppy hug.

  I so want to believe this is a safe space. That Mom’s hug is more than a drunken whim. I want to sink into it and tell her about the ticket so worrying about Holden wouldn’t even be an issue.

  But I can’t. I don’t. That’s not how we are, no matter how much I want it to be like that.

  “Did you hear somebody broke into Wanda’s last night?” Doris asks me. She hold
s up her phone. “I just saw it on the news. Don’t think they took anything though, so the police are dropping the case.

  “Really?” I ask in a weak voice. “Wonder what happened.”

  Mom shakes her head as she lets go of me. “I’m sure it has to do with that winning ticket. The winner still hasn’t come forward! What’s wrong with them? I wish I had the ticket. I’d buy Storage Solutions.”

  Doris laughs and raises her bottle at Mom. “I’d give it to you and then take off on a motorcycle to see Alaska.”

  “Can you even imagine all the stuff I could rescue?” Mom adds. “We’d have warehouses full!”

  She and Doris start talking excitedly about everything they could buy with the lotto money. It’s exactly what I’d thought would happen and precisely why Mom cannot help me with the ticket.

  “Okay, I’ll leave you to the daydreaming,” I say. “Good night.”

  “Wait! Jane,” Mom says. “Let me show you what Doris brought over.” She pulls a box out from between their lawn chairs. The top of a miniature fake Christmas tree and some tinsel poke out of it.

  “Mom, I’m not interested in a box of other people’s Christmas stuff. I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”

  “Suit yourself,” Mom says. “We have a whole truckload of these boxes, so maybe you can go through some with me tomorrow.”

  “Can’t wait,” I mutter.

  Mom beams at me, oblivious to sarcasm.

  I walk away from Mom and Doris, not listening to their exclamations of delight as they get drunker and rifle through the boxes. Trudging up to my room, I check my phone. Maybe the whole thing with Holden was a mistake. Maybe he’s not actually blackmailing me. But no. The texts are still the same. He’s still an asshole. My heart still aches.

  I know something’s wrong the moment I unlock my bedroom door. The window is wide open, and a cool breeze blows the curtains around. But that’s not what stops me in my tracks. My room—my sanctuary, my clean, tidy space—is now a wreck.

  No. No, no, no.