Shuffled Synchronies

A short story by Kharma Gentner

“...And I’m out!” she exclaims, placing her second-to-last card—a 3 of hearts—before her run of the 4, 5, and 6 of the same suit. With a victorious smirk, she carelessly flicks her wrist and tosses her final card onto the discard pile.

“Oh, shoot!” her daughter grumbles. “I was just about to pick up the six and seven and play my five!” The mother looks to where her daughter is gesturing and sees that she’s right. On her next turn, the daughter could have drawn the six and seven of spades from the discard pile, under the condition that she pick up the ace sandwiched between them. But that wouldn’t be an issue, because she could discard it after playing her three-card run.

“Wow, that was close, then!” Mom remarks. She stares at the cards for a second, pondering, before saying, “Let’s count points.” Both girls gather up the cards that they placed throughout the game and start adding up their scores.

“Ten, twenty, thirty, forty-five...” Daughter tallies up the points of her first run, which consists of a jack, queen, king, and ace of clubs. She then counts her three-of-a-kind of sevens: “...fifty-five, sixty-five, seventy-five...”

“What?” Mom cocks her head at her daughter after watching her count points incorrectly. “Sevens are worth only five points each. Eights and above are ten points.”

“No, I’m pretty sure sevens and above are ten. I’ve always counted them this way.”

“Then you’ve been giving yourself extra points!”

“Well, you’re the one who taught me to play!” Daughter giggles.

“I can’t believe you’ve been cheating the whole time.” Mom rolls her eyes playfully.

“It was on accident! Plus, you’re in the lead either way.” Daughter slides her mom the café napkin they’ve been using to scrawl their Rummy scores. Sure enough, Mom had accrued over 5,000 points across multiple games, trumping Daughter’s total score of nearly 4,800. A soft smile nestles itself between Mom’s red cheeks as the woman collects the cards into a neat stack. It’s not easy to beat her daughter, she thinks to herself. The two math whizzes often find themselves caught in stalemates, battling against each other and neither ever discarding the wrong card or failing to catch a play. Ever since Daughter learned to play cards, she has been able to predict patterns, make assumptions, and inevitably win numerous games. As Mom shuffles in preparation for a new round, Daughter leans back in her chair and takes time to appreciate the warm atmosphere of Angie’s Brew House, the local café they frequent.

This hole-in-the-wall, this rustic sanctuary of fresh coffee and live music, had served as the main location for the girls’ game nights for the past couple months. Mom and Daughter had made it their weekend tradition: Daughter comes home from college, and the pair drives up to their little hidden treasure of a coffeehouse where they spend hours catching up and making jokes. Something about the wood paneling and rusted road signs on the walls, the shelf of antique board games, the soft sounds of country music, muffled chatter, and coffee machines all contribute to the feeling of safety and warmth that makes Angie’s so appealing to the mother-daughter duo. Despite their countless visits to Angie’s, the two girls couldn’t name a single barista, music talent, or regular customer that went there. They were always caught up in their own little world of Rummy and Shirley Temples, oblivious to everyone else around them.

“Ooh, I love this song.” Daughter thinks aloud before taking a sip of her Shirley and placing the glass back on the wooden table. Her gaze wanders to the night’s musical act, the warm string lights of the café illuminating the warm tones of her glassy olive eyes. Her soft golden hair, which had been carefully arranged behind a white headband minutes before she left the house, flows over her shoulders and stops about halfway down her back. Her mother’s hair, in contrast, is curly and deep brown and has streaks of gray interspersed throughout. Mom’s hairdo, a high bun with loose strands framing her face, was frantically assembled on her drive to work this morning. Her jewelry—large silver hoop earrings and a simplistic faux-diamond necklace—emphasized the piercing blue of her tired eyes.

Aside from their hair and iris hues, Mom and Daughter look nearly identical, a fact that both accept as a compliment. Their eyes share the same perky yet slightly squinty shape, and their smiles both consist of a thin upper lip and a curvy bottom one, which frame their perfectly straight dull white teeth. The girls even have the same freckle patterns: light brown dots spread

out across their noses and upper cheeks. Having years of hard labor and divorce-related stress under her belt, Mom appreciates any comment hinting that she still retained the youthfulness of

her daughter’s complexion. She now looks at her reflection in her water glass and her smile falters as she thinks how tired and ragged she looks. Her hands which shuffle the cards are filled

with cracks and creases, the result of working in a factory and spending long summer days out in the garden. She lifts her head and wishes to be as carefree and humorous as the girl before her,

wishes to be as smart and beautiful and brave. If she could do it all over again, Mom thinks, she might try and be courageous, like Daughter, and apply to a university or stand up for herself more or avoid those manipulative relationships which eliminated her want for romantic love.

Daughter is grateful for their physical similarities as well, although for a different reason. Daughter and Mom are practically carbon-copies of each other, says everyone, when it comes to beliefs, morals, mannerisms, and making tough decisions, and they even partake in the same pastimes: listening to retro rock and roll music, hosting nice warm bonfires, endeavoring everything arts and crafts, and devouring good old-fashioned juicy cheeseburgers. The pair has been each other’s best friends ever since Daughter grew up and gained a sense of identity. All conversations flow seamlessly and endlessly, for each woman brings up subjects which make the

other laugh or give thoughtful opinion on, and they each subconsciously know the other’s next sentence, making quips and reactions easy to form. Daughter views her mother as a future

version of herself, although she can only hope to have half of her strength and dedication.

Daughter finds herself staring at her mother, who begins to deal out the cards for another game of Rummy. The daughter shifts in her chair and props her elbow on the wobbly café table, resting her cheek against her hand. This woman before her has single-handedly survived a brutal divorce, worked two jobs, dedicated years of her life to climbing out of debt, and put her Daughter through college, all on a factory worker salary and minimal education, and yet, Mom still finds joy in life. Mom makes herself coffee every morning and sits on the back porch before work, closing her eyes and rocking back and forth to the tune of birds chirping. Mom makes new friends and goes to karaoke on Friday nights. Mom arranges dinner with her parents and they munch on popcorn while playing along with Family Feud on TV. Daughter picks up her dealt hand and smiles to herself, happy that her mom is happy, and feels proud to call her mother her creator and best friend.

“Ready to get your butt kicked?” Mom teases, and flips over the top card of the draw pile.

“Oh, you’re on!” Daughter retorts, and begins her turn.