Mom used to say that everyone’s entitled to a diversion. Dad had a bad knee and a bad heart. Instead of bowling or golfing like other fathers, Dad's diversion was gambling.

It was the 1950s. Like many families, the television was our main source of entertainment. Most people watched Ozzie and Harriet. Leave It to Beaver. Our Miss Brooks. Instead we watched every baseball and football game. Three black and white TVs blasted at once while Dad yelled at the screens. Those fricking Packers! Those goddamned Yankees! He liked to bet against the spread. If the sky were blue, he'd bet against the sun.

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But watching miniature men scuttling on a screen didn't stay exciting for long. At the end of the day the picture faded, the light vanished, and all that was left was a dot. Soon we were flying from Miami to Nassau each month. Since Dad gambled a lot, the trips were always free. At home Dad seldom moved a muscle. To throw a baseball. To help with homework. But his energy at the craps and blackjack tables was superhuman. Like he flung on a cape and clicked his heels three times.

The routine never varied. We'd spend an hour in a restaurant gulping down dinner. Somewhere fancy with red leather booths and chandeliers. Then he'd tuck a pack of cigarettes into his shirt pocket and kiss my forehead for luck. Gotta go! he'd say. The sirens are calling! Then he'd head for the casino skip-hopping on that one bad leg.

Sometime the next day he'd surface for lunch. But in the meantime, he'd stay up all night chugging free whiskeys--long after my brother, sister, and I had gone to bed. It was Mom's job to keep an eye on Dad. So she played the nickel slots, her arm cranking, the change jingling, praying that we'd leave the hotel with our wallets intact.

My brother and sister were seven and five years older. They'd spend their days and evenings in the casino as well. For as long I could remember, they looked like adults--like they popped out of the womb full-grown. My sister with her Brillo hair and waistless dresses. My brother with his paunch and pasty skin.

It never occurred to them to keep me company. I was irrelevant. A penny on the floor. A lipsticked napkin. The curled sleeve of a used straw.

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By the 1960s, I had learned to fend for myself. Usually, I'd spend the day by the beach. Hours later, I'd meet up with my family for dinner sporting a blistering sunburn. Though the Bahamian sun was particularly strong, no one bothered with protective lotions. No one fussed with soothing creams.

During one trip I came down with a 104 degree fever. Though my skin was on fire, I shivered with chills. Never had I felt so hot and cold at the same time! Since Dad was on a roll at the craps table, Mom hailed a taxi. Then she instructed the driver to take us to the nearest hospital.

A ramshackle building lay hidden in a copse of trees. A ceiling fan thunked. A faded picture of Queen Elizabeth graced the wall. The doctor, sweaty in his short sleeves, just shrugged his shoulders. "You should keep her inside for a while," he whispered. "Look," he said. "Look how she burns."

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Since expenses were on the house, I learned early on to charge all costs to the hotel room. Eventually I took up waterskiing to pass the time. I'd hire a boat and a Bahamian captain and spend hours by myself skimming the ocean waves. If I was really bored, I'd play tetherball and shuffleboard against imaginary foes. I'd come out a winner each time.

The nights were the loneliest. One weekend we stayed in a hotel room on the ground floor just a few yards from the shore. Since my family was holed up in the casino, I learned to put myself to bed. I was ten years old and used to being unsupervised.

I knew something was wrong the moment I turned the key and walked inside our room. A lamp had been turned on. The sliding glass doors were open. A lit cigarette lay burning in an ashtray on the desk. For a few seconds, I stopped and stared. Then gradually my eyes took in the opened drawers and the disheveled clothes thrown to the floor.

Since I couldn't reach my folks, I called the operator. Then I stayed still while the clock ticked. Whoever robbed our room had left moments earlier. It was an hour before security and the Bahamian police showed up, even longer before my family trickled home.

Meanwhile I stood in that doorway trembling and shaking. And for years later, each time I was alone in a hotel room, I'd relive the terror. Somewhere I'd see a shadow lurking or spot footprints on the carpeting or smell a musty cigarette.

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With time, Dad's risk-taking grew riskier. He craved more excitement and bigger thrills. Within a few years, my family was heading to Las Vegas as well.

All the flashy resorts opened their doors. Though I missed the beach, I managed to keep busy by stalking celebrities. Me and my autograph album were inseparable. I tracked down Sammy Davis Jr.'s suite and cornered George Hamilton working on his tan by the pool. Everything was comped. The meals. The concerts. Tony Bennett. Judy Garland. Even Elvis. I saw them all.

But now the nights were even lonelier. The hotels were huge and the corridors endless. I tried to keep occupied because I hated going back to the room by myself. Instead I checked out the lounge shows. Sure there were minimums to get in. But I'd say to the server, no problem. Just put the tab on my room and bring me a bunch of Shirley Temples. A few minutes later ten ginger ales spiked red with grenadine would be sitting in front of me, each with a cherry and tiny umbrella stuck on the rim. Dressed in my best dress and penny loafers, I'd be invisible. I'd find a table in the last row far from the stage. Then I'd watch people like Vicki Carr or Jack Jones sing songs that were hits long before I was born.

Of course, the main show was someplace else. This was Vegas after all. The room was hazy with cigarette smoke and loud from the drunks. Up close the glamorous waitresses looked clown scary, their faces plastered with pancake makeup, their bright red lipstick smeared. Their fishnet stockings had tears and holes that even the dim light couldn't hide. I had no idea how old they were. In a blink they delivered cocktails and collected cash while warding off boozy hands.

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Inevitably the show always ended. Someone turned off the spotlights and turned up the canned music while the audience headed back to the casino. Reluctantly I'd work my way toward our room. Then I'd bolt the doors and fasten the safety chains two or three times. To make sure that all potential thieves knew our room was occupied, I'd leave the television on real loud and nod off on the couch.

One late night in Vegas I was in such a deep sleep I didn't hear my family. They banged on the door and shouted my name for fifteen minutes. They rang and re-rang the telephone. Then finally, the hotel manager called the fire department to help them break their way in. It wasn't until the following morning that I learned about the ruckus I caused.

"For crying out loud!" my mother yelled. "What were you thinking?"

"For Christ's sake," said Dad. "We probably woke up half the hotel!"

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One decade passed and then another. My parents died while my siblings and I drew further apart. But the lure of a vacation pulls like an undertow. Along with our kids and grandkids, my husband and I venture back to the resorts. It's a diversion, I suppose. The over-eating. The over-spending. The tumult and the crowds. Of course, I ask for a room on the highest floor. And I never have and never will touch an alcoholic drink.

But the children are happy. They romp at the pool and slide down slides. They have fun like fun's a given. I have been and always will be the official watcher. I must be quite a sight. The old lady bathing suit. The straw hat. The sunscreen that's slathered on like war paint. Even with sunglasses, I squint.

But every now and then I gaze into shadows, and the past confronts me like a slap. Once again I see that little girl playing by herself, that row of empty glasses on a table, that wisp of cigarette smoke snaking in the breeze.