The Game My Mother Rigged

Warm blood ran from my neck, through my hair, and into Mother’s imported rug.

I tried to wipe it away, but my fingers passed through the carpet.

My body grew lighter until I floated above the study. When I looked down, I understood that thirteen-year-old Elena Moretti was dead.

I recognized death because I had seen Nonna Rosa lying this still six years earlier. That day, she had thrown Mother’s wooden box onto the table, scattering colored sticks across the floor.

“A child should never have to draw lots for her mother’s love,” Nonna said.

Mother held Sofia against her chest. “The game gives them an equal chance.”

“Then buy two of something, or let them take turns.”

“Some things cannot be divided. Luck makes the decision so I do not have to.”

Nonna glanced at me beside the doorway.

“Elena has drawn black for years. She gets whatever Sofia rejects and sleeps in a bed too small for her. You even made her draw for comfort when she had a fever. Does that feel fair to you?”

Mother tightened her arms around Sofia.

“Elena has always been healthy. Sofia nearly died at birth and needs more care. The game teaches Elena discipline and stops jealousy before she hurts her sister.”

“She has never hurt Sofia. If you continue this, I will take Elena home with me!”

Nonna moved toward me, but her cane slipped from her hand. She clutched her chest and collapsed before she could reach me.

The emotional shock had triggered her heart attack. The family doctor arrived too late.

No one challenged Mother’s game after Nonna died. Father was a capo in the Moretti family, and he spent his days moving between the docks, restaurants, and private club. When he came home, he poured whiskey and expected silence.

The colored sticks decided the rest of my childhood. When a family friend sent expensive chocolates, I drew black, so Sofia received the entire box. When we chose dinner, I drew black again, and Mother served Sofia’s favorite shrimp for a week despite my shellfish allergy. She left hard bread for me and stroked my hair as if she felt sorry.

“Rules cannot change because you are upset. That would be unfair to Sofia.”

Once, with a fever of nearly one hundred and four degrees, I heard Mother reading to Sofia next door. I asked her to hold me until I fell asleep. She brought the wooden box instead. After I drew black, she returned me to my room and went back to Sofia.

“Elena, why is your luck always so terrible?”

I wondered the same thing. Every night, I hid inside my closet and practiced without making a sound.

I learned how the sticks knocked against each other and shifted inside the box. Ten years of practice never brought me a gold one.

Even after death, I could not stop thinking about the game. Nonna Rosa had been buried in a wide walnut casket.

The Moretti family filled the church, and everyone praised Mother for arranging such an elegant funeral. I had touched the polished wood and imagined how comfortable it must be inside.

My bed had belonged to Sofia when she was five. I had to bend my knees to fit, and during winter I slept in my coat beneath one of her discarded blankets.

Looking at my body in the study, I wanted to find Mother. If she drew for me, perhaps she would finally pull a gold stick. Then I could ask for a casket large enough to let me straighten my legs.

I drifted through the study door just as heels crossed the marble floor downstairs. Keys struck the entry table, followed by hurried footsteps and Mother’s familiar perfume.

She had come back.