The trouble began with my sister.
She had been admitted to the regional hospital, and I spent most of that week driving back and forth to see her.
The hospital was far enough away that every visit took a good part of the day.
I'd leave home early, sit beside her bed, listen to the nurses explain things, and try to make her laugh when she looked frightened.
Then I'd drive back with the radio turned low.
I worried about her at night.
I worried about her while shopping.
I worried about her while standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes that didn't need to be washed yet.
By Friday, I was exhausted.
I still stopped at the gas station, because I had done so for nineteen years.
The woman behind the counter printed my numbers.
I put the ticket in my purse and drove home.
That part of the routine stayed the same.
Everything after it slipped.
Saturday morning came, and I didn't check the drawing.
I didn't even remember the ticket.
I made coffee, called the hospital, and spent another few hours worrying about my sister.
The next day, I went back to see her.
On Monday, I did laundry and paid a bill that had been sitting beside the telephone.
On Tuesday, I fell asleep in my chair before the evening news finished.
The ticket never crossed my mind.
It was Wednesday when I noticed the refrigerator.
I had gone into the kitchen to get a jar of mayonnaise.
The pineapple magnet caught my eye because its little green top was tilted sideways.
I reached up to straighten it.
There was nothing underneath.
I stood there for a moment, looking at the empty white space on the refrigerator door.
My ticket was gone.
I checked the counter.
Then the table.
I looked through the papers beside the telephone and opened the drawer where I kept old receipts.
Nothing.
I even crouched down and checked the floor beneath the refrigerator.
Dust.
A stray piece of dried pasta.
No lottery ticket.
I wasn't particularly worried at first.
I had lost things before.
A receipt could disappear inside a purse. A grocery list could end up beneath a newspaper. The house was full of little places where paper could hide.
Still, I knew where I had left it.
I had placed it beneath that magnet when I came home Friday.
I was certain of that.
Gary was in the living room, sitting in his usual chair with the television turned up louder than necessary.
I walked to the doorway.
"Have you seen the lottery ticket I brought home Friday?"
He kept looking at the screen.
"What ticket?"
"My lottery ticket. The one on the refrigerator."
He shifted in his chair.
"Maybe it dropped behind the fridge."
"I already looked."
"Then you probably threw it away without noticing."
"I don't think I did."
He finally turned his head toward me.
"Patty, it's only a couple of dollars."
There it was.
That familiar little laugh in his voice.
He made the missing ticket sound like a foolish problem I had invented for myself.
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I went back into the kitchen.
I checked the trash can, even though I knew I had emptied it the previous evening.
I searched the paper recycling bag.
I opened the cabinet beneath the sink and looked behind the cleaning supplies.
Nothing.
The ticket had vanished.
I tried to let it go.
It was two dollars, after all.
That was what Gary had said.
And if I was honest, I had said the same thing to myself plenty of times over the years.
But something about the empty spot bothered me.
Not because I believed the ticket was valuable.
Because I couldn't remember ever losing one before.
For nineteen years, I had followed the same routine.
Buy it.
Bring it home.
Place it beneath the pineapple magnet.
Check it Saturday morning.
It had become automatic.
I didn't understand how I could have broken the habit without remembering.
That evening, Gary surprised me.
I was sitting at the kitchen table when he came in carrying a mug.
"Made you some tea."
I looked up.
"For me?"
"Who else?"
He set it beside my hand.
I thanked him, still wondering what had brought this on.
Gary wasn't a cruel man every minute of every day.
He could be helpful when he wanted to be.
He had fixed a neighbor's broken fence once without accepting payment.
He had driven our son to work when his car wouldn't start.
But at home, kindness had become something I rarely expected without a reason.
He sat across from me.
"How's your sister doing?"
I nearly dropped the spoon I was holding.
For years, he had shown almost no interest in her life.
He knew when she visited, but he seldom asked about her afterward.
He hadn't asked how she was doing in a very long time.
Now he was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"She's tired," I said. "The doctors are still keeping an eye on her."
"Well, that's good. You should get some rest, too."
I looked at him.
He smiled and asked whether I wanted more hot water.
I told him I was fine.
He went back to the living room, leaving me alone with the tea.
I sat there until it cooled.
Perhaps I was reading too much into a simple question.
Maybe he had finally realized how worried I was.
Maybe he was trying to be a better husband.
I wanted to believe that.
Thirty-four years was a long time to spend hoping somebody would notice what you needed.
I carried the mug to the sink and rinsed it.
Then I glanced at the refrigerator again.
The pineapple magnet was still crooked.
I straightened it carefully.
There was no ticket beneath it.
And for the first time, I wondered whether Gary knew more about its disappearance than he had admitted.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: The Newspaper Numbers Matched Mine Exactly, but I Kept My Discovery Quiet While My Husband Suddenly Became Kind
The Two-Dollar Habit My Husband Mocked for Nineteen Years Was About to Become the Most Important Thing in Our Marriage
Part 2 of 20
