Lucky Girl

by Jamie Pacton

  I pull him toward me as he leans over to kiss me.

  “Jane,” he whispers against my mouth as our kiss deepens.

  It’s so familiar. So sweet. So much heat and intensity.

  Holden’s hands slip under my sweatshirt, finding my skin, and I start to pull off my shirt, but then the glare of red-and-blue lights fills the car.

  “Shit,” I mutter as a cop runs up to the window. He knocks twice, and Holden and I jerk away from each other.

  Holden rolls the window down an inch or so, and rain blows into the car.

  “What are you two doing?” the cop shouts. “Get home now! It’s a flash-flood warning.”

  And then he runs back to his car.

  Holden turns to look at me, and I shrug, not sure what to say, but giddy from the rain, our kiss, and the fact that the cop didn’t arrest us for making out in public.

  “I think I need a ride home,” I say, gesturing toward the road. “I probably can’t walk there in this weather.”

  Holden laughs and starts the car, and slowly we drive through the rain-sliced world, past the wreckage of the Harvest Festival, and toward my house.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WHEN I FINALLY MAKE IT HOME, I CHECK THE TOWN’S FACEBOOK group. No one has posted about the lotto winner, though there is a long thread about the Harvest Festival (the town is rightfully shocked that a toilet-seat wreath caused so much trouble).

  A door opens somewhere in my house, and Mom moves around. She doesn’t knock on my door, which is a relief. My head is full of Holden’s lips on mine, our conversation, the terror of racing across the lake in a storm, and a general unease about the lotto ticket.

  I let out a long, slow breath and twist the strings of my sweatshirt around my fingers. The cold dampness of the shirt—I’m still wearing the one Holden gave me—hits me. I really shouldn’t be sitting around in this. Stripping off my wet clothes, I slip into dry pajamas and wrap myself in the comforter from my bed.

  Then I do what I always do when I’m feeling too much: go to Facebook and find my dad’s profile.

  Yes, he’s been dead for five years, but before that, he used social media like the rest of us. Mom never deleted his page—I don’t even know if she knows the password—so it’s out there for anyone to see. He’s there, in a ghostly digital sense, whenever I need him. I wonder if in a hundred years no one will use Facebook or Instagram, but all our accounts will still be there, long after we’re dead, like a great digital ship, full of our ghosts.

  With a shivering breath, I click onto my dad’s profile—Daniel Belleweather—and suddenly there he is: glasses, curly dark hair, lopsided smile like mine. His cover photo is of him, Mom, and me at Disney World, shortly before he died. Behind us, the Epcot ball rises like an enormous full moon. In this picture, I’m twelve, wearing glittery gold Minnie ears and grinning. Mom’s got a hand on Dad’s shoulder, and her hair is in a neat bob. There’s nothing of the scattered, desperate, lonely collector of other people’s memories in her face. There’s nothing that hints at the fact that Dad would be dead a month after this picture was taken.

  That Disney trip is one of my happiest memories with my parents, but these pictures are always hard. I scroll through my dad’s Facebook feed, where all the posts are a few years old. There are a bunch of grief posts from people we used to know in Nashville. Neighbors, his college buddies, fellow firefighters. But I skip those and go back to the last post he made. August 10, 2016: He put up a picture of me and him on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. I’m grinning, and he’s giving me bunny ears. Mom took the picture from the seat in front of us. His caption: YO-HO-HO, sailing the seven seas with my favorite ladies!

  I can still feel that small boat underneath us, bobbing along the ride, floating past towns that were fake burning and animatronic pirates guzzling booze, shooting at one another, and chasing people. It wasn’t my first time on a boat, but I think that ride was the first time I knew I wanted to adventure on the sea. Not as a pirate (duh), but as a researcher. I think my dad would’ve liked that.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say, running a finger over his face on the screen. Tears fill my eyes, and I have to change the picture to the next one. It’s a selfie of us eating gelato at Italy in Epcot. Mom has her arm around me and we’re smiling broadly. Dad’s holding the camera, so his head looks huge, and his cherry gelato melts down his hand. The picture after that is of us in front of Space Mountain, where Dad puked his guts out and Mom and I rode three times in a row. The last picture, the one I always stop on, is of him and me by ourselves, standing on the edge of the Epcot lagoon at night. Mom took it from behind, so it’s just our silhouettes, illuminated by the fireworks. My head leans on Dad’s shoulder, and his arm is around me.

  Even after all this time, I can’t believe he’s never coming home. That he’ll never see me off to prom or walk me down the aisle at my wedding or ever tell me another bad dad joke. It’s unthinkable that there’s not enough money in the world to bring him back. That nothing will ever go back to the way it used to be.

  I hate that so much.

  Swiping at the tears in my eye, I click open the Facebook Messenger window that holds the conversation I’ve been having with my dead Dad for the last few years. I already know what my last post from back in August says, but I can’t help but read it again.

  August 19

  Hi, Dad. It’s now been five years and two days since you died. I miss you for so many reasons, and it’s too bad you’re not here. My boyfriend, Holden, just broke up with me a few days ago, and I really could use a shoulder to cry on. Or someone to punch him in his stupid face. Though I suppose I could do that, but then I’d have to see him again. We dated for two years. But then he got bored or something. I guess I wasn’t enough. Sure, his excuse was that he “just needed some space,” but I think that means he wanted to see other people. I don’t know, and maybe I don’t care. But it hurts. So fucking badly. I feel like there’s an eel eating my insides.

  Remember when you told me, “Never let one person be the only person in your life”? I’ve tried to keep that in mind as I started dating, but it seems like most people in high-school relationships at least want you to be their one and only. Maybe I wanted that too. I think I just wanted to be special to someone. To be their everything. To know they weren’t going anywhere. But clearly I wasn’t enough for Holden. Which I know is not the end of the world—I’m only seventeen, I’ll meet other people, but. Gahhh.

  Remember when you told me, “The world is huge; go see it”? I think of that all the time, too. But I’m so afraid to leave this town. Even though I have things I want to do in the world. It’s stupid to be ruled by fear. I know. But I still wish you were here. Mom’s not doing well …

  I stop reading. I haven’t written anything since then, but tonight I need to talk to my dad. Typing to him is like screaming into the void, I know, but it still helps sometimes.

  October 16

  Hi, Dad. Guess what? Pretty soon, I’ll officially be an adult. Remember how you told me that we’d go to Hawaii for my eighteenth birthday? I remember that. But that’s not going to happen now, I know. Almost being an adult is weird. And it’s only gotten stranger lately.

  I pause over the keyboard, not sure how much I should say. But I need to tell someone. And it’s not like Mom has read any of the other conversations in this message thread. None of the messages are marked as read, and surely if she had seen them somehow she would’ve asked me about some of the things in there—like me coming out as bi, or when I had sex for the first time, or when Holden broke up with me. Surely she would’ve given a shit about some of these things? Secrets are safe, it seems, as long as I tell them to the digital ghost of my dead dad.

  I keep writing.

  Want to know something unbelievable? I won the lottery. I really did. Right now, at this very moment, between the pages of my favorite book—Sea Change—is a lotto ticket worth $58 million. But the truth is, I don’t know what to do with it. Oh, and also, since I
bought it as a minor, I’m actually a criminal and can’t cash it. So, I’m trying to figure that out right now. It’s a mess. A hot mess of epic proportions.

  What should I do, Dad? Everyone in town wants to know who won, and I just want to keep my secret until I find someone I trust to cash the ticket for me. But I don’t know who that is. I know you’d say I can trust Mom, but she’s so shaky right now. She’s not been herself for a long time, and I’m not sure what she’d do with it.

  I wish you were here.

  I start to sign off, but then I remember one more thing I have to tell him that I can’t tell anyone else.

  Also, tonight I kissed Holden, a.k.a. that stupid boy who broke my heart two months ago. Actually, I kissed him twice. And it wasn’t terrible. But what am I doing? Surely this is a sign that the lotto ticket is going to my head. But maybe I should give him another chance? What do you think?

  I don’t wait up for Dad’s never-coming reply. I just crawl into bed with Sea Change clutched in my arms and pull the covers over my head.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MOM WAKES ME EARLY THE NEXT MORNING BY POUNDING ON MY door. “Wake up, Fortuna Jane! We’re going to Madison. Time to go shopping!”

  I make an incoherent noise and roll over. Mom keeps up the pounding.

  “Mom, it’s Sunday. I’m sleeping. Go away!”

  “Jane, I’m coming in there,” she says, starting to push open the door. I must have left it unlocked last night in my befuddled state.

  I bolt up. “No! Mom, I’m up.” I leap to my feet and slam the door shut. I’m not sure why I do it. It’s not like I have all sorts of illegal stuff in here—no boys or girls I need to hide under my bed (though, really, would Mom care?), no booze or drugs—I just don’t want Mom in here. Somehow if she comes in, it feels like the sprawling mess of the rest of the house will follow her.

  Mom lets out a long sigh on the other side of the door. It’s a sound that makes something in me crumple like a used tissue. This distance between us is partially my fault, I know. I stand on my side of the door, hand against it, heart racing from jumping out of bed. Mom and I must look like bookends cradling a volume filled with everything we can’t say to each other.

  “I’ll be out in eight minutes,” I call.

  There’s a moment of silence so long I wonder if Mom still stands on the other side of the door. Then she says softly, “I’ll be in the truck. Bring a jacket. It’s even chillier today than yesterday.”

  I turn away, my heart full of too many things, and pull on some jeans, a thick sweater, and my sneakers. With a glance at the time—6:54 a.m., way too early to be up on a Sunday—I shove my phone into my pocket and head to my bathroom. Usually I’d take a long, hot shower, especially after getting caught in the rain last night, but this morning I splash some water on my face and brush my teeth super fast. Mom honks the horn. After putting Sea Change back on the shelf, I grab my purse, lock my door on the way out, and then weave through the crowded house to the front door. The wedding dress mom pulled out of the trash a few days ago now hangs in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. It’s a great blob of a shape, and seeing it sagging there, the discarded shell of someone else’s dream, makes me ache.

  What I wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee or, better yet, to have Dad in the kitchen, cooking breakfast and listening to jazz. I close my eyes for a moment, seeing him in our old kitchen on the day before he was killed in that fire at the apartment building with the gas leak. He’d made omelets and waffles for all three of us. I brush at the tears that rise, unbidden, to my eyes.

  Mom honks again.

  Sighing, I flick off the lights in the living room.

  A few minutes later, Mom is speeding along Highway 94, headed west toward Madison. It’s a beautiful fall day, and there are no signs of the storms that tore through here last night other than some fields that now resemble shallow lakes. I slug syrupy French vanilla coffee that I got at the convenience store as Mom filled up with gas. (Not Wanda’s, because that place is still dark, shuttered, and closed.) We don’t talk for most of the ride. I switch the radio on, and the soothing tones of NPR fill the car, but Mom snaps it off at once. She used to love listening to the radio, but now she surrounds herself with silence like she surrounds herself with other people’s memories. Maybe if she just let in some music or some of her own memories, she wouldn’t need all these others. I really should look up how to help her, but that seems beyond my scope so early in the morning.

  “Where are we headed?” I ask as Madison comes into view. The dome of the capitol sits on an isthmus between two lakes. We’re coming in from the east side of town, and the morning light paints Lake Monona with gold and pink brushstrokes. Today’s a farmers’ market day, so the Capitol Square will be crowded with people buying pumpkins, jars of jam, and all sorts of other local, seasonal goodies.

  “St. Vinny’s,” she says at once, her eyes never leaving the road. “On Willy Street. Then we’re meeting your grandmother at the farmers’ market for lunch.”

  Seeing Grandma is a treat, but of course we’re going to St. Vinny’s first. It’s the largest thrift store in town and one of Mom’s favorites. Around this time of year, they have their Halloween costumes out, and it’s always full of bizarre treasures. Mom is going to buy so much.

  I Google St. Vinny’s. “They don’t open until nine, so we’ve got almost an hour. Want to get some breakfast?”

  Mom doesn’t look away from the street, where she’s like an arrow pointed in the direction of the thrift store. “Sure, but we’ll get it to go. I want to be the first ones through those doors when they open.”

  Of course she does. Fighting back a snarky comment, I direct Mom toward an artisanal bakery on Willy Street.

  We eat our pastries on the steps of St. Vinny’s. A gray-haired homeless man with a red, wind-burnished face shares the step with us, leaning against the corner of the building to sleep. He’s wrapped in layers of coats, and I give him the extra ham-and -cheese croissant I’d bought for later. He smiles at me gratefully, and I wish I could do more. If I can find a way to cash this lotto ticket, then I could set up a shelter or a charity or do all sorts of good in the world, just like Holden and I talked about yesterday.

  If, though.

  If is the operative word here.

  Because the only way I can do anything like that is IF I can find someone to say they bought the ticket and then give me the money.

  I glance at Mom. She’s peering in the thrift-store windows and checking her watch. She bounces on her toes impatiently as the minutes tick down to opening.

  How could I even trust her with my secret? Much less all this money?

  I just can’t. There’s no way.

  Which leaves Grandma and Holden. I shove those thoughts away for now, as they’re full of too many unknowns to contemplate this early in the morning.

  Finally, at two minutes past nine, when Mom’s ready to ram through the store door—sheets of glass and laws about property destruction be damned—a woman finally unlocks St. Vinny’s.

  Mom pushes past her, calling over her shoulder, “Hurry, Fortuna Jane! Grab a cart!”

  I get to my feet slowly and follow Mom into the store.

  Inside is a riot of secondhand clothes, Green Bay Packers memorabilia, used books, old furniture, pots and pans, broken appliances, and all sorts of other junk. St. Vinny’s takes up most of a city block, and it has lots of small rooms tucked into the space. Pulling a rickety silver cart from a tangle of baskets near the registers, I trail behind Mom as she navigates a corridor between shelves covered in ceramic figurines and coffee mugs.

  She darts toward a coffee mug with a smiling toddler on it, as if she can’t help herself, but then she whispers, loud enough that I can hear, “Focus, Joy Lynn. We’re here for wedding dresses.”

  Oh my God.

  We’re here for wedding dresses.

  Of course we are.

  It takes everything in me not to abandon the cart ri
ght then and there.

  Mom marches ahead, heading straight into the enormous Halloween section, which fills a room larger than my school cafeteria. A rainbow of prom dresses covers an entire rack, and I can’t help but run my hands along the sequins and silky fabrics. Mom strides on, stopping only when she gets to the wedding dresses, which fill the end of an aisle like enormous exploded meringues on The Great British Bake Off.

  I pull a turquoise silk dress with a halter neck and no back off the rack. It’s solidly out of, like, 1997, and it falls to the ground in an ombré of blues that remind me of waves and the ocean. Or Holden’s eyes. For a moment, I let myself imagine going to prom with him. Or us hanging out after prom and going to a party at the beach …

  My phone chimes with a text.

  BRAN: Where are you? Are you still alive after that storm last night?

  JANE: I’m alive, though I got caught on the lake during the storm.

  BRAN: With Holden?

  JANE: Yes, but it was no big deal.

  BRAN: I don’t believe you. Where are you?

  JANE: In Madison with Mom. She’s having a Miss Havisham moment.

  I drop the turquoise dress on the rack and snap a selfie with mom in the background, pawing through the wedding dresses, and send it to Bran.

  BRAN: Wait. Is she buying wedding dresses? What are you not telling me? Is your mom getting married? Or did Holden propose? Because I’m a supportive BFF, but there’s no way you’re marrying that guy.

  JANE: Snort. That’s exactly it. How did you know?

  BRAN: LOL. Told you I had investigative skills.

  JANE: You do indeed. And before you ask, nothing is going on between Holden and me. We just hung out for a bit.

  Which is not exactly the truth, but there’s no reason to alarm Bran via text about my kissing habits.

  BRAN: Uh-uh. I deduce you’re lying about that, but I’m here when you’re ready to talk.