Lucky Girl by Jamie Pacton (novels for beginners txt) 📕

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