Win for Love

by Isabelle Peterson

  She disappears into her room leaving me bewildered and lost. She says she’s going to stop drinking. Just like that. I want to believe her. I had heard it before. Maybe I am strong enough now. I could help her. I had noticed a tremor in her hands as she adjusted the towel in her hand. I’d seen this before the last time she’d gone a couple of days without drinking. I’m hopeful that she can do it this time since it’s already been a day and a half. Maybe we could just sell this place and move. Start over. The two of us. New home. New neighbors. New friends. New jobs. A new life.

  I head back to the kitchen and pull down the box of pancake mix and heat up a pan with some butter. As I mix the batter, I can see our future clearly. I’m tempted to tell my mom about all my plans while we munch on our pancakes, but instead, I decide that if we’re going to sell the trailer, we should get the outside to look better, Mrs. Schwarzkopf’s gardening having inspired me. Surely, I could borrow a rake from them.

  “So, Mom,” I start as we are clearing the breakfast table. “Want to help me work outside today? I took a walk yesterday, and Mrs. Schwarzkopf bought too many flowers. She offered us the extras.”

  My mom looks at me and scrunches up her nose. She touches her swollen and purple cheek and shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says after a moment.

  “You could wear a hat,” I push. “And the sun would do you good. Maybe get a little tan to hide the…” I bit my lip before saying the word ‘bruise.’ I don’t need to remind her of what is probably very painful and not just physically.

  I jump up from the table and run to Jude’s bedroom. It’s not a room I go in often. The walls are covered with heavy metal rock-band posters and dozens of pictures of half and fully naked women. Typical for a boy but doesn’t make the ‘decorating’ any more acceptable. I rummage through the shelf and find a couple of hats—one a fishing hat, the other a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap.

  With my mother’s hair pulled through the hole on the back of the Cardinal’s baseball cap, she looks so much younger. And the shade from the front bill on the cap shadows the bruise so it’s not as noticeable.

  Together we work in the yard for a couple of hours with borrowed tools from Mrs. Schwarzkopf.

  “Oh my God. Jude was so upset when he lost this jacket!” Mom says when she finds the black Ralph Lauren thermal hoodie that Jude wore almost every day his junior and senior years of high school. It was a hand-me-down from Jude’s girlfriend’s older brother.

  “How did it get behind this bush?” I wonder out loud.

  “Probably one night when he was sneaking out.” She’s quiet. “I’m a terrible mother,” she says sadly.

  “Mom… No,” I weakly protest. There is no getting around that she’s far from the best mother around, but terrible? Okay, maybe, but she wants to get better. “Knowing is half the battle,” I say, words I heard once at an Al-Anon meeting.

  A quick hug, and we get back to sprucing up the yard. We drag the yard waste to the compost area designated by the park management and plan the layout of the flowers. Once all the pink and white pops of color are planted, we stand back and take in our handiwork.

  “Looks good, baby. Jude won’t recognize the place when he gets out and comes home. Thank you,” she says turning to me.

  “For what?”

  “For pulling me out to do this. It felt good. I feel good.” She looks at me a moment, then seemingly embarrassed by her display of emotion, turns to the house and says, “And starving! Yard work sure can build an appetite!”

  “Shall we order a pizza?” I ask.

  “From Sal’s?”

  “Sure,” I say with a smile. “Whatever toppings you want.”

  I return the tools to Mrs. Schwarzkopf, and Mom goes in to order the pie. My mind is busy with the many plans for my winnings and the new future with my mom.

  4

  Setting Things in Motion

  CRYSTAL

  I know most people say that if they win the lottery, they would just up and quit their mundane job. Not me. For one, I am afraid that I am somehow reading the ticket incorrectly, and that I am not really a winner. And then I would lose my almost three years of seniority at my job and be put back on weekend hours every weekend. And, of course, if I wasn’t a winner, not only would I look like a complete idiot, how would I pay Ms. Mitchell? The other reason I don’t just up and quit is because I don’t want to give my mother anything to be suspicious over. More than a half-dozen times I almost told my mom about the ticket, but I’m more excited about surprising her with an actual winning check and my first payout.

  On Monday morning, I call Ms. Mitchell’s office from the parking lot at work during my morning break. Her secretary tells me that she has a last-minute opening at one tomorrow afternoon. I confirm the address and am relieved to note that her office is less than a mile from work.

  Next, I walk into my boss’s office and explain to him that I have an ‘emergency appointment’ at one tomorrow afternoon and ask if I can take my lunch at one instead of twelve. I am hoping that he interprets ‘emergency appointment’ as something related to ‘lady problems,’ something that he’s very squeamish about. He blushes and tells me that it’s okay, and he’ll make sure my register and phone are covered.

  Getting through the day is tougher than getting through Friday afternoon was after finding the winning prize. But somehow, with my little—or not so little—secret, it becomes bearable counting the hours until I can be a free woman.

  I head home but stop at the grocery store to pick up some food for dinner. I decide to make chicken parmesan. Usually, I’d buy thighs because they are more affordable, but today, though, I choose breasts. I also buy fresh, not frozen, broccoli, pasta, and a couple of bottles of Coca-Cola, no store brand today!

  I’m excited to get home and prepare a nice dinner for my mom and me. When I pull up to our freshly landscaped home, I smile, and my heart feels full of hope. But when I head inside, my blood runs cold.

  “Heeeyyy, baby gurlll,” my mom slurs, and a slow, lopsided grin pulls at her mouth. She’s sitting on the floor painting her toenails. It’s a sloppy job as if it were done by a three-year-old. Her eyes are dull yet glassy, and her cheeks and nose are as rosy as if she’d been out in cold weather for a few hours—the flush in her cheeks nearly erases the bruising on her cheek.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say tentatively. “Didn’t you go to work today?”

  “Took a perzonal day,” she slurs with a wave of her hand. “I had such a headache.” She picks up the glass of clear liquid from the side table. I watch in horror as my mother drains the glass, and my dreams go up in smoke.

  My eyes dart all around looking for clues as to what’s in her glass, silently praying that it’s water, and she’s just tired—yeah, tired, and that’s why she’s slurring and a bit slap-happy. But no. I spot a bottle of cheap vodka on the kitchen counter. Where did she get it? Was it in the house? Why didn’t I sweep the place and dump everything? Or did she go out and buy it? Where did she get the money?

  My lottery ticket!

  Panic races through my body, and I run to my bedroom with my mom calling out behind me asking if I want her to paint my toes. I shout, “No!” over my shoulder and silently curse myself for not keeping the ticket with me at all times. I shut my door and tuck a chair under the knob, so if Mom were to get up and come after me, she wouldn’t be able to get in. I run to my Alice book and open it. Relief floods my body when I spot my ticket still safe and sound.

  Yet, as much as I’m relieved, I’m also heartbroken. My mother can’t be a part of my future right now. She needs to get better. And get better for herself. She’ll need to hit rock bottom to do that. I can’t be around to watch it happen. I remind myself of Al-Anon’s Three Cs—I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, and I can’t cure it. Maybe if I, her enabler, leave, that will be her rock bottom, and she can work toward getting better.

  At a quarter to one on Tuesday, I clock out and hop on my bike to make my way to Ms. Mitche
ll’s office. As I peddle toward Elm Street, I go over my new plan for my winnings.

  Waiting nervously in the luxurious waiting room, I look at the magazines that are on display—Forbes, Financial Advisor, Probate & Property, Prevention Magazine, and AARP. I thumb through a binder that explains aspects of estate planning. I check my cross-body purse, the one I’d been wearing all day.

  During the morning, I had checked the purse no fewer than ten times making sure the lottery ticket is still there. I almost didn’t bring the ticket, but then got nervous that my mom or a random burglar would break in and find it. Then what? I would also have to prove to Ms. Mitchell that I’d won.

  “Ms. Jameson? Ms. Mitchell will see you now,” the secretary says, smiling kindly at me.

  I stand and head to the door that proudly displays the name ROSE MITCHELL, ESQ. on it. The secretary opens the door for me, and I step in. I quickly note the massive wall to the right that is all shelved, and not just shelved, but stocked with books. They aren’t my kind of books—these look very “lawyer-y”—but they are beautiful all the same. And they are all the same. All leather-bound, some red leather, some brown, and others black, some have more than one color of leather, but all are stamped with gold with a title and roman numerals on the spines.

  “You must be Crystal Jameson,” a stunning brunette says softly. She’s sitting behind an impressive desk but stands and smiles warmly at me. I now see that she’s very stylishly dressed like something out of a fashion magazine, and I think to myself that she must have been a beauty queen when she was my age. I nod, and she introduces herself. “I’m Rose Mitchell.”

  She walks up to me and extends her hand. I take it and shake it along with returning her kind smile. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Mitchell."

  “Please call me Rose,” she says with a gentle tone and walks us to a round table with a few chairs. We take a seat, and she folds her perfectly manicured hands on the table. “What brings you in today?”

  “Okay… Rose.” It feels weird calling an adult by her first name. “Judith and Jerry Schwarzkopf recommended you.”

  “Such a sweet couple. I’ll have to thank them for the referral. How can I help you?”

  Nerves racing through my body and brain, I ask the first question that comes to mind. “Everything I tell you is confidential, right? You can’t tell anyone?”

  She smiles politely, yet slightly unsettled, and says, “Of course.”

  After a moment, I nod and grab my purse, take it off my shoulder, and set it on the table. She eyes it nervously as I slide the zipper open. Seeing her fear, I hold my hands up in self-defense and say, “I swear. I don’t have a weapon in here.”

  She chuckles nervously and smiles. I smile back and reach into my purse and pull out the blue and silver card that has occupied my thoughts for practically every minute of the past sixty hours. With a shaky hand, I pass it to her and say two simple words, “I won.”

  She looks over the ticket quickly, blinking, and then she starts to laugh, and I’m confused. Had I read the ticket wrong? Oh no! All the dreams I had… The fresh start. The meals. School. Poof! Gone. And now I have to pay this lawyer for her time from my meager wages on an already strapped budget.

  “This is amazing!” she says, still giggling. “Congratulations!”

  It takes me a moment to realize what she’s said, and once it registers, I relax and smile. “Thank you.”

  “So, how can I help you?”

  “Well, I don’t know what to do. I don’t want my face plastered all over the place. I don’t want… you know… people begging for money from me.”

  “Don’t fret, yet. Makes perfect sense. I’ll look into it.”

  “Thank you. I’m planning on moving. I was thinking St. Louis.”

  “Nearby, but I might recommend you stay in Illinois. You’ll be paying taxes in two states if you move to Missouri.”

  Oh? “So, Chicago?”

  “Big city,” she says.

  “I just think that if I stay here or another small town, everyone will know that I won. I think it’ll be easier not to be a spectacle if I’m in a large city.”

  “Fair enough. Good thinking,” she acknowledges.

  “Also, I want to pay off my mother’s home. I live with her now, and am actually responsible for most of the bills.”

  “She’s not going to go with you?” Rose asks gently.

  I drop my head and shake ‘no’ slowly. “My mom’s an alcoholic, and I’ve tried to help her, but she doesn’t want help. I’m kind of hoping that if I leave, and she has to stand up and be responsible, she’ll finally do it. I’ve been enabling her ever since I can remember.”

  “Tough love is the toughest thing to do.”

  I nod in agreement. “The least I can do is take care of the biggest bill.” I pull out the latest mortgage statement and show her that there is still $8,670 left on the loan.

  “We’ll be able to set that up.”

  We spend the rest of the hour taking care of a few other not-so-minor details. Rose helps me set up a PO Box in Chicago through the Internet for lottery correspondences and applications and so on. She helps me apply for a credit card, so I can further establish a good credit rating, something I’ve been leery of doing. I’ve always been a cash or check kind of person. If I couldn’t afford it, I didn’t buy it. Needless to say, I don’t own very much. I’m able to secure a modest line of credit on my new card, which should be in my PO Box in the next few days. She suggests I set up a new bank account at one of the larger banks in the area, one with locations in Chicago since the Carlyle Savings and Loan, where my current account is, doesn’t have any branches in the city. She suggested I line up services for a financial planner and an accountant. She also suggests I hire these individuals in Chicago and will do some research to find ethical and successful ones. Rose also tells me about a close friend of hers, Pam DeWitt, who is a realtor in Chicago, and that if I need any help, I could feel comfortable calling on her.

  Wow. So much to consider! But Rose is confident we’ll be able to get it all lined up in the next couple of weeks, maybe sooner.

  I head back to work more than a little overwhelmed yet feeling confident with Rose’s assessment of my ticket and an independent future in Chicago. With all this in mind, I’m eager to turn in my notice, but I’m still worried that something will go wrong when I get to the Lottery Commission, and everything will fall apart.

  Wednesday during my lunch break, I head over to a national chain bank and set up my new bank account. It’s all so surreal like I’m plotting some major escape. It is an escape but feels strange that it’s so undercover. Thankfully, the personal banker I am working with, Mary, is polite and doesn’t ask any exceedingly personal questions unlike the bankers at SCS&L. The staff there seems to know everything about my dysfunctional family and me.

  When I get home that night, my mom and I are distant after her latest plummet off the proverbial wagon. She’s not been blotto every day, but she’s buzzed. I’m crushed that as much care as I’ve given her, she doesn’t really care about herself, or me, at all.

  I’m waiting to hear from Rose about whether or not I can remain anonymous. I used every fiber of strength I can muster to continue on with day-to-day things as if nothing is different. It’s so difficult to focus.

  Thursday around lunchtime, Rose calls. She has several incredible things to tell me. For starters, my PO Box keys had just been delivered to her office. She also confirms that while I cannot remain completely anonymous with the winnings, I’ll have to divulge the location of where I purchased the ticket, I won’t have to have my photo taken, and only the last initial of my name is made public. Or we could set up a trust for the funds with a name not related to mine, and anonymity could be maintained, but that would delay me making my claim for another few weeks. I’d need to have my birth certificate and social security card when we make the claim.

  The most disappointing thing she shares is that I won’t receive my first payout un
til four to six weeks from making my claim.

  So close, yet so far.

  The sooner I get to the Lottery Commission Office, the sooner the ball will get rolling. Screw getting the trust account.

  Rose tells me there’s a lottery office in Springfield, just an hour away. She offers to drive me since she knows I don’t have a driver’s license nor a car.

  Feeling at my wits’ end, I ask how soon we could make the trip to Springfield.

  “Well, I keep my Monday afternoons clear. I wouldn’t mind giving that up for you. I can pick you up at two o’clock.”

  I accept her offer and tell Mr. Elson that I need to leave at two o’clock on Monday.

  “Again?” he asks, completely agitated.

  “It can’t be helped,” I simply reply, hoping he’s still thinking this is feminine health issues.

  “That’s nearly twice in a week,” he huffs. “I have half a mind to fire you right now. This is bullshit, Crystal.”

  “It’s totally your prerogative,” I say, standing my ground. I don’t say anything more. I just turn and leave. Let him fire me. Very soon, I would have six times my month’s wages in my new bank account. And again, the following week. And the week after that.

  Monday afternoon, Rose and I head to the Lottery Commission. It’s like a dream. Once Rose and I reveal my winning scratcher ticket, the office erupts into an excited flurry. First, they validate my ticket. Next, I fill out paperwork for taxes and learn that payments will be made annually despite the ticket’s name. Lorell, the agent helping Rose and me with everything, explains state and federal taxes will be withheld from the gross amount, and my net check would be… $184,730!

  We speak to the officials about the expected media blitz that usually happens when someone wins major purses. When Rose eloquently explains my ‘complex’ family dynamics, they understand and waive the publicity photos.