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

HOME. MOM CASHED THE ticket today, and she texted me a picture of the lottery office in Madison, where she went with Grandma as soon as they opened. We told Grandma everything, and once she was able to speak again, she heartily approved of our plan. Mom also texted me a picture of herself holding a giant check, and she was on the news in Madison this afternoon.

Some part of me is a little bit sad that I’m not the one holding the giant check and getting interviewed, but I’m also grateful Mom is handling all that.

I open the door of my house and let my eyes adjust to the gloom in the front hallway.

“Mom! I’m home,” I call out.

“Hi,” Mom says, walking in from the kitchen. She has two cups of steaming tea in her hands. There’s a lightness to her step, and she smiles when she sees me.

“Hi,” I say. “How are you? Is everything going as planned? Did you run into any trouble with the legal stuff?”

This is phase three of my plan: get Mom to give me the money legally, and then I can figure out how to spend it.

I drop my bag on the floor. It makes a pounding noise, reminding me of all the homework I still have to do, and that’s when I realize that the hallway and the stairs aren’t covered with layers of stuff like they usually are. They’re bare, and I can see the hardwood underneath in places, something I haven’t been able to do in years. I look around. The entire entranceway has been partially cleared, and all the photos are off the wall beside the staircase.

“Mom. Holy shit. What did you do?” I say, turning in a slow circle.

My feet move me into the living room before I can stop them. Mugs, mouse pads, and personalized gifts with other people’s faces still line the shelves, but all the wedding and prom dresses are gone, and there’s a photo of Mom, Dad, and me on the mostly empty mantle.

“I got rid of some things,” Mom says in a quiet voice. She plops down onto the couch, which now has two cushions cleared off. She pats the cushion beside her, inviting me to sit next to her. “Well, I didn’t get rid of them. Not yet. But I moved them. So that’s something.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “When you say ‘moved them,’ what does that mean? Are they upstairs? In the garage?”

Mom lets out a breath. “They’re in Grandma’s old room for now. But I’m working on getting rid of them for good. Just moving them out of here feels like a big first step. I feel like some weight has been lifted off me.”

It takes the wind out of me. She’s right. It’s a huge first step.

I drop down onto the couch beside Mom. “But why did you do it? Why now?”

“Well, I was talking with your father last night …”

“Mom. No. Tell me you’re not seeing ghosts or something.” I can’t even process this new stage of her grief. Not when we’ve had such a breakthrough.

“It’s not like that.” She smiles at the look on my face. “Okay, I know it’s been a bad few years. And I am so, so sorry. But I promise, it’s not like that. It’s just that when I’m really missing your dad, I still chat with him sometimes on Facebook.”

She pulls out her phone and opens up the app. There’s his profile and her messages to him. Hundreds of them over the last few years.

“I talk to him on there too,” I admit, disbelief making my voice smaller than I expected.

Our messages to Dad have been running in digital parallels for years. They’re just missing the person who could connect them. We’re like two swimmers in side-by-side lanes, each focused on our own laps, not realizing how close we actually are.

Mom puts a hand on my back. “It’s the only real connection I feel to him sometimes. I love these old posts, videos, and photos. Read the last few messages I sent him.”

“Mom, I don’t need to read your messages.”

“You do.” She hands me her phone. “Read them, or I’ll read them out loud to you.”

I make a face. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely will.”

“Fine, fine. If you insist.” I can’t keep the smile out of my voice. How long has it been since Mom and I joked around like this? Too long.

I flick through the messages. My name comes up many times, along with some heart-wrenching confessions of loneliness and grief that I quickly skim. I pause on the most recent messages, a long chain sent since yesterday.

Daniel, I wish you were here. I’ve been trying to keep your memory alive, but I’ve lost my way somehow. You’d really be proud of our Jane. I know you would. She’s grown up to be so much more than either of us could’ve imagined. She’s lovely and strong and kind …

A sob catches in my throat. I look up from the phone. “Mom, why are you showing me these? I don’t need to read your letters to Dad. And I’m not showing you mine.”

“That’s fine,” she says, taking the phone back. “I just want you to know that I talk about you all the time. Just with the digital ghost of your father. And I think he’d be so proud of you. Like I am.”

I hug her then, hopeful that we can make this work. That she can get better and that our lives are really about to change.

“This is for you.” Mom reaches into her pocket and pulls out a slip of paper. It has the logo of our bank on it. It’s for a checking account, and is blank except for my name and a familiar number—$58,642,129.00—both written in blue pen in Mom’s handwriting.

“Mom, what is this?”

She points to the name on the slip: Fortuna Jane Belleweather.

“It’s your new bank account,” she says. “I’m putting all the lotto money in an account for you.