Winner Winner By Ashley Olien

Cindy Shebley CC




Winner Winner

My mother-in-law called me after Travis' death and asked for his ashes. This might have seemed like a reasonable request, but her actual words were  “Someday when you’re remarried and have moved on, you’ll shove his ashes in the back of your closet”. Ten years later, I can honestly say, I would never have done that.  Regardless, that comment has become embedded in my mind as a deep-seated fear of moving forward. 

A decade feels like something you should celebrate. Or maybe commemorate is a better word? At least, something you should mark somehow. No one ever tells you how to navigate such an anniversary; or even what to call it, but for some reason I feel drawn to the idea of doing something. 

My Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Major Depressive Disorder really start to dance every December. Despite being heavily medicated, I can never quite get a handle on them in the midst of short days and increased darkness. When the air stings and the holidays loom. Everyone’s excitement, a frigid reminder of losing my husband to suicide.

December 7th, a date which will live in infamy.* For years I spent this death anniversary watching Pearl Harbor documentaries in bed; comfortably numb, using the black and white pictures to staunch the bleeding of memories into the present. Over the years, though, the memories have begun to seep through the walls I built to compartmentalize. 

Baking holiday cookies with my grandma somehow now only reminds me of Travis’ funeral. A tiny snippet that’s clawed its way to the surface of my memory. As I pour the dry ingredients into the bowl and turn on the mixer, I picture myself standing in front of his body. I can hear my grandma whisper “You can hold his hand if you want to”. Wisdom passed from one generation of widows to the next. It feels sacred. I take his gloved hand in mine. The black driving gloves, meant to hide the bruising of his shattered hands; broken in the fall. 

Travis was an avid poker player. He taught me how to play black jack, roulette and craps. Casinos were a second home to us and Las Vegas our favorite destination. So, when our marriage was suffering, it wasn’t really a surprise that that’s where he’d go in search of hope. “I took all the money and bet it on red” he told me from the other end of the phone as he paced the hotel balcony. I sat, absolutely silent, as he explained how the ball had landed on black. From over a thousand miles away, I pleaded with him.

“Just come home. We'll figure it out,” I lied.. Less than an hour later, I’d get a call from the Clark County Coroner’s Office. 

The idea of visiting a casino, any casino, after all these years makes me feel some sort of way. In fact, I am fucking terrified. Terrified that a deluge of memories is imminent and I’ll drown in the muck of it all. That bringing my second husband into this space means I’ve somehow forgotten. As though anyone could forget having chunks of their heart gnawed away by grief. 

Despite being terrified, I’m drawn to the casino in a way that feels primal. The walls I’ve built between the past and present are beginning to crumble and I’m desperate for some form of resolution. In this case, resolution stinks of camel lights, old lady perfume and desperation so syrupy thick you can taste it. It’s a familiar scent. One that smells alive. 

As we walk in, lights whirl and pirouette across the casino floor. The machines ching and clang; a cacophony of bells and more bells. The anticipation is palpable and sings in sharp contrast to the people who are actually sitting at the slots. In a haze of gray sweatshirts and cigarette smoke, they tap, tap, tap the buttons, oblivious to the chaos of sights and sounds that surrounds them. 

We make our way to the sportsbook and I feel an unexpected sense of calm as we bet on the Vikings to win over Green Bay. Travis was a huge Vikings fan and it feels cathartic that my first foray back into this world of betting honors that. The visit is so surprisingly mundane. We watch the Vikings win the game. We drink drinks. We order food and chat with strangers at the bar. Life happens like this sometimes I think, especially when you have a tendency to catastrophize. Sometimes we face our biggest fears and nothing happens. We collect our winnings and make our way to the car. There is no catastrophic event. No breakdown. Not even tears. Maybe that all comes later, but for today, things are okay. 


​
*Franklin D. Roosevelt's famous "Day of Infamy".



Ashley Olien is an emerging writer, poet and member of the Sustenance Writing Community. She received her MA from the University of Minnesota (Twin Cities). Find her on Instagram: @ashley_olien