Lucky

by Marissa Stapley

  “All right, Andi,” her father said, cocking an eyebrow. “You ready?”

  Lucky got out of the car. The front door had opened and she could see Darla, Steph’s mom, outlined in the doorway. There was the sound of a dog’s bark, and then a golden retriever was bounding down the driveway toward her. This had to be Blossom, the dog Steph had said her mom bought after her dad had his heart attack, to make them both feel better. And it had helped a bit, Steph had admitted. A puppy helped with everything. Blossom stopped barking and nuzzled Lucky’s hand.

  “Virgil?”

  “Darla,” her father said, his voice full of emotion even Lucky almost believed was true. “I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me for taking off on you like that? I got scared. I fell so hard for you, so fast, and it didn’t feel right. So I ran away. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m even more in love with you than I was last summer. I’ve thought of you every moment of every day since.”

  “Oh, Virgil. Me too. I never stopped believing I’d see you again. And now here you are.”

  Lucky felt sick. Her father was lying to Darla, again, and Darla was falling for it. Why wasn’t she suspicious? Why wasn’t she staying mad, at least for a little while, and questioning a man who had taken off in the night and not said goodbye? No, instead, Lucky could hear the sloppy, gross sounds of the adults kissing as she knelt down and buried her head in the dog’s fur so she wouldn’t have to listen anymore.

  “Andi?”

  She looked up. Suddenly it was all worth it.

  “Oh my God, I seriously thought I was never going to see you again!” Steph exclaimed, running down the driveway toward her. “Did they work? Did you get them? The treatments?”

  Lucky took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said. “I’m one hundred percent better. They said it was a miracle.”

  Steph grinned, then whooped. “Really? That’s amazing! And now you’re…”

  “Here,” Lucky said. “Now we’re here.” The parents had walked away together, around the side of the house, where they could continue their reunion in private. Steph rolled her eyes, but then looked at Lucky and grinned again. Blossom still stood at Lucky’s side, wagging her tail.

  “She likes you,” Steph said. Blossom was even more beautiful than Steph had described her, her flaxen coat shining under the now-lit streetlamps, her gentle tail wagging in slow motion, her great panting mouth appearing to arrange itself into a welcoming grin as she looked up at Lucky. It was all too good to be true, and yet it was true. Darla had welcomed her father with open arms. John had told Lucky that if Darla didn’t get too angry when she saw him, that meant they were going to be able to stay.

  Darla and “Virgil” came back out from the side of the house. Darla was smiling. Her lipstick was a bit smeared. “Andi!” she said. “Let me get a good look at you. Is it true, you’re all better?”

  “Sure is,” her dad said, his eyes on Lucky. It was barely noticeable, and yet so poignant, the way he lifted a hand and dashed away a nonexistent tear with a knuckle. “The transfusions worked. Look at her! She’s completely healthy. Thanks to you, Darla. I hope you can forgive me for what I did.”

  “Oh, stop, Virgil, I told you I forgave you already. I forgave you the moment you pulled up in front of the house.”

  The next thing Lucky knew, just like in a movie, Darla was in his arms again, this time embracing him with even more abandon. “Come on,” Steph said, and Lucky followed her into the house, the dog on their heels. She had wanted this, exactly this—but it didn’t feel right. If she could just forget that they were lying, if she could just believe that what they were saying was true, everything would be okay.

  The problem: It was impossible to forget. She felt the lies across her shoulders like a yoke as she walked into the house she had dreamed of, with the friend she had dreamed of—and understood for the first time that not everyone had to be careful what they wished for, but she did.

  * * *

  Two months passed. Lucky tried, every day, to be happy. But all she could think about was this being over someday. She and her father had never talked about how long they would stay, but Lucky knew it was temporary. Everything with them was temporary. Still, she could tell when she looked at him that her father was happy, that he was enjoying this—who wouldn’t? Darla treated him like a god. “I’m so happy to have a man to cook for again,” she’d say. “No, no, put up your feet, relax.” Darla had even found John a job working as a salesman at a furniture store owned by a family friend. When he came home, Darla would have a drink waiting, and a home-cooked meal.

  “It’s bizarre,” Steph would whisper to Lucky. “Like it’s 1952, not 1993.” Still, Lucky knew Steph liked that her mom was happy and not laser-focused on Steph alone, which apparently she had been before Lucky and her father had shown up. Before, Steph had had all sorts of rules—and her mother would worry like crazy if she came home even thirty seconds after the streetlamps turned on. But now in the evenings, Steph and Lucky could run through the meadow with the other neighborhood kids, catching salamanders in their hands and then setting them free. Once the gloaming shifted into night and they were due back home, they’d walk back slowly, chatting—and Darla was never mad when they were late.

  It was almost summer, when the nights would stretch even longer. And for the first time in her life, the change of seasons meant something different to Lucky, because of school. Lucky had been enrolled at the private school Steph went to, using the faked documents her father had brought with him. “They hardly checked them,” her father had whispered to her the evening he and Darla had returned from the school registrar. “All they wanted was a big fat tuition check.” It went without saying that Darla had paid for it. Darla paid for everything, and it didn’t seem to bother John, but this gave Lucky a sick feeling that was constant, like when you ate too much sugar even though you knew it was a bad idea. It made her lose her appetite, but if she ever said she wasn’t hungry, Darla’s eyes would widen with concern. She’d put her hand to Lucky’s brow and hold it there, featherlight. Lucky would have to sit still, pretending this sort of maternal gesture was something she was familiar with, something her own mother had done, too, back when she was alive. It always brought tears to her eyes, but she never let them out.

  As for school, Lucky adored it. At school, she felt real: she truly was Andrea “Andi” Templeton, a fifth-grade student. Steph was a grade above, and that made Lucky nervous at first, but in the end it was a good thing because it meant Lucky could focus on her studies—and she quickly shot to the top of the class, especially in math.

  As soon as the bell rang, at recess, lunch, or the end of the day, Steph was there. Lucky was never alone, had none of the problems a kid who had started at a school very close to the end of the year would normally have. She already had a best friend. Not just a best friend; they were practically sisters. “We are sisters,” Stephanie would whisper.

  “Sometimes I forget you’re only eleven,” the teacher, Mrs. Gadsby, said to her one golden afternoon. “You’re someone special, Andi. You’re going to do amazing things.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Gadsby. I’ve never had a teacher like you before.” This wasn’t a lie, at least. And Lucky tried so hard, every day, to say as many true things as she possibly could.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lucky was in Williams, Arizona, now. The lottery ticket was tucked into her bra, where she could keep it close. She kept waiting for the moment of elation about discovering she was the winner—but it didn’t come. The ticket was an impossible dream. And she had no viable plan for its redemption. Nor her own, not yet.

  The only thing she had managed to decide was that California would be her next destination. But to get there would take more than the little money she had left. She exited the bus station and stopped by a store for some fabric tape, hair gel, and a stale sandwich from a cooler by the cash register. She ate the sandwich as she walked toward the large hotel in the center of town, the one with the conference center. She walked
confidently through the lobby until she found a sign with the information she was looking for: there was a salon professional and beauticians’ trade show in one conference hall, she discovered, and a small business sales summit in the other.

  In a restroom, she made herself up: cat-eye liner and dark brows to match her new darker hair, which she slicked back with gel so that the short haircut looked at least somewhat stylish and sleek. She couldn’t wear a bra with her backless cocktail dress, so she used the tape she’d bought earlier to secure her lottery ticket by taping it carefully to the inside of the skirt. “Lisa,” she said into the mirror. Lisa was a hairdresser from Minnesota with big dreams. She was here for the trade show, selling a deep conditioner and her own patented technique for administering it.

  Transformed, Lucky walked out into the hall, her backpack held casually over her arm. She stood out—but she also blended in.

  She checked the hotel layout, then took the elevator to the fifth floor, and the hotel’s bar. Perched on a stool, she passed the afternoon drinking club soda and pretending to pore over the trade show program, which she had found discarded on a bench. Eventually the bar started to fill with salespeople and hairdressers, done for the day. Lucky ordered a vodka martini and nursed it for an hour while she watched and waited. A man sat down beside her, glanced at her appreciatively once, twice. He was pleasant-looking but not too handsome; he had on a drab gray shirt with a butter-yellow tie. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but the puff of pale skin was there, telltale. He had probably left it up in his room.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, just like she thought he would.

  “Oh—well…” She stared down into her empty glass as her stomach swirled, surprised by what she was experiencing: grief, sudden and insistent. The idea of what was supposed to come next, of flirting, smiling, potentially touching and kissing someone other than Cary… she couldn’t. And it made her so angry. Cary had abandoned her. Their relationship had been one very long con—but he was still the only man she had ever loved. The only man she had ever been with.

  “No, thank you,” she managed to say.

  The man shrugged. He paid his bill and he was gone.

  Lucky considered her options. It’s either this, or you sleep in a bus shelter. And then you could get picked up by the police and brought in and that will be it. All over.

  Soon enough there was another man, sitting on her left. She watched him as he settled himself onto the stool and ordered a beer, asking first if the bar had the specific craft brew he was looking for on tap. She detected a New York accent. She looked over at him again and smiled shyly when they made eye contact. He returned her smile, polite, then looked down at his phone. Like the man before him, he was middle-aged. He had a pleasant face, a receding hairline, a glinting gold band on his left ring finger. His eyes looked tired, smudged underneath as if he had been up late the night before—another lackluster sales conference in yet another lackluster town. He took a book out of his briefcase. Dale Carnegie. How to Win Friends and Influence People.

  “I loved that book,” she said—which was somewhat true. Her father had read it to her when she was ten; many of the concepts had been integral to their cons over the years. She could still remember the “six ways to make people like you”: Act like you’re interested in them. Smile. Remember names. Encourage people to talk about themselves. Talk about their interests. Make people feel important. Carnegie had intended all these things to come from a genuine place. Her father had not.

  She put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. Here I am, bugging you when you’re trying to read. Ignore me.”

  “Oh,” said the man, looking surprised she was speaking to him at all. “It’s okay. It’s an interesting book.”

  “Here for a conference?”

  “Yes. Small business expo. You?”

  “Salon professional and beauticians’ conference.”

  His phone was beside his hand on the bar. On the lock screen, Lucky could see an image of a wide-hipped blond woman in sunglasses, standing on a beach, holding two kids by the hands, smiling. She could picture his life all at once: When he came home from his business trips, he was tired, but the wife was exhausted. Tapped out from taking care of the kids, when he was tapped out from trying to make a living. They argued. He felt unappreciated. She did, too. Both of them had probably fantasized about a moment like this, in a hotel bar with a stranger. No consequences, because no one would ever find out.

  “It’s my first work trip,” she said. “I’ve never really been anywhere. And…” She blinked quickly, then reached up and dabbed at the skin under her eyes. “Never mind. Sorry. This is so embarrassing, crying in front of a stranger.”

  “No, it’s okay,” he said, leaning in. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just, it’s not going well. It’s—” She drew a shaky breath, then signaled to the bartender. “Can we get two shots of tequila?” She gazed at the man again. “You’ll have one with me, right? I so badly need a little perk-up, and tequila always does the trick.”

  The bartender plunked the shots and a saltshaker in front of them. The man hesitated, but said, “Oh, why not,” and they both tilted them back. “Now, what is it that has you so upset?”

  “You probably wouldn’t find it very interesting.”

  “Try me.”

  “Well—what’s your name?”

  “Tim.”

  “Tim, I’m Lisa. I sell beauty supplies to salons. Boring, right?”

  “I’m sure there’s something interesting about it.”

  “Okay, fine. There is, actually.” She leaned close. “You see, there’s this whole technique to using the deep conditioners. A special head massage technique. And honestly? If you do it right, not only does it feel great for the client, and they only ever want to have you as their hairstylist, but it helps the product penetrate better, meaning your hair actually is softer and healthier, and less resistant to styling, more resistant to damage…” She trailed off. “Sounds like I’m giving you the sales pitch here,” she said, gazing into his eyes.

  “This might be the tequila talking, but I love a good head massage, Lisa,” he said.

  “Well, Tim.” She inched a little closer. “If you love a good head massage, I’m your girl.”

  By the third tequila shot and the second head massage, she had his wedding ring, watch, and wallet. No kissing required.

  “This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” Tim said, growing serious, unaware that anything was missing yet, clueless and happy.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  His hand was close to hers, and she let her pinky rub against his. “Where did you come from, Lisa?” His voice was husky.

  “Wisconsin,” she replied. “I’m just a regular old girl from Wisconsin.”

  “You are no regular girl.”

  They gazed into each other’s eyes. “Come to my room,” she said. “Give me a five-minute head start so I can… slip into something more comfortable.” She giggled. “Sorry, cheesy, but true—and then meet me at room five-oh-five. I’ll leave the door open for you.”

  “I can’t wait, Lisa. And I can’t believe my luck.”

  She stood, grabbed her backpack, and sashayed from the bar, shooting one last come-hither look at his besotted face.

  She took the elevator down to the lobby. In the restroom, she slid off her stilettos and dress, carefully peeled the lottery ticket from the inside of the skirt and put it back inside her bra, pulled a T-shirt over her head, and put on jeans and her baseball cap.

  Outside the hotel, she could see the lights of the city bus. She put her head down and ran for it. She deposited her fare and sat down in a seat close to the back, her face turned away from the window, just in case.

  The bus started moving. After a few blocks, she felt safe. She reached into the front pouch of the backpack and felt the cool metal there: his watch, wallet, and wedding ring. What was he going to tell his wife had happened to his stuff? Perhaps he’d tell her he’d
been robbed. And he would never make this mistake again—and probably wouldn’t feel too guilty about it, either, because he had already paid for it. He had done something bad, or wanted to, at least—and something bad had happened to him in return.

  He’d get over it.

  The city bus traveled along the route she had checked earlier, until she could see the bright lights of the EZ Pawn. She walked in and laid the watch and the wedding band on the counter. The woman behind the register picked them up without a word and took them into a back room. She emerged a moment later. “We pay $23.50 per gram of 14K, $22 if you want cash on the spot. And this ring is six grams, so $141, or $132. And the watch you can put on consignment, and we’ll split $200 fifty/fifty with you. If you want cash for it now, we’ll give you $50. And hey, what about that necklace you’re wearing? That looks like it might be worth something.”

  Lucky hesitated, then reached up to the back of her neck and unfastened the gold crucifix. She put it down on the counter. The woman took it to the back and returned a moment later. “Same deal, fifty/fifty on $200, or $50 here and now.”

  Lucky snatched the necklace back. “I can’t,” she said. “But I’ll take cash for the others.”