A Gambler's Hope

A Gambler’s Hope

By Bobbie DeLong

I had put myself together that morning, with make-up that now feels like too thick face paint. The blue sweater was perfect when I put it on, but by the time I reach the lawyer’s office, I notice the lint and the fadedness of it, it’s bagginess over the extra weight I still carry from Katie. She is sitting in my lap, chewing on a pacifier. I brought her to the mediation because I had no choice.

Your lawyer is a woman. Pretty and thin, wearing a tailored suit and professionally applied make-up. She offers us all drinks and hands out papers. I bounce Katie on my knee as you stare stony-eyed at my lawyer, an attractive young man, who ignores you and takes notes.

I haven’t eaten well in weeks. The nausea of my stomach acid eating away at its lining is too much to even contemplate food. The weight loss and stark hope gave me the courage to dress and come here today.

All the courage starts to drip away when I encounter the indifference in your face. You see our Katie, and you do not flinch. You see me, and nothing flickers. No regret, no sadness, nothing.

In My pocket is the stupid quarter. Do you remember the quarter?

I remember. You used it to propose.

#

“I say we leave this shit to destiny. I flip heads, we get married. What do you say?”

I am stocking Pantene on the shelf at a grocer, wearing the red apron, and trying not to grin. We are 18. I am in community college. A little older than you.

“You’re still in high school James. Also, leaving marriage to chance is insane.”

You notice my boss and her disapproving glare from the front. You pull shampoo bottles from the box and start placing them in rows.

“Marriage is a game of chance anyway. 50/50 odds. We’re best friends. You’re passable hot, I’m extremely hot. If the coin says “do it”, Why not? We got a better than average shot I say.”

My heart flips. I have loved you since middle school.

 I laugh. Shrug.

“Sure? Why not?”

You flip the quarter.

It lands on heads.

Our romance is whirlwind.

We marry the next summer.

We laugh at our luck and at chance.

#

For five years, the quarter determines everything. Where we go to college. Your job. My job. Colorado. We lose it in the move. You seem upset. I don’t know why. Who has a lucky quarter? But I think we did.

We do not consult a quarter about Katie. She is the product of one drunk night. I thought we were ready. Looking back, you struggled. I didn’t see it.

And then came another drunk night. This one I am unable to forgive you for. I throw all your stuff out in the yard like they do in the movies. You move out. First, in with her. Then later, when that doesn’t work, in with your mom.

#

Last night I found the quarter. It was jammed in between the wall and the floorboard behind the credenza I sell because I run out of money for rent and diapers.

I pry it out of the crack with a butter knife and a fork.

I flip it and ask it’s advice, like it’s an eight ball or magic.

I flip it a few times before I understand.

There is no such thing as magic.

#

Your lawyer looks across the table at mine. “Is your client ready?”

My heart leaps.

My lawyer nods. “We’re ready.”

“Does your client agree that this marriage is irrevocably broken?”

My lawyer looks at me. I am supposed to say yes. That is all I need to do.

I take a breath.

Pull the quarter out of my pocket.

Look across at you. The man I married. The man whom I betrayed. Who betrayed me.

I put it on my thumb as if to flick it.

“I found this. Remember this?”

You sit up straight.

“Where did you find that?”

“Behind the credenza in the dining room.”

You sit back. Suspicious.

I deserve that.

“Heads, I forgive you.”

I flick it.

It sails pathetically and lands with a dull thud a few inches from me with a clunk.

Heads up.

You do not move, but your eyes knit.

Your lawyer clears her throat.

You hold up a hand.

A surge of hope.

 I pick up the quarter, poise it to flip.

“Heads or tails on forgiving me?”

You cross your hands over your chest, sit back further.

Inside me, something breaks a little.

I hold my breath.

I want to puke.

Forgiveness isn’t easy. Forgiveness takes more than a second to decide on. It took me all night flipping that coin to decide. I let go of forgiveness, aim a little lower.

“OK, we stop this. Heads or tails? We keep trying, just for a little while longer?”

A brief pause. You don’t budge but sit like a statue with a look on your face like you can’t figure out my game.

The game is us. And you don’t want to play.

My hands shake as I slip the quarter back into my pocket. The tears well up in my eyes as I look at your lawyer.

I only have a little dignity left.

I clear my throat. My chin trembles. I bury my face in our daughter’s head.

My lawyer finally speaks.

“My client needs a moment.”

“Heads”

I look through my tears at you.

“It’s my quarter, right? The one I lost?”

I nod. Wipe tears off the end of my nose.

You hold your hand out.

I reach into my pocket, pull it out and drop it into your palm.

You balance it on your thumb, and give it a quick flip.

It soars.

Lands heads up.

“Uh, what’s going on?” Your lawyer asks.

“We have decided to hold off on the divorce for the time being.” You say, your eyes never leaving mine.

“Based on a coin toss? That’s insane.”

We’ve flipped a coin on thing far less sane.

True love? The real stuff?

It must survive the impossible.

The most impossible thing it needs to survive?

Two stupid people who have only a gambler’s hope that it can.

It needs that.

Forgiveness goes a long way too.

But so does flipping a quarter.

Preferably a two headed one.

Decisions are easier then.

All you need to decide is when to give in,

And when to call heads.

THE END