9. Gabby
Gabby
I hate math. Always have. Being a single mom with real bills has made me hate it even more. I’m always doing math now. What I owe. What I have. The difference feels impossible.
I sit on the edge of the bed while Luke sleeps and make a decision.
Greg told me to call him and take the money. I did call, but only to tell him I had a plan and wasn’t taking his money. He wasn’t happy about it, but I promised I’d call if I couldn’t figure something out.
My car is worth maybe twelve hundred dollars if I’m lucky. But it’s something. The only thing I have left.
I list it on Facebook Marketplace and hope it will sell quickly while also hoping it doesn’t.
A car is my escape route. Without it, I’m dependent on public transportation.
My last car, the one the program bought for me, had to be left behind.
Greg said it was compromised. I never knew what that meant, but I listened when he told me to leave it in a parking lot and never look back.
I’m making breakfast when I get the first bite on the car. I arrange for the buyer to meet me at the gas station around the corner. I won’t bring a stranger to my apartment.
An hour later, I’m watching a man in cargo shorts kick my tires and look under the hood. He starts the engine, revs it, then gets back out. Luke watches him the whole time. The way he keeps his face buried against the back of my thigh tells me he doesn’t like the guy.
Immediately, I think about yesterday. And Nikolai. Luke said goodbye to him.
“Eleven hundred,” the man says.
“Twelve.”
He looks at the AC vent. I know what he’s thinking.
“Eleven is all I’ve got.”
Eleven hundred dollars is still a lot more than I have right now.
“Fine.”
With a quick signature on the bill of sale I made from a template I found online, he hands me the cash in an envelope and drives away in my car.
I stand in the July heat, watching it go.
It’s a hundred and four degrees outside, and I’m on foot with a four-year-old. I feel like the stupidest person alive.
“Where’s the car going?” Luke asks.
“A man bought it.”
He considers this. “Why?”
“Because we needed the money more than we needed the car.”
It’s probably too much information for him.
“Come on, let’s get a drink, and then we better get our legs used to walking.”
By the time we make it back to the apartment, we’re both hot and tired. I take Luke with me to the ground floor and knock on Dennis’s door, the envelope clutched in my hand.
“It’s a thousand,” I say. “I know it’s not everything, but it covers May and June. I’ll get this month’s rent to you soon.”
He takes the envelope. “It’s not enough. The notice still stands.”
“I will have the rest by the end of the week.”
I have no idea how, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He crosses his arms over his chest. He’s got a coffee stain on his shirt and the audacity to look down his nose at me. The man is a slumlord, and that’s being generous. “That’s not how this works.”
“Dennis.” I say his name slowly. “I’m trying to make this right. I just need a few more days.”
“You need a lot more than a few days by the look of it.”
I breathe through my nose and force myself not to lose it. You need this man. I don’t know if I can get a real apartment. Greg always told me not to risk a credit check. The casino job was a risk, but I needed it. And it’s been fine.
“Give me a few more days,” I say. “Please.”
I hate that I’m begging him. I hate everything about this moment. The way his eyes linger on me makes my skin crawl.
“You’ve got until the notice runs out.”
He slams the door in my face.
I stare at the closed door. So much for mercy.
“Come on, buddy. We have to do laundry today.”
I’ve been off the last few days, which is when I’d normally run errands. No car. No money. No running errands.
Fuck me.
Luke sits in a chair, flipping through one of his books, while I fold laundry. The laundromat is gross, but it’s the closest one to our apartment. I’m going to have to get used to it.
When my phone rings, I already know it’s going to be something unpleasant. Carla’s number flashes on the screen, and I brace myself.
“Hey.” I try to sound pleasant. I owe her a hundred bucks. I kept that much from the car to pay her.
“Look, I know yesterday was shitty, but I can’t watch Luke anymore. I got more hours at the restaurant, and I need them.”
I close my eyes. “Carla.”
“He doesn’t talk. He just stares at me, and I never know if he’s okay or not okay, and I spend the whole time wondering if I’m doing something wrong. He needs someone who knows how to deal with him.”
“No one has to deal with him,” I snap back.
“Gabby, the kid’s got issues. I’m not trying to be mean, but you know it.”
“Thanks a lot, Carla.”
I end the call. How dare she? She’s the one with issues. My son is fine. I look at him, focused on the picture of the dinosaur, tracing one fingertip along the long tail.
No babysitter.
No car.
No money.
I can’t work without childcare. I can’t pay rent without work. I can’t get childcare without money. The circle is complete, and I’m standing in the middle of it as it spins around me.
I will never make the mistake of thinking things can’t get worse. They can. And they will.
I exhale slowly. I’m not going to spiral. Greg said he’d send the money if I called, but I hate taking it from him. I did this to myself. If I’d stayed in the program, I’d have childcare. I’d have a roof over my head. My son wouldn’t be facing homelessness.
But he’s alive. He’s healthy. I’m alive.
Celebrate the small things, Gabby.
I smile at him. “Hey, buddy. You want to go to the park tonight?”
He looks up again. “The one with the swings?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
I carry the laundry half a mile back to our apartment. I don’t bother putting it away because it’ll be easier to move with everything still in the basket.
Move.
That would imply we’re going to another home. We’re probably going to a shelter, which reminds me I need to find out where they are and whether any have openings.
Because even if I call Greg for the money and pay July’s rent, August’s is due in two weeks.
And I still have no babysitter.
The clouds have been building all afternoon, that particular Las Vegas July sky that goes from white to gray to black in the span of an hour.
Most of the time, they roll in and disappear without a drop of rain.
I’m still learning the weather, and while I’ve heard about the flash floods, I know they’re rare.
The park is three blocks away.
It’s not much of a park. A rectangle of sun-scorched grass that the city waters just enough to keep alive. Two swings, a slide, and a climbing structure that looks sketchy. But it’s better than the hot apartment.
Luke goes straight for the swings. I push him with one hand on his back, the warm evening air moving against my face.
The clouds above us are getting darker, and I begin to wonder if it might rain.
I try to remember the last time I saw rain.
We were in the Seattle area for a while, and it rained all the time, which is another reason I chose Vegas.
“Higher,” Luke says.
I push harder.
For a few minutes, I watch him swing and let my brain go quiet. He laughs softly at the top of each arc, that small, private laugh only I have ever heard. That makes the fight worth it. That sweet little laugh when he’s completely carefree.
“Hey.” I slow the swing. “You know the man from my work? The tall one?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He drags his feet through the dirt groove beneath the swing.
“The one with the food,” he says finally.
“Yeah. What did you think of him?”
He considers the question.
“He’s quiet,” Luke says.
I smile. “Yeah, he is.”
“Like me.”
I look at the side of his face. “Yeah,” I say softly. “A little bit like you.”
Another silence. A car passes on the street behind us.
“He made sauce,” Luke says.
“Sauce?”
“Ketchup and mayo.” He says it like he’s sharing a valuable secret. “In a little bowl.”
I almost laugh. Of all the things he could have taken away from that interaction. Nikolai Sokolov, feared casino owner with tattoos and an air of danger, and my son’s primary impression is that the man makes a good dipping sauce.
“Was it good?”
He nods solemnly.
“I want to put my nuggets in it,” he says.
“That’s a great idea.”
It is a great idea. It’s also one I can’t make happen because I don’t have money for mayonnaise. I blink hard, twice, and swallow against the tears building.
I refuse to cry about mayonnaise.
“We’ll try it,” I tell him. “Deal?”
“Deal,” he says.
Thunder rolls in from the west. Not close yet, but close enough. I look up and decide these clouds mean business. I’m looking forward to the rain. It’ll match my mood. More importantly, it’ll cool down the apartment.
“Okay, buddy. Time to go.”
“Five more minutes.”
“Nope. Hear that?”
He tilts his head. Another low roll of thunder, longer this time.
“A thunderstorm,” he says.
“Yep. And rain. Come on.”
He slides off the swing and retrieves his backpack from where he’d dropped it. I take his hand, and we start back toward the street. The wind has picked up, blowing my hair around my face.
We make it half a block before the first fat drops hit the sidewalk. They’re warm. Summer rain in Vegas sounds nice until it starts coming down sideways.
“It’s raining,” Luke observes.
I pick up the pace. He trots beside me, his sneakers slapping the wet pavement. The rain comes faster. A massive clap of thunder makes me jump and let out a loud yelp.
“Mom, I don’t like this,” Luke says.
“Me either, buddy.”
And then the sky opens. It’s more water than the shitty showerhead in the apartment has ever managed. The wind nearly knocks me over, and rain soaks through my shirt in seconds. Luke makes a sound of shock. I scoop him up, and he wraps his legs around my waist and buries his face in my shoulder.
“Hold on,” I tell him.
I run.
It’s hard to run with a four-year-old clinging to you like a koala.
He’s thin but tall, and I’m short, which means there’s not much real estate left.
The gutters are already rivers, and the street is becoming a lake.
Lightning splits the sky somewhere to my left.
Luke’s legs tighten around my hips, making it even harder to run.
“It’s okay,” I shout over the rain. “We’re okay. Almost there.”
Headlights sweep over us from behind, and a car slows beside me. The window rolls down.
“Hey! You need a ride?”
I glance sideways. I can’t see the man clearly through the rain or the wet hair plastered to my face.
“No, thank you,” I shout.
His car blocks the crosswalk.
“Get in.”
“No!”
I will not get into a car with a stranger. I run behind his car and cross the street as water rushes around my ankles. A trash can floats past, and more debris strikes my legs. This is a flash flood. This is what the locals warned me about.
I don’t stop. Our building is ahead, but it feels a hundred miles away. I catch my foot on an uneven seam in the sidewalk and nearly go down. I regain my footing and turn my face up to the sky.
Rain pelts my face. “Fuck you!” I scream. “Fuck you!”
Then I tighten my hold on Luke and run through the rising water.