The Ticket

Grandma sat in her old wicker chair, rocking back and forth fervently as she gripped the pencil in one withered wisp of a hand. In the other she held firmly open a worn, leather-bound black notebook, the pages stained from decades of mug bottoms and spills. It was Grandma’s one prized possession; I am ashamed to admit that if forced at gunpoint to choose between saving me and the book, there was a very real chance that she would opt for the latter.

I hated everything about that book. I hated the way the cockled pages croaked like a toad when you touched it. I hated that it smelled of musk and dust. I hated the way Grandma stared at it, eyes always bulging, like an addict needing a fix. She spent hours each day poring over it, checking the numbers again and again. I often looked over at her from my desk, wishing I could rip that little black book out of her hands and hurl it into the fireplace. If it weren’t for the doctor advising against it, the book would have been ashes a long time ago.

It pained me to look at Grandma. The once-vibrant force of a woman had been subdued by the grip of dementia, her spirit sedated and reduced to semi-permanent residence in a fraying wicker chair as worn as its occupant. She was the matching centrepiece to this apartment with its warping floorboards and yellowing wallpaper. I watched her slip away from between my fingers day by day, like sand dripping in an hourglass, into the spiralling vortex of the little black book. It was filled with all the sets of numbers that she’d played over decades, and what had once been casual amusement took a deep plunge into addiction three years ago. She sat there now, checking and double checking the numbers on the ticket I’d begrudgingly purchased for her at the grocery store two days ago. God knows what she would have done if I didn’t bring it home.

“This writing stick doesn't work, Jimmy. Get me a new one.”

I heaved a sigh and retrieved a pencil for her from my desk. Grandpa passed away five years ago, but I’d learned that there was no use in arguing with her about my identity.

She glanced up as I made my way over, her gaze hollow. “They used to write the price on these. Why did they stop?”

They didn’t; I’d just been careful to snip off the top the ticket before presenting it to her. After the time she had almost collapsed after seeing a grocery receipt left on the coffee table, I’ve been cautious to keep her unaware of our modest living expenses—and the cost of her addiction. The hope that revealing the cost would break her free from its grip was smothered only by the fear that the very knowledge might kill her.

I forced a smile. “Beats me. How much did they used to cost?”

Her expression darkened and she snatched the pencil from my hand. “What is this, a test? Why’d you give me this?”

“You wanted to record the numbers.” I reminded gently. But she’d already lost interest in me, once again engrossed in her little dark bible. She wrote down the numbers and then meticulously flipped through each page to see if the combination had ever been played before—even though two days ago she had used the very book to choose this new set of numbers. Grandma believed that a set of numbers, once played and lost, was a losing set forever. Numbers that had won her the meagre sums she’d never graduated beyond were “spent” and couldn’t be played again either. It wasn’t worth arguing with her, and I doubted I could change her mind anyway.

Grandma suddenly snapped her head up. “What day is it?” She demanded.

“It’s Wednesday. They’re going to announce the winning numbers in ten minutes. Here, let me turn on the TV for you.”

She grabbed the remote from me defiantly. “I can do it myself.”

I took a seat on the sofa beside her wicker chair. She turned the TV on but couldn’t remember the channel, and sat awkwardly fumbling with the remote. Finally, after a painfully long minute she announced that the remote was broken and demanded that I fix it. I took the remote and pretended to inspect it. I removed the batteries, put them back in, and flipped to Channel 7 just in time for the host to announce the first number.

Grandma snapped into focus, and for a few moments it seemed as if nothing else existed but her, her notebook, and the television. I watched in continued awe of the animalistic determination that overtook her, straining her senses, her laggard reactions struggling to keep up with the numbers. Cheeks flushed and fingers trembling, her eyes darted maniacally from the book to the ticket to the TV in spastic, unnatural movements. It broke my heart to think that what Grandma now solely lived for—her only joy—was the rush of a winning numbers announcement. I tore my gaze away, eyes smarting.

“Jimmy, Jimmy! Come! I think I’ve won!”

I rushed to Grandma to help her out of her seat, her whole body trembling with so much with excitement that she could hardly stand. She was so light and fragile in my arms; I handled her like a newborn. I had so many questions, but I was careful not to fluster her. “How many numbers matched?” I asked.

“Seven! Seven! Jimmy, we’ve got to get the sum right away! Before someone else gets it!”

Amidst my futile attempts to convince her to stay home, Grandma had (with my support) made her way into her bedroom and pulled out what she considered her finest dress. She would not hear of me retrieving the money alone—she’d won it, hadn’t she? Hadn’t all her years of hard work finally paid off? Didn’t she deserve to take the cheque with her own two hands? I felt helpless as I dressed her, brushed her hair, and helped her into her coat and hat. Too much excitement was risky, and yet I was scared of how she might react if I barred her from going to the Prize Office.

I phoned for a taxi, careful to ask for cashless payment. Grandma clutched her notebook as I helped her down the flight of stairs, more so carrying her than lending an arm. I sat her in the backseat of the taxi and took a seat beside her. My heart beat so loud I could feel the reverberations in my ears. I had no idea what Grandma would do after this win. Would she feel a sense of closure and drop this obsessive madness? Or would she be fuelled by the win and demand more plays? Out of the corner of my eye I glanced at the notebook, which sat innocently on her lap. If I threw it out the window right now, there would be no getting it back. Grandma would be furious, but without knowing all her numbers she might be forced to stop playing for good. She would have to come to terms with it; we could resume our quiet but happy life.

I imagined taking her to the park and feeding the pigeons. I imagined eating our meals together at the table instead of her eating alone in her chair, poring over the little black book for the thousandth time. I imagined bringing her out onto the balcony on sunlit afternoons to sit in the breeze and share stories of her youth. I imagined tucking her into bed at night, and she would laugh and tell me about how she used to tuck me into bed the same way when I was little. I imagined reading to her, but she would listen instead of tuning me out for her nonsensical numbers.

“Sir, we’re here.”

The car had stopped, and in the midst of my reverie I’d begun to reach over for the book, apparently ready to send it flying into the muddy, trafficked streets. I thanked the driver, arranged the payment, and led Grandma into the building in front of us. The office was easy enough to find, but there was a pile of paperwork to fill out before they could hand over a cheque. I sat signing forms while Grandma prattled on beside me, clutching her book and eyes alight with excitement.

“Have you ever won?” Grandma asked the lady behind the counter eagerly.

“Just small prizes, ma’am.”

“How much did I win? I got six numbers.”

“You got seven numbers, ma’am. You’ll be taking home $20,000 today. Congratulations again!”

Grandma handed the black notebook to the lady with pride. “This is my book. I’ve been playing since…I been playing a long time. These are all my numbers.”

The lady and flipped through the book. “It’s incredible!”

Grandma looked about the room. “Well yes, I suppose so. Me and my husband Jimmy here don’t have much. I’ve got a grandson, Nicky. He’s the sweetest boy and our only family, but he hasn’t come visit for a long time. I raised him, you know.”

The lady eyed me strangely, apparently unconvinced that I was the said Jimmy. I shook my head slightly, hoping she wouldn’t ask questions. Thankfully, she didn’t.

“How nice! Nicky—” she looked at me “—must be wonderful. Have you thought about how you’re going to spend your winnings, ma’am?”

“I have,” Grandma said firmly, patting my hand. “Jimmy here and I aren’t going to be around forever, and we don’t have much to leave Nicky. But this money ought to be enough for him to get everything he wants—like a nice big house in the city.”

Grandma laughed a little and waved at the notebook in the lady’s hands. “I won’t be needing that old thing anymore.”

The pen nearly slipped out of my hand. I stared down at the last X on the page, unable to move. I felt a knot in my stomach and a lump in my throat. I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. I wanted to hug Grandma and cry into her shoulder like I did as a child, shake her, and tell her that I wasn’t Grandpa. I wanted to scream that I was her Nicky; that I’d never left. But that would only frighten her, like it did last time I broke down. I closed my eyes tight and squeezed the pen, trying desperately to collect myself.

The lady was stunned. “A—a house, ma’am? Why—“

“Why, Nicky will be so happy,” I jumped in, my voice choked and trembling. "He’ll have any house he wants.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and blinked away tears. I wrapped my arm around Grandma and handed the signed papers to the lady. She stared at me in bewilderment, mouth agape. Of course the money wasn’t enough for a house; it was a year of rent and groceries. But I wasn’t about to break the truth to Grandma, nor would I ever.

The lady slowly handed over the cheque, still trying to understand. I accepted it quickly, passing it to Grandma to admire. “Come on, Gran—Helen. Let’s celebrate tonight. I’ll make your favourite stew!”

Smiling, Grandma held onto my arm and we stood up to leave. The lady behind the counter stood up., “Wait, ma’am! Your book!”

Her words drifted right through Grandma. I turned and looked at the book in her outstretched hand. For the first time, I saw it for what it really was. It wasn’t a drug; it wasn’t evil. It was just an old notebook, a beat up little monument of my Grandma’s hope for me. I smiled at the lady and accepted the book gratefully.

“Thank you.”