The next few days went by in a bit of a blur. On Wednesday night, the Powerball drawing was held, and I made sure to let my mother know that I'd bought a ticket and wanted to watch the news for the feature they would do with the live drawing. She joined me, rolling her eyes a bit. “Lotteries are a scam, just a tax on the poor,” she told me. She sat down and glanced at the ticket in my hand.
“One number matched? That's just coincidence,” she said, and as the second number was announced, her eyes widened ever so slightly. “Okay, that's a lot of luck..and just a free ticket. It's how they hook you.” Then the third number matched. “Oh boy, I'm gonna have a hard time getting you to stop wasting your money, since your first ever ticket got three-” The fourth number matched. “Oh holy shit.” While my mother was hardly a prude, it was rare to hear her swear, particularly in front of me. The fifth number matched. My mother's hand went to her mouth in shock. And then the powerball matched.
She immediately began to softly cry. “You..you're rich, baby..” she told me, throwing her arms around me in a tight hug.
“No Mom,” I corrected her. “WE'RE rich.” She started sobbing uncontrollably, the blissful tears of someone who has struggled for so long, finally realizing they don't ever have to struggle again. “I'm going to make sure that you don't ever have to worry about anything financially, ever again.”
“Baby..that's your money..” she protested weakly.
“Mom,” I said, feeling myself on the verge of tears as well, (I never was good when people started crying) “You busted your ass for us for so long..this is your money too.” She started crying again, and I kind of joined her in a bit of tears.
After that, I learned the hard lesson about how inconvenient the lottery commission makes it for you to collect that money. They want all sorts of identification and documentation. They hold the lottery ticket until they can verify where you bought it and that it wasn't stolen. They make you sign tons of legally binding contracts, many of which are about how they can publish your name and picture for promotional purposes.
For a couple of days, my mom and I didn't really have lives of our own; we were busy during the 8-5 hours with paperwork, promotional interviews (paid for by the lottery commission, to get the next batch of gamblers hooked), and setting up multiple bank accounts to hold chunks of the money.
The evenings were spent with both of us mentally exhausted, because suddenly EVERYONE we had ever known started calling, first to congratulate us, then to mysteriously wonder if we'd like to invest in some project that they knew would make money. Or to remind us of that one time when they'd bought me lunch, or given my mother money to buy me school clothes, as though we owed them anything. We were both bitter over this, and we were furious when strangers somehow found our cellphone numbers and started calling to beg, then grow angry when we refused.
By Saturday, though, the first year's payment had hit the accounts. I'd set up a private account for myself, where half of the money went. Then I set up an account for my mother, where a quarter of it went, despite her insistence that she didn't need it, and didn't deserve it. Then there was a third account in both of our names. I'm sure to a lot of you, it would seem weird to have a joint account with your mother..but I wanted to make sure that she would always have access to money, so she never had to worry or struggle again.
By Monday, the phone calls had generally stopped, or at least the constant flood of them, most likely aided by both of us agreeing that blocking the numbers of pretty much anyone who brought up money was the best course of action. I'd almost completely forgotten I had the ring on; I didn't make a single wish, and had only been tempted once, during the frustration of the phone calls. But the one person who didn't call was Cathy. She was almost conspicuous by her absence. Once I realized, I almost wished her to visit, but stopped myself. She'd asked me to leave her alone. I had to respect her wishes.
Sunday night, however, there was a knock on the door, and there she stood. She was dressed in tight-fitting jeans and ankle boots, along with a white long sleeve sweater, far more modest than she normally would wear. She'd clearly done her hair as well, it had a slight curl to it as it cascaded over her shoulders. Our eyes met, and for a moment, she was speechless, as was I.
“James! I..”
“Cathy! I was hoping-”
We both paused, waiting for the other to continue, not wanting to be rude. Then we both laughed nervously. “You first,” she said.
“I was hoping to see you again,” I said. She blushed hard at this, and bit her bottom lip. My heart sped up a bit, and I realized that I was in fact rather giddy, and immediately tried to keep my cool. I wasn't foolish though; she was putting off the same vibe I was. “Do you..uhh..want to come in?”
She nodded, and came through the door. Instinctively, I reached out and gave her a hug. For a moment, she stiffened, and then she returned it warmly, far more warmly than she'd ever hugged me prior to our last meeting. She nuzzled my neck lightly, and whispered softly, “God..you smell so good, James..”
My mother inadvertently interrupted our moment as she walked into the living room. “Honey, who was th- OH MY GOD, CATHY!” she suddenly shouted as she recognized her best friend. “I'M SO SORRY I HADN'T CALLED, IT'S BEEN A WHIRLWIND!” My mother squealed like an excited schoolgirl as she gave Cathy a hug of her own. Cathy beamed at my mom, and it was great, seeing this other side of her.
I recognized the irony here – if this had been the Cathy I'd known, I never would have made the wish for her to bear the curse she did. There was no hint of the snarky bitch, ready to put down my mother or me. And she wasn't behaving that way because we suddenly had money; I could tell it was genuine.
“I'll go grab us beers,” my mother said excitedly. She returned a moment later with three Stella Artois bottles. Before anyone accuses me of making a wish and not telling about it, this was completely in character for my mother. Since high school, she had always been okay with me drinking a beer now and again, particularly if she was there to keep an eye on my consumption.
Mom plopped down in her recliner; Cathy joined me on the couch. We glanced at each other, and exchanged an awkward look before both staring at our feet. “So how've you been, Cath?” my mother asked, seeming not to have noticed the weird, almost teen-like awkwardness between myself and her best friend.
“Julia,” Cathy said, “I wanted to tell you something...”