by Jamie Pacton
Bran’s eyes meet mine. I nod.
I pull out the remaining money and slip out of my new winter coat. “Take this,” I say, handing it to the woman. “You can get a cab to wherever you’re going and get out of this cold.”
The woman’s eyes widen as she holds the cash. “This … this … this is …” She just shakes her head. “I can’t …”
“Just take it,” I say. “Please. Find somewhere warm for your baby and for yourself.”
Then I hurry away before she can thank me or refuse the money or the coat.
“Jane,” Bran says, hurrying to catch up with me. “You didn’t have to give her all the money.”
There are tears in my eyes, which are not just from the icy wind blowing off Lake Michigan. “She needed it so much more than we did. It was the right thing to do.”
Bran slings an arm around me. “It totally was. And see, being rich doesn’t have to be all about buying stuff.”
He’s right, and there’s so much good I can do. It’s easy to see that being rich would be incredible, but the real question is still: How do I make that happen? As we walk, the beginnings of a plan begins to form in my mind.
Bran gets his car from the valet, and we start the drive home.
“So, what are you going to do?” Bran finally asks as we leave the city. “Any thoughts on how to cash the ticket? Or if you even want to?”
Before I can answer, Bran’s phone rings.
“It’s Sofie,” I say, picking up the phone. “Want me to answer it?”
“Yep, and I think you should tell her about the ticket. She’s excellent at listening and can help us figure this out.”
I’m not so sure about that, but it would be nice to have another person’s perspective. Even if it means one more person knows my secret. I click open the FaceTime call, and Sofie grins back at me.
“Jane! My second-favorite human in Wisconsin. How are you?”
Her enthusiasm is infectious. I smile back at her. “I’m good. We’re coming back from Milwaukee. Say hi to Bran.” I hold the phone up so Sofie can wave to Bran, who gives a small wave without his eyes leaving the road.
“So, what have you all done today?” Sofie asks.
I take a deep breath. It’s now or never, but trusting Sofie feels like the right thing. “Can you keep a secret?”
She nods, her eyes wide. “Absolutely. What happened? Did Bran finally tell you our plan for spring break?”
I glance over at him and he mouths “later” at me.
“Nope,” I say to Sofie. “I don’t know this mysterious plan, but we’ve been living like rich kids all day today.” I fill her in on my $58 million secret, our day of spending wildly, and how it felt to give that young mother a chunk of money.
Her mouth hangs open for part of my confession, but by the end her smile is back.
“So, let me get this straight,” she says. “You have the chance to be a multimillionaire, but you’re conflicted because you don’t want to give Holden the money. Which I totally understand, because never Holden.”
“Hashtag Never Holden!” calls out Bran. “I want that on a T-shirt.”
I laugh at that. “Never Holden, indeed. But I can’t give it to my mom, so I’m not sure what to do.”
“Why can’t you give it to your mom?” Sofie shoots back.
“Because she’d just waste it,” I say. “You’ve seen my house.”
Sofie looks thoughtful for a moment. “I think it’s worth a try, Jane. I mean, give your mom a chance. Maybe this could be the thing that helps her get past some of her issues.”
“But what if she just takes the money and blows it?”
“Then you’re no worse off than before,” says Sofie. “And Holden won’t get the money. If your mom does give you some of the cash, then you and Bran can come see me in Sydney for spring break!”
Bran cheers at that. “That’s our secret plan, by the way.”
“I love it.” I grin at him, but inside, my mind churns.
Can I really trust my mom? Is the risk of what she might do worth it?
The young mother we just met rises in my mind. She was scared and frustrated and alone, and I bet Mom felt that way when my dad died and it was up to her to care for me.
She hasn’t been a perfect mother, sure, but I think she’s tried. At least in her own way. And I know it’s been hard on her. She deserves a conversation, at least. The vague plan I had in mind begins to take shape.
“You’re right,” I say to Sofie. “Thank you, and if this works, we’re totally coming to see you.”
We chat with Sofie for the rest of the drive home, hanging up only as we pull into a Culvers drive-thru for dinner. While we’re waiting for our food, I tell Bran my three-phase plan to get the lotto money. It’s rough, but I think it might work.
“You sure about this?” Bran asks as we drive through town. “If not, I bet we could find somebody else to cash the ticket for you.”
I take a deep breath. “No. It has to be my mom. I think that’s the best choice, and I’m kind of hoping this can help us through some stuff, you know.”
“I hope it does,” says Bran. He pulls into my driveway.
“Thank you for today,” I say as I get out of the car. “It was magical.”
“You’re magical, Jane. Don’t forget that.”
I blow him a kiss as I gather all my bags, slip my new expensive sunglasses onto my head, and walk into the house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MOM IS IN THE LIVING ROOM, SHUFFLING COFFEE MUGS FROM ONE shelf to the next when I walk in the front door. Two more wedding dresses and three prom dresses—gold, green, and purple—sprawl across the couch.
I let out a long sigh as I stand in the doorway watching her. All my fears float to the surface, bobbing around like marshmallows in hot cocoa. This isn’t ideal—Mom’s certainly not ideal—but I have to give her a chance. Time for phase one of my plan: Give Mom the ticket and have her cash it for me. Taking a deep breath, I walk over to her and put a hand on her shoulder.
She jumps as she turns with a coffee mug that says Wilkins Family Reunion 2017 clutched in her hands.
“Jane! Oh my goodness, you scared me. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Hi, Mom,” I say. “Did you eat?”
I hold up a bag full of burgers and fries.
Mom shakes her head. “I was going to, but then I wanted to rearrange some things …”
“C’mon. Let’s go eat and talk in the kitchen.”
Gently, I take the coffee mug from her and place it back on the shelf. Mom shoots me a look as we leave the living room, but she also helps me clear off a spot at the kitchen table.
“How was your day?” she asks as she sits down.
This is so unexpected. Like, I honestly can’t remember the last time Mom asked me about my day.
“It was kind of amazing, actually.” I pop a fry into my mouth. “Bran and I went to Milwaukee, and we spent a bunch of money on sunglasses, massages, and other fun stuff.”
Mom makes an interested noise as she takes a huge bite of her burger. Which gives me the strength to keep going.
“Yeah, we wanted to try out what it was like being rich because—”
Here it goes.
My heart gallops along in my chest, and I swallow some of my fear.
My secret is out in three, two, one …
“Because, uhm, I won the lotto, Mom. You know, the $58 million.”
She chokes on a bite of burger.
“Excuse me, what?” she manages after she’s done coughing. “Say that again, Fortuna Jane.”
“I won the lotto jackpot everyone’s talking about.” I pull Sea Change out of my bag and remove the little, orange, slightly singed lotto ticket. “Google the winning numbers if you want, but I promise you, they’re the same as what’s on here. I’ve had it for days, but it’s not signed yet.” I flip the ticket over so she can see it’s still unsigned.
Mom takes a sip of water, and her gaz
e meets mine. “I don’t understand. How could you have won the lotto?”
The rest of the story rushes out of me. “I bought the ticket on Dad’s birthday, and I don’t know why or how, but it won. And that would be great and all, because who doesn’t want $58 million, but I’m still seventeen, and if a minor buys a ticket, it’s actually a misdemeanor. And the lotto commission won’t let me cash the prize, and I might get charged as a criminal—”
Mom puts a hand on my arm. “Jane. Slow down. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
A strangled sort of laugh breaks out of my throat. “Why didn’t I tell you? Mom. Look around.”
I gesture to the kitchen filled with junk, the living room stacked even higher with garbage, and all the wedding dresses hanging from the curtain rod above the back sliding-glass door. “I was terrified that if I told you, you’d take the ticket and use it to buy more stuff.”
Understanding dawns in Mom’s eyes. “We don’t have too much stuff,” she says softly.
“Mom.”
She shakes her head. “We really don’t, Jane. All this stuff is important.”
“Mom, it’s not. It’s just other people’s junk.”
“But it had meaning for them …”
My stomach sinks, and I bury my head in my hands. “I knew you’d react like this. Mom, hoarding isn’t healthy. For any of us.”
Mom’s voice is so quiet, I almost don’t hear it. “I know, Jane. I know. But I can’t seem to help myself. It’s how I hold on to your father.”
“You’re not holding on to him! You’re losing me. Don’t you see that?” The words fly out of me, like birds let out of a cage. “This isn’t a home anymore, and there’s no room for me in it. I feel like you’ve buried me under all this stuff, and I have to fight for a place here. Like you don’t know anything about what’s going on with me or what I’ve been through lately.”
Mom sits very still for a moment, as if what I’ve said is washing over her.
“I’m not losing you, Jane.”
“You are. I’m here, but you don’t really see me anymore. You drag me out to do Big Junk Dump day when I have homework or just want to hang out with my friends. Everything—every goddamn thing—is about you and what you want or need. And I can’t take it anymore! I miss Dad too, but this isn’t the way to hold on to him.”
Mom closes her eyes for a long moment. When she opens them again, a tear rolls down her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I never meant to make you feel unwanted or like I didn’t care. There’s so much you and I never talked about after your dad … after he died. We had a lot of hard stuff going on, and I should’ve been more open with you, but you were so young, and in pain, and trying to start a new school. And …”
“What are you talking about? You and dad were the perfect couple. All I remember is you guys making out all the time, which probably scarred me for life.”
Mom laughs. It’s a heartbreaking, tired sound that I’ll probably never unhear.
“Your father and I loved each other so much, but we weren’t perfect. Believe me. Relationships—especially ones like ours, that started when we were just barely adults ourselves—are never perfect. Yes, we met at twenty and grew into adults together, but we didn’t always do a good job growing together as a couple or as humans. I could’ve been a much better partner.” Mom twists her wedding ring around and around her finger as she continues. “The day your father died, we had a terrible fight about something that’s not even important anymore. We weren’t communicating well at the time—we hadn’t been for a while—and then suddenly it was all out there. It hurt so much, what he said. And I said so many ugly, horrible things in reply. He stormed away, slamming the door on his way to work. I remember sitting at the kitchen table and sobbing because it felt like my world, my marriage, and the great love of my life was shattering in front of my eyes. All I could do was reach out and try to grab for the pieces.”
I had heard that fight—I’d been in my room, reading and trying to ignore it—and I remember walking in on Mom crying at the table. I’d asked what was wrong, but she’d just wiped her tears, saying she was fine.
“Did you ever make up with Dad?” I ask softly.
“Never,” she says in a cracked voice. “I was going to send him a text, but I was just too upset. He sent me one, though, right before he went into the burning house. It just said, ‘Love you. We’ll figure it all out.’ But then he didn’t come out of the fire. And I never got to tell him I was sorry. That he was my person. That I would have moved the world to see him smile one more time. He was just gone, and my awful words were the last he heard from me. So, I think collecting all this stuff has been my apology to him.” She gestures to all the piles of junk still in the living room.
A line of tears runs down my cheeks. “He knew you loved him, Mom. You don’t have to keep apologizing. He wouldn’t have wanted you to spend your life doing that. I know he wouldn’t.”
She sniffles, swiping at her own tears. “But how do I even start, Jane? How can I get rid of all this? With every piece of stuff I move or every trash bag I fill, it seems somehow like I’m throwing away my great love.”
I take her hand, scooting my chair closer to hers. “Dad is not this stuff. He’s just not. And you can forgive yourself, Mom, while still loving him and missing him. That is totally okay.”
She squeezes my hand for a long moment and then exhales sharply. “You’re right,” she says, gulping back a sob. “I’ll keep working on it. If you promise to remind me that it’s okay to let him go. And maybe help me clean out the house. Slowly.”
“I will. Believe me, it’ll be my pleasure.”
She laughs then, still sniffling a little, and puts an arm around me, pulling me close. It’s a real hug, and this time, I let myself lean into it.
We sit like that for a few moments. I know Mom has a long way to go—from what I’ve read, hoarders can’t just give it up all at once—but sitting there next to her, I feel more grounded and more at home than I have in a very long time.
“What are you going to do about this ticket?” says Mom at last, pointing to the scrap of paper on the table. “I think you could have a marvelous life with that money.”
I pick up the ticket. “I could, but there’s a problem. Right now, one of the only options I have for cashing this ticket is Holden, and he broke up with me two months ago.”
“I know, Jane,” Mom says softly. “You told me, remember? The day after it happened, when I found you crying in the hallway?”
I had forgotten that. On that day, she had actually asked what was wrong, and I’d spilled my guts like a fish being cleaned.
“Yeah, well, it’s even worse,” I admit. “I thought we were maybe getting back together, which is obviously a mistake because now he’s blackmailing me. He wants me to give him the ticket so he can cash it for himself.”
“Don’t give him the ticket,” Mom says quickly.
“I won’t, but I need your help for this to work.”
“What do you need me to do?”
As we eat the rest of our dinner, I explain phase two of my plan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MOM AND I SPEND THE NEXT FEW HOURS CLEANING UP MY ROOM—yes, I let her into my space, which was both a big deal and nothing at all; and yes, she was furious when she saw the mess Holden had made. By the time I get a text from Holden at nine, my books are back on the shelves, and Mom and I have talked more than we have in years. It feels strange and good all at once.
“Are you sure you don’t want me or Bran to come with you?” asks Mom. “I don’t trust Holden.” She walks me to the front door, looking worried.
I shake my head as I put my shoes on. “I don’t trust him either, but I’ll be fine. I need you and Bran for phase two of the plan.”
“Okay,” says Mom. “But call me if you need anything.” She gives me a hug as she hands me the keys to her truck. I hug her back, trying to put all the things I haven’t been able to say into the embrace.
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As I get into Mom’s truck, I read Holden’s message again.
Time’s up. Meet me at the lake, down by the beach, so we can talk. Bring the ticket.
I’m so ready for this meeting. Gone is my fear, anxiety, and sadness. I’m still angry, but since more people know about the ticket now and I have a plan, facing Holden is not stressing me out anymore.
I start the truck and pull out of the driveway with the windows down. This late in the year, it gets dark early, and the stars are already out. A cool breeze whips through the open windows as I drive through downtown. It’s empty, and the streetlights make it look like a town in a train set or out of a picture book.
Right as I’m parking in the lakeside parking lot, I get a text from Bran.
BRAN: Phase two is ready.
JANE: Excellent. Go in two minutes.
BRAN: On it.
Phase two is the one that will cut the legs out from under Holden. Tucking my phone into my pocket, I park the truck and walk toward the picnic table where Holden waits for me. He’s facing the lake, huddled into his jacket, and the wind picks up a piece of his hair, which he brushes behind his ears. My heart gives one last treacherous leap as I remember his hands on my hip, his lips on mine.
Has it really only been two days since we last talked? Did he really break into my room and trash it? Is there any way to save this, at all?
Ugh. No. Don’t even go there, Jane.
I curl my hands into the cuffs of my jacket and walk up to the picnic table. Holden looks up. He has dark circles under his eyes, and I hope he hasn’t been sleeping.
“Hi,” he says, scooting over.
The table is covered in bird poop and fish guts from people who clean the fish they catch right here on the table, but I settle into a spot between all the grossness. Holden just sits down on top of it all. Like he doesn’t care. Maybe he doesn’t.
