7. Gabby
Gabby
A knock hits the door, and I freeze. It’s barely seven in the morning. I don’t have friends here. There’s no reason anyone should be knocking on my door.
I’ve been awake for thirty minutes, watching Luke sleep and wondering whether I can stretch the peanut butter another week after paying the electric bill.
I ease off the mattress without waking him and pad to the door. I check the peephole first. Always the peephole first.
No one.
I frown, unlock both locks, and open the door.
The hallway is empty, but there’s something on the door, taped at eye level.
I tear it off.
A seven-day notice to pay rent.
I stare at it. The words blur, and I blink them back into focus. The amount I have to pay to stay is written at the bottom. I’ll never come up with that kind of money. Certainly not in seven days.
Then I think about the broken AC. The cockroaches. The orange water from the tap. Everything the landlord should have fixed months ago.
I step into the hall and look down the stairwell.
“Hey!” My voice echoes off the concrete. “Hey, I know you can hear me!”
Nothing.
“You couldn’t talk to me? You had to tape it to my door like a coward?” I lean over the railing. “Get rid of the roaches, and maybe I’ll pay on time!”
Silence from below.
I go back inside and slide both locks into place.
I put the notice face-down on the counter so I don’t have to look at it.
Tips have been thin. People are hot and cranky in the summer.
Dehydrated. Not eager to tip. My last paycheck covered the electric bill and groceries.
I had to buy Luke shoes because he’d outgrown the old ones overnight, the way kids do.
And they weren’t even new. I found them at Goodwill.
I was already three months behind, and now there was another late fee stacked on top.
I don’t have it. Not even close.
I go to the bathroom and retrieve the burner phone. I never call this early. He’s going to panic.
“What happened?” Greg answers immediately. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I need to talk to you about something.”
“Talk.”
“I’m behind on rent and I got a seven-day notice to pay rent or move out.”
He sighs.
“Greg.”
“I’m here.” His voice is quiet. “How long have you been behind?”
I press my back to the bathroom wall and slide down until I’m sitting on the tile. “A while.”
“How long is a while, Gabby?”
“Three months.”
“Jesus.” He exhales, and I can picture him rubbing his chin. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought I could handle it.”
“Gabby, this is exactly the kind of thing you’re supposed to tell me.”
“I know.”
“I could have helped. I’ve told you a dozen times, I can send money.”
“You’re saving for retirement. You need that money.”
“You’re not in the program anymore. That doesn’t mean you’re alone. When are you going to understand that?”
I look at the yellow stain around the tub. “I thought I was ready when I left. I got a good job, but tourism slows in the summer.”
“Vegas is expensive.”
“I know.”
“And casino tips aren’t predictable.”
“I know.”
He’s frustrated with me. “I can send you enough to cover the back rent and the late fees.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I know you don’t. Take it anyway.”
“Is there any way the program can help? Even just a one-time thing? Temporary housing assistance, or—”
“Gabby.” The way he says my name tells me everything.
“I know.”
“You signed the paperwork. You chose to leave. They’re not going to reopen your case for a housing stipend. That’s not how it works. You’d have to go back in fully, and we both know you won’t do that.”
“I’ve moved him seven times in four years. I won’t do it again. He needs to stay here. He needs this school. He needs stability.”
“Have you heard if he got into the school?”
“Still waiting.” I close my eyes. “There’s a waitlist. I don’t know how long it’ll take. I check my email every morning.”
“And if he doesn’t get in?”
“Then I find another option. But Greg, this school… they have a counselor on staff who specializes in kids who’ve experienced instability.
Not just a regular school counselor, an actual child trauma specialist. The classes are small.
The routine doesn’t change.” I hear myself getting wound up and try to slow down.
“I don’t know how he’ll handle a regular kindergarten classroom.
I don’t know how he’ll handle any of it.
He doesn’t talk to strangers, Greg. He barely talks to me. He needs help.”
“I understand.”
“He’s so smart that it scares me sometimes. But when things change, he shuts down. When we moved here, he didn’t speak for nine days. He just went somewhere inside himself, and I couldn’t reach him.”
“I remember.”
“I can’t move him again. I won’t.”
“Then take the money,” Greg says. “Take the money, pay the rent, stay in the apartment. Figure out the rest.”
“I’m going to ask for an advance. If they say no, I’ll call back.”
“You have to stop waiting until the last possible second to ask for help. You’re not proving anything to anyone.”
“I’m proving it to myself.”
“What are you proving?”
“That I can take care of my son without anyone else’s money or power. I just need to know I can do it.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You can do it,” he says finally. “You already are. Asking for help when you’re drowning isn’t weakness. Call me tomorrow, and tell me where to send the money.”
“Thank you, Greg.”
I already know I’m not calling him tomorrow. Not for the money. I need to figure this out myself. Somehow. But Greg always wants me to tell him when something’s wrong, and at least now he knows what’s going on.
I check myself in the bathroom mirror and put on a little extra makeup. Uniform pressed. Hair done, hanging loose around my shoulders. I usually wear it up at work, but I think down is sexier. I need to charm the customers, and if flashing some cleavage and wiggling my ass helps, I’ll do it.
Today, I’ll smile until my face hurts and read every player at my table. I will walk out of that casino tonight with enough cash to make a dent in what I owe the landlord.
I have to.
I load Luke into the car, get the engine to turn over on the second try, and drive across town with the windows down because the AC has finally given up the ghost.
I take him to the front door. Carla answers with her usual lack of enthusiasm.
“He eat breakfast?” she asks.
“Yep.” I hand her the bag. “Water bottle’s in there. Lunch, too.”
She takes it. I’m already backing toward the car.
“Tonight,” she says. “On time.”
“On time,” I agree. “I promise.”
I am going to have a good day.
I settle in at my table, go through the chip count with the dealer I’m relieving, and take over.
The first hour is quiet. A couple from somewhere in the Midwest plays slowly and tips two dollars a hand. Two bucks is two bucks.
I’m midway through a sweep when someone at the far edge of the floor catches my eye.
Nikolai Sokolov is standing near the corridor that leads to the back offices. He’s dressed the same way he always seems to be dressed—all black. He always looks coiled and ready to pounce.
I deal the next hand.
He might not even know I’m out here. The floor is huge, and he has a hundred employees to think about.
When I look up again, he’s still there. And this time, when my eyes find him, his eyes are on me.
I look back at my table.
My hands keep moving, but a tingle runs down my spine. I can’t decide if it’s good or bad.
I talk myself through the next hour. Keep moving. Make money. Don’t think about the rent notice.
I’m almost through my shift when someone calls my name. I look up to see Carla crossing the floor with Luke trailing behind her.
He’s got his dinosaur backpack on, and his blanket clutched to his chest. He’s terrified. It’s too loud. And too bright for him.
“What the hell?”
“Excuse me?” The man sitting at my table looks at me.
I ignore him. My only focus is on my baby being dragged through his worst nightmare. I rush to him. He breaks free of Carla and runs into my arms.
I scoop him up, press his head against my chest, and cover his other ear.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
“I have to go to work.”
“You are working. You’re babysitting my son!”
“No, work is a place that pays me. You haven’t paid me in two weeks. My manager at the restaurant called. He’s paying me double.”
“You can’t just bring my son in here!”
“Good luck, Gabby.”
She walks away, leaving my son clinging to me.
Raymond, the pit boss, is already coming toward me. I abandoned my table. I’m fired. I know it, but there’s nothing I can do.
“I need my break,” I tell him.
“You can’t just walk off the table.”
“I’m sorry. It was an emergency. Please. Ten minutes.”
“Handle your business,” he snaps.
I hurry toward the employee corridor. I only have an hour left on my shift. If I leave now, I won’t have a job.
“Buddy, do you think you can sit in here and watch TV while I finish work?”
He’s quiet. Of course, he is. He always gets like this when everything becomes too much.
I sit him on the couch and kneel in front of him. “I’m sorry that happened. I didn’t know she was bringing you.”
“Can I watch SpongeBob?”
I smile. “Sure. Did you eat your sandwich?”
He shakes his head.
“Okay. You can eat your sandwich and watch TV. I’ll finish work, and then we’ll go home. Okay?”
“Okay,” he murmurs.
I turn on the TV, find an episode he likes, and pull out his sandwich. Then, I tuck the blanket around him.
“You stay here, okay? I’ll be back in a little bit.”
He’s already focused on the screen. I’m a horrible mother. I use the TV to pacify him. I’ll deal with the guilt later.
I close the break room door and pray Nikolai doesn’t decide to stop by.
If I could afford real daycare, Luke would already be there.
But it’s expensive. I’m hoping to get him into a specialized daycare that can give him the support he needs.
I know he needs more than the average kid.
I’ve made the call, and we’re on a waitlist to see a pediatric psychologist. Maybe then I can finally get some answers.
Figure out whether this is more than everything he’s been through.
Then we can get the specific help he needs.
But as with everything else, it’s a waitlist. I just don’t know how much longer we can wait.
I look through the narrow window in the hallway at my son curled beneath his blanket, eating a sandwich in a place he should never have had to be.
I’m supposed to be the one who keeps him safe.
Instead, I’m leaving him alone so I can keep a job that still isn’t enough.