Recipe for Satisfacton(15)

“Did you use my credit card?” she blurted.

They both sat silent. One not looking at the other.

“Mom?”

Her mother looked up, sadness in her eyes. “I’m sorry Sterling. We…the girls needed a few things and I just couldn’t say no to them.”

Sterling took a deep breath. It was for the girls. She sighed in relief. “So you haven’t started again? You’re not gambling?”

“Of course not, dear.” Her mother reassured with a smile on her face. “We just didn’t want to bother you. We’ll pay you back.”

She knew she’d never see the money again, but even the most organized people made mistakes. Sterling didn’t, but some people did.

“I’m sorry.” Her mother did look sorry. Her father, on the other hand, still played his game.

With that weight off her shoulders, Sterling glanced to the mess of papers on the other end of the table. Loose paper—an organizer’s bread and butter. “Let me help you with that, Mom.” She reached for a few pieces of paper to organize. “Remind me next time to bring you some file folders so you can—”

“No!” her mother screeched. “Just leave that.”

She retracted her hands, jolted by her mother’s high-pitched tone, but she already had a few of the papers in her grasp. She recognized the green logo and the red stamp that glared at her from across the page. Red stamps only meant one thing. And since her parents’ financial status was really her own, she needed to read that page.

It was even worse than she had feared. The letter was a demand for payment. Payments for the mortgage Sterling co-signed because their credit sucked. The real reason why she held back on living her own life.

She had thought her parents were well along in their recovery. She’d made sure that they attended the local rehab meetings she’d found for them. Although maybe they weren’t as effective as the website claimed. Now it seemed the shoe she had been waiting to drop finally came crashing to the ground. She had come here for a credit card charge and instead saw her financial future plummet.

A heavy feeling grabbed at her insides as déjà vu sank in, a feeling she had thought she’d banished for good.

She stiffly turned and stalked over to the sink. Opening the bottom cupboard, she pulled out the garbage can. She reached inside and moved around the contents. Sure enough, at the bottom of the bag was all the evidence she needed.

Lotto tickets.

There must have been twenty, maybe even thirty. Her heart sank. Disappointment overwhelmed her. She moved across the kitchen to the junk drawer. Sure enough, hidden in the back was a stack of scratch tickets wrapped in an elastic band—all of them brand-new.

She slammed the drawer shut and threw the stack on the kitchen table. “I thought you had this under control?” Tears welled in her eyes. Her throat clenched.

“I…” Her mother danced from side to side, transferring her weight from one foot to the other. She stared at her father, a desperate plea settling in the depths of her eyes.

He placed the deck of cards on the table and finally acknowledged her presence by looking her directly in the eye. His look gave nothing away, his eyes locking her in a stare that was so practiced and stoic that she never knew the truth.

“You’re gambling again.” A tear escaped and ran down her face. She couldn’t stop it. This scenario was all too familiar. All too disgusting. “How long has this been going on?”

She looked at her mother, then her father. But neither of them looked at her. Instead they looked at each other as if silently corroborating their stories.

She whipped the non-winning tickets in the garbage. Weren’t they supposed to be the adults? Weren’t they the ones who were supposed to be bailing her out of her financial mistakes? “Answer me.”

Her mother jumped at the shrill sound of her voice. She didn’t even recognize it herself.

“For a couple of months.” She sat in the old wooden chair and clasped her hands on the table.

“Is it both of you?” she yelled. Maybe it was just her mother. Maybe if only one of them had fallen off the wagon the situation would be salvageable. There was only one way to find out.

She knew all the hiding spots. She flung open the freezer door of the stainless steel appliance—the one that she bought when she signed a large contract with a law firm in the downtown area—removing a box of chicken fingers. Instead of frozen strips, she found her father’s notebook with his sports picks, the point spreads, and the amounts wagered listed in small, neat writing.

She ran to the front of the house and grabbed her father’s jacket out of the closet. She searched inside the pockets and found what she’d been looking for. The small square tickets were like acid on her fingers. Race seven, ten-dollar box, seven, with two, three, nine. She crumpled them in her hands.