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

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