“I took the night off to spend some time with my favorite girl,” Dad says as I walk in the front door sopping wet. Dad’s in an old blood donor t-shirt and baseball cap. Our house, all 752 square feet of it, is clean today, showing off the simplicity of our furnishings: box TV, couch, and a coffee table with a remote and coaster sitting on top. I drop my keys on the counter and begin to go through today’s mail.
“Oh, hey Dad.”
“I thought we could go rent a dollar movie and I’ll make us some grilled cheeses.”
I open the water bill, and look for the bold print Balance Due line. Eighty-nine dollars. I knew I should have been taking shallow baths instead of long showers. Now is not the ideal time for Dad to be taking the night off. I was too little to understand when Mom left, but I’ve always questioned it. Did Mom leave because Dad had no ambition whatsoever? Or does Dad have no ambition because Mom left?
“What do you think? Or do you have some big Friday night plans with Cassidy? Hot date tonight, I bet, huh?”
“No plans. I’m really tired, though. Don’t know how long I’ll last with a movie.”
Dad takes it as a yes.
“I’ll be back. I’ll get us a good one before they’re all picked over.”
I go through more mail, and balance the checkbook while he’s gone. After bills, food, and gas, this month we’ll have a whoppin’ seventeen extra dollars according to my calculations, but now that Dad’s taking a night off, I don’t know. I feel weak.
I take a shower and put on my pajamas. I want the day to go away.
Dad brings home a cheesy romance, and it goes nicely with our grilled cheese sandwiches.
Twenty minutes into it, I’m out.
__________
I wake from a dream—one I can’t remember—short of breath. My back is sweaty, but I’m freezing. I’m disoriented for just a minute. The TV is on, but black, providing a glow to the room. The box fan, still on, hums that familiar sound.
I give it a few minutes, then stretch to turn on the lamp. Dad has tucked me in with my favorite quilt. A patchwork made with my baby clothes, something that Mom made before she left. Squares the size of my hand, the quilt tells the story of once upon a time when I was a happy little girl, Dad was a happy little husband, and we were a happy little family. I smell the pink gingham square then press it against my cheek and stare at the ceiling for a while.
I roll to my side and stare down at the coffee table. My tea glass sits in a small puddle where water has rolled to my wristlet. I reach to grab the wet strap, then pull it toward me as it sloshes through more water. I slide it to the edge of the table and let it balance. Half on, half off. I stare at the wristlet until my vision blurs, fading in and out.
I finally focus, and my thoughts begin to move faster. The clock tells me it’s one-thirty in the morning. Dad’s snoring echoes down the hall and this with the sound of thunder creates a harmony. I wrap myself tighter in my quilt. I stare, again, at my wristlet. Ten minutes later, I act on an idea I had after I balanced the checkbook. I walk down the hallway and close Dad’s door, but not all the way to where it would make noise.
Then, mascara.
Baseball cap.
Jeans, sweatshirt, and lipstick.
I walk out the front door, but move in slow motion as if I’m sneaking out. Guess I am sneaking out, but it doesn’t feel wrong since it’s something I have to do. The rain subsides, but the streets remain wet. I drive to the ATM down the street and decide I’m too scared to get out of the car, so I go an extra five blocks to the drive-through one.
I don’t think about what I’m doing.
I just do it.
English. Checking account number. PIN. Amount: $100.
The machine spits out a receipt. Unable to process this transaction. Insufficient Funds.
I try again, and I’m successful with an eighty dollar withdrawal.
There’s hardly any traffic on the highway. I turn my radio on to keep me company. The streetlights reflect on the wet pavement, and everything appears extra shiny.
I can hear Dad’s voice ringing in my ears, “Nothing good ever happens after midnight.”
But this is different. This is work. I’m now familiar with the area, and from the interstate I see the only two things illuminated for miles, the convenience store and the casino.
I know where to park.
I know which door to enter.
Where in the world did these people come from? There are bodies everywhere. A gigantic smoke cloud hovers above, and it is the busiest I’ve ever seen it—two o’clock in the morning. Unbelievable.
I make my way through the crowd and pass everything from a falling down bachelorette party to an elderly couple on Hoverounds. Since I try to keep looking down at the ground, for the first time I really notice the obnoxious carpeting, a geometric pattern in brighter than bright colors. There are empty glasses left on top of ATM machines, overflowing trash cans, and very few vacant slot machines.
“Woooooooo!” A lady yells, then high-fives everyone that surrounds her. I stop to take a look—a $1250 winner according to the screen.
I start to move through the crowd again and navigate toward the poker room.
“Chelsea?!!” I hear someone call from behind me.
HOLY. HOLY. HOLY.
I pick up speed and don’t look back.
It was a woman’s voice.
I have a hat on. Someone has mistaken me for someone else.
Chelsea is a common name.
It’s probably someone else.
I pick up my pace to a slow trot.
I can’t breathe.
I’m going to have a heart attack and everyone will know it’s me.
What the hell am I going to do?
I pull my hat down lower on my head.
I duck out in the bathroom. In a stall.
I know that voice.
Who was that? Who the hell was that?
Ms. Mitchell, my principal? No.
That chick Dad works with? No.
Who was that?!
My thoughts are all over the place. My vacation Bible school teacher from when I was little? The cafeteria worker with the black hair and gray stripe?
I stand for ten minutes until my pulse goes back to normal.
Screw this.
It had to be my imagination . . .