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 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."
~ As long as you're still
enjoying it then I'll continue…