by Jamie Pacton
JANE: Thank you. Hey, any new leads on the lotto winner?
I really, really hate myself for asking him about that. It’s such a blatant move away from deep emotional waters, and how could he have any more leads? I’m still here, holding onto the unsigned ticket and lying to him.
I swear, when I find a way to cash this ticket, I’m going to do something incredible for Bran.
BRAN: Nothing yet. I’m keeping an eye on the Facebook group, hoping someone says something. Also emailed Wanda, but I haven’t heard back yet.
“Jane! Come help me!” Mom screeches from the end of the aisle. There’s a great clattering as the rack she was riffling through collapses and a dozen wedding dresses fall on top of her.
JANE: Gotta go! Mom’s just been buried by a wedding-dress avalanche.
I snap another quick picture of the mountain of tulle and lace, with Mom’s hand thrust out of it, and send it to Bran.
BRAN: Let me know if you need me to come pick you up.
JANE: If we’re here for more than three hours, I’ll call you for a rescue. xoxo.
MOM WANTS TO BUY ALL THE DRESSES.
When I finally pull her out of the pile (she emerges a bit breathless and with a flourish, kind of like a stripper jumping out of a cake), she stacks them all into our cart.
“We can’t get every dress, Mom,” I say. I tug a fluffy dress that looks like something from the ’80s out of the pile and flip over the tag. “This one is twenty dollars and”—I flip over another price tag—“this one is twenty-five. For all fifteen dresses, you’re looking at, like, three hundred dollars.” Carefully, I pull another dress out of the cart and hang it on the closest unbroken clothes rack.
Mom lets out a frustrated breath. “I know that, Fortuna Jane. But we need these.”
A high-pitched laugh escapes me. “We don’t. In fact, we absolutely do not need any of these dresses at all.”
“We do! These are someone’s memories, about to be snatched away by an uncaring public!”
“How much money do you have on you?”
Mom crosses her arms. “None of your business.”
“It is my business. I only have thirty dollars on me. You?”
“Fifty,” Mom says. Her voice now has a frantic edge, like she is doing some terrible mental contortions to make the small sum stretch to cover all the dresses. And pretty much everything else in the store.
“And we need to get gas and lunch.”
“Nonsense. Your grandmother will pay for lunch.”
“Mom. You know we can’t afford all these dresses.”
An agonized look crosses Mom’s face. “But, Jane. We need them.”
Before I can reply, a white twentysomething woman in a ratty sweatshirt and torn jeans taps me on shoulder. “Excuse me,” she says. “Are you buying all those wedding dresses?”
“Yes,” Mom says, pulling the cart toward herself.
“No,” I say. “Take your pick.” I pull the rest of the dresses out of the cart and put them back on the rack.
“Thank you,” the woman says gratefully. “I’m getting married soon, and I’m going to take one of these and modify it.” A smile curves the edges of her mouth as she goes through the dresses.
“See,” I whisper to mom. “Other people will make memories with those dresses. That’s why you can’t take them all.”
Mom snatches one dress off the rack. “I’m getting this one,” she mutters to herself as I steer her away from the wedding dresses, leading her to the other side of the store.
I take the dress from her gently, turning it over. It has long lace sleeves and a high collar.
“I married your father in a dress like this,” she says, her voice so soft I almost can’t hear it.
I know this is true because a wedding photo of them used to hang in the living room. Maybe it’s still there, buried underneath all the photos of other people.
Tears rise in my eyes. I can let her have this, at least. “It’s lovely. Let’s get it.”
Mom shoots me a grateful look and then makes an excited noise. Her fingers grip my arm. “Janey, look at that! Who in the world would donate such a thing?”
She points toward the back of the store, where an oil painting of two kids hangs. The girl wears a blue dress, and the boy has on a suit. It’s clearly the kind of thing a doting parent had commissioned, but how did it end up here?
The tender moment where we actually talk about our feelings disappears as Mom throws the old wedding dress in the cart and hurries toward the portrait. She’s back in her element, diving right into filling the holes in herself with other people’s cherished things.
We get the painting, the dress, a freezer-size Ziploc bag of old photos, and a cross-stitched monstrosity that is all about being a mother-in-law (that someone’s mother-in-law clearly hated enough to donate).
Somehow Mom talks the clerk into discounts on it all, and she still has money left.
“I’m going to check out that estate sale a few blocks over,” she says cheerfully as we pile everything into the truck. “Want to come?”
I absolutely do not. Thrift stores and pulling things out of the trash are one thing, but walking through someone’s home after they’ve died in order to scoop up the remains of their material possessions is high on the list of most depressing things I can think of. I get that it’s a great way to find cool things or upcycle, but the sight of a crushed-velvet armchair that still has an imprint from its previous owner’s butt, and the sense that the owner recently vacated the chair, the house, and the world, is just too much for me.
“Pass,” I say. “I’m going to go find Grandma at the farmers’ market. Text me when you’re on your way, and we’ll meet you back at her condo.”
“It’s a long walk to the capitol,” says Mom from the front seat of the truck. “Want a ride?”
“Mom. It’s, like, a mile. I’m fine.”
She nods, her rare burst of maternal concern over. “Okay, see you in a while!” And then she guns down the street, pointed in the direction of the paper signs that scream ESTATE SALE!
Pulling out my phone, I text Grandma to tell her I’m on my way, put on my headphones, and crank up some music as I head south down Willy Street.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GRANDMA WAITS FOR ME OUTSIDE A COFFEE SHOP ON CAPITOL Square. Beyond her, the view of Lake Monona stretches, blue and glittering in the October light. In front of us, the Dane County Farmers’ Market circles the capitol building like a living wreath made up of booths and moving visitors. Usually it happens only on Saturday mornings, but happily, it’s running an extra day this weekend. Some of the shoppers carry huge bouquets of late-season flowers, others pull wagons full of kids and pumpkins, some have baskets piled high with produce, and lots of couples stroll hand in hand, eating pastries and drinking coffee. There’s a bubbling energy and sense of contentment that thrills me. It’s like a grown-up version of Lakesboro’s Harvest Festival, and it feels more real and exciting somehow than anything my tiny town could pull off.
“Hi, Jane!” calls Grandma, waving me over to her table. Today she wears a colorful long-sleeve caftan, yellow clogs, and her short gray hair is spiky. She looks exactly like the liberal, tree-hugging, art-museum docent of an old lady she is.
She stands up to hug me as I approach, and I sink into the hug. “Hi, Grandma,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral so I don’t cry in front of her. Sometimes a huge sense of loss sneaks up on me, reminding me exactly how much I miss having Grandma living with us.
“Sit down, eat something,” she says, letting go of me to gesture at the two cups of coffee on the table. “I ordered you a club sandwich on multigrain. That’s still your favorite?”
“It is, thank you. But aren’t we having lunch at your house? Mom’s headed that way after she hits a few estate sales.”
Grandma rolls her eyes. “It’s a beautiful day, and the last thing I want is to sit inside while your mother—who’s my daughter and whom I love very much
—tells me how my place is too bare. She gets positively twitchy inside. I’ll text her and tell her to come here.”
I take a long sip of the coffee. “You noticed that too?”
“Yes,” Grandma says. “Have you ever—”
A café employee comes up, carrying two baskets of food. He plops them on the table, smiles at me, and walks away.
Grandma doesn’t finish her thought, and I don’t ask her about it. We both know what she was going to say because we’ve discussed it all before: Have I ever thought about getting Mom some help? Is there anything Grandma can do? Can we really not just clear everything out of the house while she’s at work?
My answers are always: Thanks for thinking of us; there’s nothing you can do; and if we moved everything out all at once, it’d probably kill Mom, and then I’d be an orphan.
I take a huge bite of my sandwich while Grandma texts Mom and I people-watch for a few minutes.
“So, how’s condo-commune life?” I ask once half my sandwich is gone.
Grandma grins. “Wonderful.”
She points to the building where she lives. It rises fifteen stories, and her unit overlooks Lake Monona. It’s not exactly the hippie commune she wanted, but she’s working hard to make it that in her own way.
“The sunrises are beautiful, and I’ve made friends with several of the single gentlemen down the hall from me.”
I roll my eyes. “What ever happened to ‘don’t shit where you eat’?”
“Language, Fortuna Jane,” Grandma admonishes with a laugh. “And say what you will, but it keeps me young.”
“No judgment here,” I say. “I’m glad to have a grandma who’s with the times.”
“Amen,” says Grandma. “Aging is hard enough without being forced to stay in your house, knitting and supposedly never thinking about sex again. Speaking of all that, how’s your sex life?”
“Still none of your business, but also still nothing new to report.”
There’s no way she gets to hear about Holden now. I told her far too much when we were dating, including the fact that we were having sex, and I also called her crying the night Holden broke up with me. I can only imagine what she’d say if I told her I was hanging out with him again.
Grandma pats my hand. “You know I’m here to talk whenever you need me. The repressive taboo surrounding teenage sex is so harmful.”
“I agree. But let’s talk about something—anything—else. Please. What’s going on in the world?”
I point to her newspaper. There’s a picture of a girl in a knight’s costume on the front page, along with an article about how she helped change gender restrictions at the medieval-themed restaurant where she worked and how she’s now jousting at a Renaissance fair. I reach for the paper so I can read the piece, but Grandma gets to it first.
“Oh, yes!” she says, flipping through the pages. “I wanted to show you this. There’s something in here about Lakesboro. And I think they quoted your friend.”
She turns over the page, landing on an article that makes me choke on a bite of club sandwich. I take the newspaper from her and read:
LITTLE TOWN, BIG LOTTO WINNER
The small, rural community of Lakesboro was in for quite a surprise earlier this week when someone bought the winning Mega-Wins ticket from a local gas station. Worth over $58 million, the ticket was purchased from Wanda’s Quick-Go Shop on Wednesday night. So far no winner has come forward, but the town is eagerly waiting to hear if they have a multimillionaire in their midst.
“My best friend and I have been asking around, but so far we have no leads,” said Brandon Kim, a local teen who is working to find the lotto winner.
Others in the town have stronger opinions on whom it could be, and one local, who wished to remain anonymous, said recently, “It’s a shame someone hasn’t come forward. I think the police should get involved. Just so we can all stop worrying. Seems mighty selfish for the winner to keep all that money hidden …”
I stop reading the article, not wanting to hear what else people in my town think.
I look over at Grandma. “Yep, that’s my friend Bran. He’s trying to figure out who won so he can break the story.”
“Any luck so far? I can imagine that much money might rip a town apart.” Grandma takes a sip of her tea.
I shake my head. If ever there were a time to tell Grandma about the ticket, it’s now. She could cash it, give me the money or split the winnings with me, and we’d be fine. Problem solved.
Taking a deep breath, I look at Grandma. “So, what would you do if you had that lotto ticket?”
Grandma makes a disgusted noise. “I’d never have the lotto ticket because you know I don’t play the lotto! It’s a fool’s tax. I’ve told your mother that a thousand times, but she still keeps buying tickets.”
“But let’s just say you did have it somehow, what would you do?”
“Throw it away immediately! There’s no part of me that wants that sort of drama and trouble.”
“Grandma, you couldn’t throw away $58 million.”
She scoffs. “I most certainly could. Though you’re right, I wouldn’t throw it away. I’d cash it and then promptly give all the money to charity.”
I goggle at her for a moment. “You wouldn’t keep any of it?”
“Not a cent.”
“That’s outrageous.”
Grandma shrugs. “That’s what it is. I don’t think money is the most important thing in life, and if someone handed me that much, I’d say thank you but no thank you.”
Welp.
That answers one of my questions. I definitely cannot ask Grandma to cash the ticket. I mentally cross her off my list.
That just leaves Holden.
Nope, nope, nope, nope.
Bad choices all around.
I finish my sandwich, and then before we can talk about anything else, Mom walks up the street, carrying a severed head.
Okay. So it’s not a real head.
It’s the kind of bald mannequin head women put wigs on. But it’s creepy AF, with its peeling-paint eyes and arched eyebrows. Mom plops it onto the table, like it’s a fourth member of our party. Grandma and I share a look.
“Can you believe this was just being thrown away?” Mom exclaims as she sits down. “They gave it to me at the estate sale. Said the owner had it for sixty years and her mother gave it to her. Imagine the stories! This is where women kept the hair they wore on first dates, to weddings, to parties …” She trails off with a dreamy expression on her face.
“It’s a disturbing plastic head, Mom,” I say, wishing I could shove it under the table. Or better yet, into the trash. I scoot my sandwich far away from it.
“It’s history, Fortuna Jane,” says Grandma with a quick wink at me. Her voice is gentle, and I know she’s trying to be kind to Mom, but it isn’t really helping. “I’m glad you found it, sweetie. Can I get you some lunch?”
Mom pulls a pile of costume jewelry out of her bag and arranges it on the table. Pink, blue, yellow, and green paste gems sparkle in the sunlight from giant gaudy necklaces and earrings. “No need; I’m not hungry. But let me show you what else I managed to save.”
Grandma and I share another look, and then we let Mom tell us about each brooch, pin, and photo she “rescued” from the estate sale.
As she talks, I watch kite surfers skim over the surface of Lake Monona, carried on the wind like leaves. From here, they look free and fearless, moving across the water with nothing holding them back. I yearn to trade places with them.
LAKESBORO COMMUNITY FACEBOOK GROUP SUNDAY, 9:00 P.M.
NEW POST BY AMY PEMBERLY: Well, folks, it looks like no one is coming forward as the winner of this ticket. Maybe they are out of state? Or maybe somebody is afraid? Just thought I’d start this thread as a place for us to talk about what we’d do if we had won. So, tell us: What would you do with the money?
MEGAN WILLIAMS: I’ll go first. If I’d won the $58 million, I’d build a rec center in t
own for kids. It’d have gymnastics, a place for parents to hang out, and lots of fun activities.
AMY PEMBERLY: This is a great idea! Definitely would take my kids there!
LISA HAWKINS: ESPECIALLY IN THE WINTER! [20 more comments]
KANDI TAYLOR: I love that idea of building something for the community, but I have to say I’d use the money to pay off all my school-loan debt and my mom’s medical bills. Then, byyyee! I’d move to the tropics.
AMY PEMBERLY: Absolutely. Wouldn’t it be amazing if the lotto winner did something like pay off all our medical bills?
J. WILKINS: Keep dreaming. That person doesn’t even have the courage to come forward. Why should they do something good for the community when they’re now RICH? [78 more comments]
JOHN SANDERS: I’d use the money to create some sort of barrier that kept the smell from the chicken farms out of town. Good grief, it’s bad tonight.
J. WILKINS: That’s the smell of country life. Love it or leave.
MARGO LEWIS: Back to what we’d do with the money: If any of you are feeling generous, my four-year-old just got back from his first cancer treatment, and we don’t have insurance. We have a GoFundMe. Or you could just send him a message here. I’ll read them to him. Thanks!
TOM HOFFMAN: Speaking of GoFundMe pages, my best friend is a single mom and about to lose her house. She could really use some help. Here’s the link.
AMY PEMBERLY: Hope the lotto winner sees this so they can help.
J. WILKINS: Fat chance. I tell you, that person is sitting on the money like Scrooge McDuck so they can keep it for themselves.
MARY FULTON: Sadly, I bet you’re right. [58 more comments]
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WHEN I PULL MY BIKE INTO SCHOOL ON MONDAY MORNING, A BUNCH of kids from my senior class are already loaded into a school bus. We’re going to the House on the Rock, and I’m later than usual because I overslept.
“Jane!” Holden shouts, leaning out the window. “C’mon. I saved you a seat.”
I take off my headphones and wave to him. We haven’t talked since Saturday night, a.k.a. that night we kissed on the lake and then again in the parking lot. Although I’ve been tempted to text him about fifty-eight million times.
