Good Luck

by Whitney Gaskell

  He made a swimming-fish movement with one hand.

  This was too much. As if it weren’t bad enough that, in the course of one day, I’d been falsely accused of sexually harassing a student, lost my job, had my car die and be towed off to the repair shop, fallen to pieces in front of a police officer, and walked in on my live-in boyfriend screwing a woman who had much nicer hair than me, now on top of all of that I had to listen to pathetic excuses about how we didn’t flow?

  It’s really quite amazing how you can go from loving someone so much you can’t imagine your life without them to hating them with every last molecule of your being, all in the space of a few moments. A white-hot burning anger lashed up within me, electrifying me out of my dazed stupor.

  “Get out of my house,” I said, spitting the words at him. “And take Miss Fake Tits with you.”

  “They’re not fake.” This was from Naomi, who had apparently been hovering in the hallway, just out of sight. She now stepped forward into the living room. She was dressed in head-to-toe white—a fitted T-shirt, linen trousers—and had taken the time to put on lipstick.

  I stared at her, and she had the grace to blush.

  “Look, I’m really sorry you had to find out about us like this,” Naomi said.

  She looked at me beseechingly—as though she had inadvertently cut me off in traffic and saying sorry might fix things. I guessed Naomi was one of those women who can’t stand anyone not liking her. Which probably made her the perfect match for Elliott. They could trip off together into the sunset, as shallow as puddles and both convinced that they were nice people.

  “It’s not okay, and you’re certainly not forgiven,” I said.

  Naomi looked hurt. “I think you should know—we’re in love. We didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It just happened.”

  “I don’t care,” I said. Which was a lie. Of course I cared. Her declaration made it just that much worse. The idea that they’d been at it long enough to fall in love—

  No. I couldn’t think about that now.

  “Leave your key,” I said to Elliott.

  “My key?” he repeated.

  “Your house key. The key to my house. The house you no longer live in,” I said.

  “Oh…right,” Elliott said. He fumbled for his key ring, looking a bit confused, as though he hadn’t thought ahead to all of this ending up with him homeless. Well, what did he expect? That we’d continue to live together, with him in the spare bedroom and Naomi dropping by for sleepovers? I felt a stab of pleasure knowing that his condo was sublet.

  “You and your commitment phobia can move in with Naomi,” I said nastily. “She deserves you both.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause.

  “I can’t,” Elliott finally said. Naomi looked at her feet. Another flash of understanding hit me.

  “Let me guess: Miss Fake Tits is Mrs. Fake Tits,” I said.

  “I’m separated,” Naomi said, a tinge of resentment creeping into her voice. “And my breasts are not fake.”

  “Give me a break,” I said, rolling my eyes. “He may be stupid enough to buy that line, sweetheart, but I happen to know what real boobs look like. Those aren’t even particularly good fakes. Breasts are supposed to move now and then. Jiggle a bit. Respond to gravity.”

  “Lucy, please,” Elliott said pleadingly.

  Suddenly I just went all flat inside. All of my anger and contempt fizzled out, and I wanted for the two of them to be gone, so that I could be alone to have the emotional breakdown I deserved.

  I held out my hand, palm facing up. “Key,” I said. “Now.”

  Elliott slid the key off his ring and handed it to me.

  “When would be a good time for me to come by and get my things?” he asked.

  I hated that he was sounding so reasonable and in control of himself. I closed my eyes and silently counted. When I reached ten, I still felt like stabbing Elliott in the eye with a sharpened pencil; I counted to twenty.

  “I’m just going to go,” Naomi said, as I counted.

  Then there was some murmuring—I couldn’t make out what they were saying, although I wasn’t really trying to—and the sound of the door squeaking open and then shut. I opened my eyes. Naomi was gone, but Elliott was still standing there, his hands thrust in his pockets. He was looking at me sadly, brown hair flopping down into his face.

  “I really am sorry, Lucy,” he said. “I’m sorry you found out this way. This wasn’t how…well. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this.”

  I stared at him, as the underlying message sank in. He wasn’t sorry he’d been cheating on me. He was just sorry that I found out.

  “I’ll leave your things out on the front porch tonight. If anything is still there in the morning, I’m going to drag it out onto the middle of the lawn, douse it with gasoline, and set fire to it,” I said.

  I woke up the next morning on my couch with the worst hangover of my life. The light slanting into the living room through the half-open blinds seemed insanely, painfully bright. My head was simultaneously pounding and spinning, and my tongue felt thick and woolly in my mouth. And what was that smell? I cracked one eye open. Harper Lee was sitting so that her flat black face was about an inch away from mine, staring at me intently. When she saw the signs of life, she leapt into action, squirming with happiness and lunging at me with swipes of her wide pink tongue.

  “No, girl,” I said feebly, holding up a hand to ward off the attack. “I can’t take you out now. I’m too busy dying. And no offense, but your breath is rank.”

  I’d found the case of warm cheap champagne in the office when I was clearing out Elliott’s things. He kept it to give to clients when they closed on a house. I pulled a bottle out, ripped the black wrapper off, popped the cork, and guzzled it straight from the bottle while I dragged Elliott’s files, clothes, laptop, and even his Nordic Track—which was heavier than it looked, and a bitch to move—out of the house and dumped it all on the front porch.

  Part of me resented having to pack his things, but another part of me was glad to have a goal—ridding my house of all things Elliott-related. And between the labor of moving everything and the effect of the too-sweet champagne, the anger that had been buzzing in my ears and causing my hands to shake began to burn off. By the time I was finished, I felt calm enough to decamp to the sofa with the bottle of champagne, which I proceeded to polish off. Harper Lee curled up companionably next to me. She certainly didn’t seem at all upset that Elliott was gone. Maybe she’d always thought he was an asshole too.

  The worst of it was that I just felt so pathetic. Here I was, at the age of thirty-two, alone again. No, this was even worse than alone, thanks to the humiliation factor. How much longer would it be until I decayed into a sad, lonely old woman with cats and a collection of holiday sweaters? I could picture it with terrifyingly clear detail—an orange vest with embroidered ghosts for Halloween, Santas for Christmas, intertwined hearts for Valentine’s Day. Harper Lee grunted and sighed as she relaxed against me, and I amended the cat part. I’d be a sad old woman with a dog. Maybe I could get Harper Lee a baby carriage and push her up and down the street in it. And then when people would ask to see my baby, they’d look in and see Harper Lee’s sweetly homely face instead and recoil in horror. Might be fun to watch.

  This much I knew: This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. The fairy tales never ended with Prince Charming riding off, leaving Sleeping Beauty to fill her days buying porcelain figurines off eBay. No. Loneliness was something that happened to the sad, the misfortunate, the unlucky. I held up the bottle of champagne and toasted the room.

  “Here’s to me,” I said, and took another swig of cheap champagne.

  I did realize I was wallowing. I thought about calling Maisie, but I knew she’d insist on coming over, and I wanted to be alone. So I just sat there, numbly reviewing the events of the day and wondering how it was possible that when I woke up that morning I hadn’t felt even a hint of premonition about the disaster head
ed my way. I remember wondering whether there was any tuna salad left in the fridge that I could bring to work for lunch or if Elliott had eaten it the day before. (He had.) And I reminded myself that I had to make an appointment to have my teeth cleaned. (Which, obviously, I forgot to do. Which was probably a good thing. Now that I was unemployed, I couldn’t afford luxuries like dental hygiene.)

  And then, as I sat there swilling the champagne, I started to think about money. Which immediately caused the anxiety to roil up in my stomach. I’d taught for ten years, a profession not known for making anyone rich. And even though I’d made a point of adding to my small savings account every month, there wasn’t a lot in it. How much did I have in savings? I tried to remember. Five thousand? Six? No, definitely five. The last repair bill for the Volvo had come to nearly a thousand dollars, and I hadn’t had enough in my checking account to cover it. Which reminded me that I’d have yet another car repair bill to deal with soon, which would shrink my savings account even more. Five thousand dollars. How long would that last? A few months? Maybe a bit longer, if I lived on ramen noodles and boxed macaroni and cheese. And what then? What would I do? What kind of work could I possibly do now that I couldn’t teach? Maybe I could get a job at the bookstore. I spent so much time there, I’d gotten to know the manager. She’d probably hire me. But how much could I possibly make doing that? Minimum wage? It wouldn’t be enough to pay my mortgage.

  What if I end up homeless? I wondered, my anxiety kicking up into hyperdrive. What if I can’t pay my mortgage, and the bank seizes my house, and I end up turning into one of those sad, aimless souls panhandling on the street corners?

  Then sanity returned. Get a grip, I told myself. You will not end up homeless. If worse comes to absolute worst, you can always move back in with Mom and Dad.

  This thought was nearly as depressing as the image of myself living on the street. And that’s when I popped the cork from the second bottle of champagne.

  Now, the morning after, I was facing up to the consequences of consuming one-and-a-half bottles of champagne on an empty stomach, as I hadn’t eaten since the grilled cheese sandwich I’d had at Maisie’s. Thinking of food made my stomach turn queasily. Meanwhile, Harper Lee wasn’t giving up her one-dog crusade to get me up.

  “Please,” I begged her. “Can’t you grow an opposable thumb and let yourself out just this one time?”

  Harper Lee pounced again and made another attempt to shower me with smelly dog kisses. It was more than I could take. I gave in.

  “Fine,” I groaned. “Fine. I’ll get up.”

  Somehow I managed to ease myself into a sitting position. Once the initial wave of nausea passed, I stood. Slowly, painfully, I staggered to the front door. There I made the mistake of glancing at my reflection in the large mirror that hung next to the door. I looked like nine shades of shit. My skin was so pale, it was almost green. My dark curls were mashed up one side, making my head look like a poorly trimmed shrub. My eyes were puffy and red.

  And then I realized: This was what hitting bottom looked like.

  But before I could dwell on this grim thought, Harper Lee began to twirl in circles and bark out a series of high-pitched yelps. I knew that bark. It meant, If you don’t let me out right this instant, I’m going to pee on the rug. So I turned away from the mirror and opened the front door.

  Harper Lee shot out past me, moving like a black streak, and headed straight for her favorite patch of grass. I staggered back a little. If I’d thought the light had been bright in the home, where it was at least partially filtered through the blinds, then I was completely unprepared for the siege of blinding white sunlight that now hit me. I lifted my hand up to shield my eyes. Elliott had come by at some point and retrieved his things off the front porch. A pity, really. I would have enjoyed a good bonfire. I’ve always believed that the therapeutic effects of revenge are seriously undervalued in our modern culture.

  Harper Lee finished her business and went to stand at the bottom of the driveway, just next to the plastic-wrapped newspaper sitting there. This was our daily morning routine—first a pee, then I’d bring the paper in to read over breakfast, then we’d go for a walk.

  And then I’d go to work.

  Well, that wasn’t going to happen. We needed a new routine.

  “Come on, Harper Lee,” I said. “I don’t want the newspaper.”

  Harper Lee didn’t move. She stood her ground and stared balefully back at me.

  “The news is depressing. It’s all about war, and terrorism, and rampant crime. And I can’t deal with any of that right now. I’m already all stocked up on depression.”

  Harper Lee barked once. She wasn’t going to let this go.

  I sighed and staggered down the stairs and driveway in my bare feet. As I passed by the hose, which Elliott must have left out the last time he watered, I stubbed my big toe on the sprinkler.

  “Ouch!” I glared at Harper Lee, who had decided to sit and wait for me. She opened her mouth, unfurled her tongue, and began to pant unrepentantly. Limping now, I made my way down to her, muttering under my breath about how nobody likes a stubborn dog. When I finally reached her, I bent over—a painful move in my condition—and picked up the newspaper.

  “Happy?” I asked Harper Lee. She jumped to her feet and trotted jauntily ahead of me on our way into the house.

  When I got inside, I slid the newspaper out of its plastic sock and dropped it on the kitchen counter. Moving slowly, I got out the plastic container I kept Harper Lee’s dog food stored in, dumped a half cup into her bowl, filled the other bowl with water, and then switched on the coffee machine. Then, remembering I’d been too drunk to grind beans the night before, I switched off the coffeepot and poured myself a glass of water instead. I took two sips and then ran for the bathroom, where I promptly vomited up the water, along with what felt like most of the champagne.

  When I finally finished throwing up—I sat for a while on the floor, resting my throbbing forehead on the cool bathtub rim—I rinsed my mouth with mint mouthwash and staggered back out to the kitchen. Harper Lee had finished wolfing down her breakfast and was now nosing around her empty bowl, searching for any stray bits of kibble she might have missed. When she was satisfied that she’d gotten it all, she turned her attention to her water bowl, drinking noisily. Finally, with a contented sigh, she padded off to her wicker-basket bed by the back door, hopped in, turned three times, and settled down for the first nap of the day.

  I worked up the courage to make coffee—grinding the beans was especially painful—and while it was brewing, I stood staring out the back window, my arms wrapped around myself, trying desperately not to feel anything, to push back the dark, fetid thought bog I’d sunk into the night before.

  To distract myself, I glanced down at the newspaper, despite the pledge I’d made to Harper Lee that I had no interest in reading the news. The headline at the top of the paper caught my eye:

  WINNING LOTTERY TICKET SOLD LOCALLY

  SOLE WINNER TAKES 87 MILLION DOLLAR JACKPOT

  Huh, I thought, wondering idly if I knew the winner. It was possible—Ocean Falls wasn’t exactly a teeming metropolis, even when the town swelled with snowbirds escaping the northern cold for the Florida beaches and golf courses. They were already starting to stream in, even though it was only late September.

  I bet it was a snowbird who won, I thought resentfully. One of the ruddy-faced men with a closet full of green pants and salmon-pink blazers, or women with curl-set hair, coral lipstick, and lined faces set in expressions of permanent irritation. The sort who played golf all day and then went to dinner at five-thirty and knocked back three martinis before the early-bird steak special arrived at the table. The generation who’d been able to buy a four-bedroom house fifty years ago for twenty thousand dollars and then resell it at current prices for enough money to fund a retirement full of Bahamian cruises and Las Vegas vacations.

  There was just enough coffee in the carafe to fill a mug. I did so, feeli
ng a rebellious stab of pleasure. Elliott always hated it when I interrupted the brewing cycle. “You have to let the carafe fill all the way,” he’d complain. “Otherwise, the first cup is too strong and the rest are too weak. They need to mix together.”

  “Here’s to you, Elliott,” I said out loud, holding my mug up in a mock salute. “You selfish, cheating piece of shit bastard.”

  I took a sip of coffee and began to read the story:

  An $87 million jackpot fueled record high sales of Florida Lotto tickets Wednesday, reports the Florida Lottery Commission. But it was a local Ocean Falls Quik-Rite store that sold the winning ticket with the unusual numbers: 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, and 53.

  “I never seen nothing like it,” reports Bernice Purcell, owner of the Quik-Rite, located on Hibiscus Lane. “All of those numbers coming up right in a row like that. It was spooky.”

  I dropped my cup of coffee. The mug fell to the ground and shattered into a dozen pieces. Coffee splattered everywhere, pooling on the beige tile floor.

  “Shit,” I said, bending over reflexively to pick up the pieces. But then I stopped, stood back up, and grabbed the paper. Surely I hadn’t just read what I thought I’d read—had I? No. It wasn’t possible. I was just hungover and stressed out, and my eyes were playing tricks on me. I smoothed out the paper and began to read again, this time carefully taking in every word.

  But the story stayed the same. The winning numbers were 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, and 53.

  I spun around and ran out into the living room. The canvas tote bag I used for a purse was still there. I had a sudden irrational fear that the ticket wouldn’t be there, that I’d lost it or, even worse, somehow accidentally put it outside with Elliott’s things—and he and Miss Fake Tits would walk off with my multimillion-dollar jackpot. I scrambled for my wallet, yanking it out of the bag, and riffled through it, my heart pounding.