Yellow and Whites

She believed one of those little yellow and whites would change the tide for her as well her generations to come. If only she could win. If only those five white balls would descend with the right red one coming after. She would squirrel away single tips, change in a little mason jar, and would pick up every lost coin she stumbled upon. Because who knew? It only took a few dollars to change her story. She would buy from the grocery store, from the little convenient store on the corner, and even an app when only download guaranteed two free tickets. Right when she was on the precipice of giving up, of ridding herself of this silly dream, of this silly hope, she would hit. $2 here. $4 there. Once a $20 ticket yielded $17. A score that would drag her back down into the thick of it. She convinced herself it was innocent. Just a few bucks here, just a few bucks there. She didn’t smoke, she gave up drinking, so why couldn’t she have this one vice? One was normal and two were a problem, right? And if she won, it would all be worth it. An investment. Yes, an investment. But every loss stung. It felt as if though God, if there was one was disappointed as hell and Satan was dancing all around her. Or perhaps the other way around. Through the insistence of innocence, she could not quite shake off that damned burning sensation that would creep up her neck as she shoved those dollars into the machine, as she could not quite make eye contact with the gas station clerk every time she asked for her fix. That creeping shame to it all that she would chase away as she stuffed those small, square papers into her pocket. Yet, it always came back. All in time.

It would be a song that would belt that L word. It would be a billboard with an exit right next to it with the two big ones and their corresponding dream-making sums. Oh, and the numbers. Birthdays, exit signs, and worse yet, license plate numbers that would race around her, stating that they were the digits that would chase all her worries away. She would take out her notebook and furiously write the digits down, then squish the book back in place. It was if these numbers were giving her and only her, a little nod and wink, letting her in on the secret gift that the universe has provided solely for her benefit. She knew she did not deserve it, but somehow, she was special. Maybe it was because she was the only one paying attention. As soon as she would arrive home after her shift, she would flip through her pages, scribble out the last bad batch of numbers, and then rearrange the new day’s discovery of digits. Over and over and over again. Rearrange, switch them around, minute after minute, sometimes hour after hour. Until it felt right. Then, in the morning, off to whichever seller was closest and she would fill-in a ticket. All day she would wait. Then she would turn on the drawing ten minutes prior and sit in her bed with a burning in her stomach. Then those numbers would come, but they were never quite the right ones. Then, as it so often does, it got worse.

It carried on like this my whole life. I now wonder if this compulsion pre-existed me. I sometimes think my existence awoke this in her, like my presence inspired her in the most desperate ways to try for more. Her long perseverance was certainly something, but madness so often dances with perceived determination. It was clear she never felt enough for me, for us, for herself. You could tell in the way she walked, in her quick rises to anger, to the men she chose, and the way her stare lingered just one beat too long in the mirror. I think this goal of the big win, as fantastical as it was, would finally bring her redemption, so she played and played with this game of no mercy. However, I had no idea as to the severity of her compulsion. I thought it was just a cute, fun, quirk of hers. I never quite read into the delirious grin of hers when she would win the lotto tickets at the Christmas party because we all like that little sense of delight. We all liked to win. But I had no idea…an insurmountable balance? Debt so crushing it chased her down? Later I would find, as soon as she made a little progress, the interest kicked her back down to despair and she’d begin to spot the numbers again. But everyone has a little bit of debt? What sum could have driven her?

Three days after we buried her, I went through that rugged purse of hers to try to gain some understanding and semblance of the load she was carrying around with her in those last few moments. Lip stick. Bobby pins. Gum wrappers. Receipts. Her usual mess. I threw the purse down as my grief consumed me all over again. Relentless. Then, I saw some yellow and white poking out of her little, black notebook. I kneeled down, pulled it out, and checked the date. $20,000. She had won. And I, I had lost.