The sheets on the bed of the
motel room smell fresh and clean, scented lightly with fabric conditioner and
it makes me remember the pile of laundry left unwashed in my apartment. That’s
just another thing to add to my ‘to do’ list along with calling funeral
directors and informing various relatives. A shocking thought occurs to me. Did
anyone ever call my brother? Is he still going about his daily life in
ignorance, thinking Mom’s okay, thinking that everything is fine because the
sun still rises and the world still turns, even if she is no longer in it.
I
want to call now, to have somebody to share the guilt and the grief with, but I
can’t remember his number and I don’t have my address book with me. How
terrible is that? I don’t even know how to contact my own brother in order to
break the news of our mother’s death. We hardly ever speak any more – Mom was
our only tangible connection. And now that she’s gone…
The
idea is only just beginning to register in my head. Mom dead. A part of me is
sure it can’t be true – this is just another painful episode in the long drawn
out serial of her illness. She convinces us all she’s gone, then she’ll pop
back in the height of one of her manic periods, wanting to get married to some
twenty-five year old she only just met last week. And the nightmare spiral will
begin again. I’ll destroy my life trying to help and it won’t make any
difference. Then I’ll give up, pronounce her a lost cause and she’ll disappear
for a while and I struggle with my guilt until the next time.
I
always imagined this cycle would go on forever. The mania followed by the
depression, followed by the mania, followed by a brief period of lucidity where
I actually realise I like this woman who is my mother – she’s bright and bubbly
and forthright and supportive and everything a Mom should be – then it all goes
to Hell again. But everything’s ended now, a sharp break in the sequence, the
pattern forever destroyed. She died.
She
died! The bitch died on me! As if she hasn’t put me through enough already, she
has to go and do this!
Mom’s dead.
The
tears come now, acrid bitter sobs that choke in the back of my throat and sting
my eyes. My shoulders shake violently and my stomach aches with the effort of
holding in screams. I want to shriek up at the sky, that it’s not fair, that I
should have been given the chance to help, that I still need her. I still need
my Mom.
A
sharp knock echoes from the direction of the door, but I just ignore it,
burrowing my head deeper into the nest of pillows and gulping back tiny
whimpers that threaten to stretch out into long hiccupping wails. I shouldn’t
be crying like this. It’s weak and I’m supposed to be strong, aren’t I? I was
the one who cared for her, the one who rocked her when she wept, not the other
way around. I was always the adult in our relationship and she the wild
teenager, whose freedom and passion I always kind of envied in my own
hyper-controlled way.
I
remember my ex-husband – or as I like to think of him, the bastard who helped
ruin my life – once criticised me for being too emotionless. He said why
can’t you be more like your Mom?
“You
want me to be mentally unhinged, is that it?” I yelled back sarcastically.
“Well,
anything’s better than the anally retentive ice queen you are now!” He replied.
I
recoiled as if I’d been slapped, because I knew his words were true. I worked
everyday caring for sick people, they got all my good nature and compassion and
when I went home at night I had none left. I’d pushed him further and further
away from me, until our marriage was over long before divorce proceedings were
ever started. It ended up a cold empty shell and I was afraid of following it.
John
calls out my name from the other side of the door, but I ignore him. That’s the
kind of heartless bitch I am. When Mom first showed up in Chicago, I disowned
her. I told everyone I knew that I’d never seen her before in my life. How must
she have felt to know her own daughter – the person she carried in her womb for
nine months, and gave birth to, and cradled against her breast singing
lullabies – was too embarrassed of her to even acknowledge the fact they were
related? Would I have done that, would I have rejected her then tried to ship
her back to my brother’s if I’d known she only had a couple of months left to
live? Would I still have thought her presence a nuisance if I had known it
wouldn’t always be there? Sometimes you never know what’s important to you
until you lose it.
The
door opens quietly and footsteps approach across the room. “Abby?” John reaches
out to tentatively stroke my back, like he wants to touch me but doesn’t dare.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he says lightly. “I’m here.”
My
breathing evens out, the hitching sobs lessening somewhat. He’s here now, sure,
and it helps, but what about tomorrow, what about when we head back to Chicago?
Will he just disappear like he has done in the past few weeks? I had gotten so
used to his friendship there as my anchor, something to always fall back on,
that when he took it away I felt lost. There are certain things I can’t talk
about Luka – like how the first thing I think of in the morning isn’t him, or
work, or any of my family members. When I wake up the first thing I am aware of
is the need for alcohol – it screams in my blood and pounds a rhythm in my
head. Drink, drink, drink, drink. It hovers on the edge of my conscious
all day long and Luka wouldn’t understand that. He’s from a different world, a
different culture, his entire personality a mystery to me.
John,
though, I get. And he gets me. We have a sort of easy rapport that I have come
to miss. Our friendship was never about the big things – although we have many
of those in common too, like our mutual addictions – but focused more on the
little details. We share a sense of humour, sometimes indulging in long,
complex jokes that nobody else would find funny even if the premise were
explained to them. We talk about the minor inconveniences in life (something I
never felt able to with Luka – because the loss of his entire family totally
eclipses any other trivial problems I might have), moaning and griping about work
and money troubles and everything unimportant just to mask the deeper troubles
in our hearts.
“Did
you wanna go out somewhere?” John asks softly, demonstrating this principle
exactly.
“Where?”
I mutter through the pillows, drawn into his blatant ‘cheer-up Abby’ scheme,
even despite my determination to be miserable.
“We
could play a few slot machines, waste all our money on the roulette wheel.
Maybe even take in a show,” he suggests. “After all we are in Vegas.” I still
don’t answer, so he persists, prodding me gently. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”
I
should be angry with him for even proposing the idea – my mother just died and
he wants us to go out gambling. But I know that this isn’t really his agenda.
This is just his way of trying to relate to me, his way of dealing with my
emotional distress. Neither of us are touchy-feely, spill-your-heart-out-to
a-grief-counsellor people, so we have to find other ways of coping. In the past
for me that has meant alcohol, and if I were in Chicago then I would throw myself
into my work as a distraction. But right now I’m in Vegas, so the distraction
is going to have to tailor itself to that situation somehow. As the saying
goes, when in Rome…
I
raise my head fractionally off the bed, twisting to look at him. “Fun?”
He
shrugs. “Well, maybe not fun, but it beats staying in and staring at
four walls all evening.”
“Actually,
I was thinking about staring at the floor too – just for a change of scenery.”
“Right,
that’s it,” he grabs hold of my arm, pulling me up into a sitting position.
“You’re coming out for a night on the town whether you like it or not.”
“Oh,
really,” I raise my eyebrows sceptically at him. “And you’re going to make me
are you?”
He
dives towards my waist, scooping me up and over his shoulder before I have a
chance to realise what’s going on and protest. “Hey!” I struggle to get away,
kicking my legs and waving my fists. “Let me down!”
“Nope,”
he refuses my request, only tightening his grip and carrying me towards the
door. As we pass out of the room, I grab hold of the doorframe, finally
acquiescing.
“Okay,
okay, I’ll come. But only if you let me shower first.”
He
dumps me back on the bed, grinning widely in victory. “Meet you downstairs in
twenty minutes?”
“Whatever,”
I shoot him my best withering glare.
“Phew,”
he calls over his shoulder as he leaves the room, massaging the base of his
back with his thumbs. “I’m glad I didn’t have to carry you all the way down to
the lobby – you’re heavier than you look.”
“Bastard,”
I yell after him, with nowhere near as much venom as he deserves.
~~~
“How’s
your burger?” John nods towards the remains of take-out meal resting in its
polystyrene container in my lap.
“Great
thanks,” I reply sarcastically. “You really know how to treat a girl.”
“Well,”
he deadpans back, “I knew if there was anyone who’d appreciate my sophisticated
charm, it would be you.”
I
take the last bite of my food, now cooled in the surprisingly chilly night air.
Although the place is still warmer than Chicago the sinking of the sun caused
the temperature to dip rapidly to a level actually approaching pleasant.
Dumping my empty container in the bin, I turn back to John. “So, when does this
excitement-packed evening you promised me begin?”
“Right
now,” he replies. “If you’ll just step this way Madam.”
He
discards the rest of his meal and stands up off the park bench we had sat on to
watch the tourists, the gaudy neon lights and the general spectacle that is Las
Vegas. Then he completes a tiny mock bow and holds out his hand to help me up.
I
roll my eyes but accept the hand, anyway. “Certainly sir.”
He
leads me in the direction of the nearest casino and I stay holding his hand for
a while, because it just feels so natural and so right. But then I remember
we’re not actually a couple and I’m supposed to be with somebody else, so I let
go and inch slightly away, trying to think of a covering conversation.
“So,
have you ever been to Vegas before?”
“Once,”
John admits. “On some family function. We stayed in the best hotel and bet
ridiculous sums of money, just so our winnings could be donated to charity. It
was all very civilised and mundane, and I spent the entire time wanting to
escape and explore on my own. What about you?”
I
wait a few beats before answering, gazing around me at the bright colours and
the carnival atmosphere. I don’t belong here – but then nobody does really,
it’s a city of tourists and performers, with gambling, prostitution and crime
just given a shiny gloss coating. “I vacationed here with my ex once – a little
while after we were married – he lost half our savings playing blackjack, came
on to every croupier in sight and I spent the entire weekend on a drinking
binge.”
An
awkward silence echoes in the wake of my bitter recollection, until eventually
John takes a deep breath and speaks. “So, things can only get better, right?”
A
short laugh spills from my lips. “Pretty much.”
The
casino we enter is packed and noisy, filled with lots of people throwing away
their money and enjoying every second of it. John heads straight to the
entrance kiosk and hands over his credit cards, asking for five thousand
dollars worth of chips. My mouth drops open.
“You
don’t intend betting all of that do you?”
He
shrugs. “Why not? It’s only interesting when the stakes are high. The only
risks worth taking are big ones.”
This
reckless behaviour appals the control-freak inside of me. “But what if you mess
up. What if you lose it all?”
He
turns and looks at me for a long time, a strange expression in his eyes.
“That’s just a chance I have to take.”
He
turns back to accept his chips, then leads me over to the nearest roulette
table, handing me a pile of hundred dollar chips. “Put them on any number you
like.”
I
shake my head. “Oh no, buddy. You can be responsible for losing your own
money.”
“Just
put them on a number,” he insists. “I don’t care.”
The
croupier calls for all bets to be places and with one last uncertain glance at
John I hurriedly place the chips on the first number that catches my eye –
black 27. The wheel spins and I watch it intently, amazed at how blasé John can
be about betting the equivalent of three months’ rent for my apartment. Well, I
suppose that’s what happens when you grow up a millionaire. The spinning slows
and the ball rattles and flicks itself into one of the numbered gaps. As the
blurring figures gradually come into focus I can hardly believe my eyes.
“Black
27,” the croupier calls out and pushes a small mountain of chips in our
direction.
John
grins widely. “There, I knew you could do it.”
“Dumb
luck,” I insist as he presses more chips into my hand. “That’s all it was.”
“Nope,”
he denies the idea firmly. “You have a gift for this. Pick another number.”
I
drop the chips on red 14, utterly unconvinced that we could ever win again. And
yet, when the wheel spins I watch it intently, a little spark of irrational
hope building in the pit of my stomach. Willing the ball into the correct
space, I cry out in surprise when it actually lands there.
“Oh
my God! We won!”
“I
knew we would,” John insists.
“Play
again sir?” The croupier asks after doling out our second set of winnings.
John
nods, gesturing towards the entire pile of chips. “Go on,” he says to me.
“You’re on a streak now.”
“Don’t
say that,” I reply. “You’ll jinx it.”
He
smiles. “I don’t think that’s possible tonight.”
After
deliberating for only a second, I put all the chips on to red 18. The 18th
of October was Mom’s birthday, I remember. Only this year I completely forgot
it – didn’t even send her a card or anything, just another example of how bad a
daughter I am. The ball starts to spin and I am mesmerised by it and the
swirling numbers and colours. Redblackredblackredblackredblack dancing
before my eyes and merging into perfect set of spinning circles. The wheel
slows and the patterns created wobble and fall abruptly out of place, the loud
cries of excitement from around me fading to a distant hum as our entire group
falls to an intensely focused hush.
“Red
18,” the croupier calls out and my heart leaps into my throat.
“Yes!”
I cry out throwing my arms around John’s neck. He grabs me by the waist and
twirls me around, while the others at the table clap and cheer.
When
he puts me down we are both smiling widely, our eyes locked with one another.
“You see,” John says softly. “I knew we’d make a good team.”
I
pull away, suddenly feeling awkward. Gathering up the huge pile of chips I
mutter something about having stretched our luck too far already on the
roulette wheel. John agrees and we move away, gradually working our way through
the rest of the games in the casino. We never win so big again; in fact John
loses several thousand dollars at the craps table, so we end up with a bucket
of quarters (donated generously by myself) playing the slot machines.
“So,
has this been exciting enough for you?” John asks as the machine eats up more
of his coins.
“The
winning wasn’t exactly half-bad,” I concede.
“Better
than staying locked up in your hotel room all night?”
“Yeah,
okay,” I roll my eyes at him. “I’m glad you dragged me out – is that what you
wanted to hear?”
He
nods, flashing me a grin. “Pretty much.”
We
simultaneously reach into the bucket for another load of quarters, our hands
brushing as we do so. I go to pull away, but he entwines his fingers with mine.
“I missed you, Abby.”
I
swallow deeply, warmth spreading up my arm from where he touches it. “I missed
you too.”
I
turn away to feed another coin into the slot, just getting the chance to pull
down the machine’s handle, before John lightly catches me by the chin, turning
his face to mine and sliding our lips together softly.
There
is a flash of lights and a chime of bells as my slot machine goes crazy and
spurts quarters out everywhere. I jump away from John guiltily.
“Hey,
you won again,” he comments.
“Yeah,”
I reply dryly. “It must be my lucky night.”