Page 14 of The Lottery

Azalea laughs. “Looks like grandma was craftier than your programmers. She knew me better than I knew myself, so I’m sure she had no trouble tricking the system into thinking she was me.”

Interesting. I lean back and gesture for her to continue.

“I was furious at first. I did not want to be pawned off to a billionaire for a chance to live on Mars.”

Her words sting, bringing up all the conflicting emotions I have felt about The Lottery and my role in it.

She runs a finger over the rim of her glass. “I refused to accept the offer. So the next night my grandmother pulled out an old bottle of whiskey coated in dust, clearly something she was saving for the right occasion.” She looks at her own whiskey and takes another drink before continuing.

“She took me into the backyard, and we spread a blanket under the cherry tree and we drank together, and she told me the stories of her life she had never shared before.” Azalea’s voice cracks.

She hesitates before speaking, fighting emotions back down her throat. “The stories she told me… they were stories of pain and loss and heartache. Of war and death and disease. But also stories of hope, of beauty, of wonder. Of people risking everything to help each other. Of Good Samaritans who reminded the world what still lives within humanity’s heart.”

Tears flow readily down Azalea’s cheeks now, and I wish I could offer her comfort.

“She told me of a time when my mother was a baby, and my grandmother was stranded with a flat tire. She had no money left in her bank account and a crying infant who needed food. She was about to write a bad check for the tire to get her child home safely. The man behind the counter didn’t charge her a dime. Later that day, a neighbor brought over vegetables from their farm. Each time she thought she wouldn’t make it as a single mom, someone came along as a Guardian Angel to help her. That’s how she would describe them, Guardian Angels in disguise. She raised me to be like those people. To see the need in others and find ways to help.”

She pauses, reflecting on the stories of her shared family history. On those little moments that brought her grandmother--and later her--so much hope.

“And then my grandmother showed me a spot at the base of the tree, etchings done in rows of five. She said, ‘When your mother died, it was the hardest thing I have ever experienced. And there you were, this tiny cherub of a baby, needing love. I faced a crossroads that day. I could have let my pain destroy me, knowing it would have destroyed you as well. Or I could choose hope. Love. Joy.’”

Watching this exquisite woman speak with such adoration for her grandmother, it is impossible not to feel that love infiltrate my own being. This is what humanity has sorely lacked in recent years.

“After my mom died, grandma would go to that tree, stand under its branches, and tell it the stories of people. They were stories of pain and loss and heartache. Of war and death and disease. But also stories of hope, of beauty, of wonder. Of people risking everything to help each other. Of Good Samaritans who reminded the world what still lives within humanity’s heart. Stories of teens standing up for kids getting bullied, of random strangers paying for groceries for the overwhelmed mom whose card got declined, of everyday people stepping into the lives of those in need and making a difference. Stories that prove humans have something worth saving within them. Then, when the story was done, my grandmother would leave a mark on the tree. That night she told me, “this tree holds the ashes of our ancestors. The stories and wisdom of our great grandmothers. And now it holds the hope of humanity. Hope is not built on one big act. Hope is built on the million tiny acts of kindness we show each other every day. That is the kind of hope that is strong enough to endure anything.’”

Azalea tilts her glass to get the final drops. My urge to lean forward and kiss her slender neck is almost too much to bear.

“I stayed up all night finishing the bottle of whiskey under that tree and crying, thinking about her words.” She looks up at me, her blue eyes shining brightly, her stare penetrating. “The next day, I accepted the offer for The Lottery. And I swore I would try to carry on my grandmother’s legacy. Small acts of kindness. Guardian Angels in disguise. It’s the least I can do for the woman who sacrificed everything to give me the best life she could.”

Hers was the last name to be picked by our computer. She was the last to board the ship. She is the one who least wants to be here. Other than myself, perhaps.

“The day after that, my beautiful, brilliant, and eternally kind grandmother died in her sleep. A smile on her face. She was cremated and her ashes added to our ancestors at the base of the cherry tree, whose cuttings I kept in hopes that I could plant it on Mars.”

We are silent for a moment as the weight of her story fills the spaces between us.

I am not a man quick to speak. I believe we would all be better off if we took a moment to think through our thoughts before putting them into words.

She does not seem to mind that I do not react immediately, and I appreciate the companionable silence.

When she shifts to stand, I rush to help her. “Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”

She sucks in her breath, her nostrils flaring and pupils dilating. I am positive my body is providing the same clues to my arousal being so close to her, but we both studiously ignore that which would be inappropriate to speak of.

“I was going to transfer the cutting to the pot so it wouldn’t dry out,” she says.

I nod. “I can help.”

We work in silence, sitting on the floor, filling the pot partially with dirt, then pulling the cutting out of the wet plastic bag she carried it in. Azalea works slowly with only one functioning arm, but neither of us minds the casual pace. This is the first time in years that I have just sat down and enjoyed someone’s quiet company.

It is such a little branch. A fragile symbol of hope—but then perhaps all symbols of hope are inherently fragile. Small acts meant to build on one another.

As she pats the soil around the base of the cherry wood, I lean back, my hands dirty and leaving marks on my thighs. “Is this why you are so angry?” I ask her.

She looks up, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Angry?”

“The Lottery. Being ‘selected.’ All of it.”

She does not answer, but the look in her eyes says everything.

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