Love + Family: The Birthday (2 page)

No, it’s the aftermath. It’s the time spent
wondering if the words we hurled at each other with increasing
speed, and deadly aim, were enough to kill our relationship,
permanently.

The silence, the separation, the hurt and
anger poisoning the air makes those the worst, the hardest, the
most terrible days in our marriage.

Somewhere along the way, we learned how to
get through the argument, how to reach for the center, the middle
ground, and trust that the other will be there take hold of the
pain and sooth it away.

To forgive.

For us, this middle ground is music. There
are certain songs we’ve both fallen in love with over the years,
special songs we reserve for those times when we—and our
marriage—need them. Hearing those first notes begin to play answers
the question ripping its way through the soft flesh of my heart:
“Is this the end?”

Suddenly, it no longer matters who started
the fight, or who fueled it, or who will be the first to say “I’m
sorry.” Yes, sometimes it takes more than one song, more than one
day, to bend the anger enough to reach out and take a hold of each
other, to feel heartbeats and warm skin and the slide of a stubbly
cheek over a smooth one.

“Mom, why are you rubbing your cheek like
that? It’s weird.”

I stare down at my son, still on the kitchen
floor, and wiggle my eyebrows at him. He’s just barely still young
enough to find my face tricks amusing. Soon, I’ll have to learn a
whole new set of ploys to distract him, and change the
conversation.

I turn my attention back to the list of
chores I’d written out for myself this morning. Painfully few items
sport confidence-building checkmarks next to them.

At least I’d managed to accomplish the tasks
I ranked as most important—groceries, delivering a forgotten field
trip form to school, and mailing thank you notes on behalf of a
successful fundraiser held last week.

But the manicure? Never happened. I give a
low whistle as I survey my short, plain nails.

Lunch with my best friend? Ended up being
coffee and energy bars on the sidelines of little league.

The dog walks over and flings her body in a
semi-circle around my ankles. My toes are instantly warm—and
trapped. She whines pitifully in protest, no doubt, that an hour
ago I swiped her favorite toys and tossed them in the washing
machine.

I suppose in the animal world, removing the
stains and smells and slobber from my dog’s plush squeaker
collection shows the ultimate disregard for all of the hard work
she’s put into making them unfit for human contact.

“Why did you take the toys away?”

For a second, I think the dog—already
convinced she’s human—has finally mastered English. I look back
down at my feet and see that my daughter has joined her brother on
the cold tiles of the kitchen floor.

I don’t answer the question. I’m wondering if
I should make them get up and relocate to the family room carpet.
But I don’t. They look so adorable, so relaxed, like sunbathers on
the first day of summer.

With time moving so fast I’m determined to
hold on to all the sweetness I can find in a day.

“Don’t you love her anymore?” My son’s chin
rests against the dog. His voice is muffled by her thick coat.

I wonder why he’s so focused on the question
of love, today. He’s fast approaching that age when boys discover
girls, and the first blush of hormones turns into trading notes in
class, sitting together at lunch, and calling each other on the
phone.

I’m dreading it.

I don’t want him to outgrow childhood, and
outgrow the reach of my mommy role as Most Important Person.

“Of course, I love her,” I say. “That’s
precisely why I cleaned her toys. She can have them back
tomorrow.”

The kids cuddle up closer to our dog,
tangling themselves into a heap of limbs, pajamas and fluffy
fur.

And they begin to sing. It’s a song I thought
they had long-ago forgotten. A child’s song, soft and happy. I
stand completely still, afraid my slightest movement will end the
magic.

I hear the garage door rising. As my husband
walks through the door, I hold a finger in front of my lips. He
nods, softly, and flashes me a smile. I want to relive this moment
later, much later, in life when we sit our old bones down in
rocking chairs and hold wiggling grandchildren on our knees.

Our children finish the last few lines of the
song before calling out, in unison, “Hi Dad!”

His reply is drowned out by the chimes of the
doorbell. The kids and dog are up in a flash in a mad-scrabble race
to the front door. Their favorite babysitter has arrived. I know
all three are thrilled by the prospect of no parents for the
evening.

My son will get to watch that absurd reality
show, thinking I’ll never be the wiser. My daughter, who greatly
aspires to be sixteen, will spend the evening being dazzled by
stories about high school. And the babysitter, about to get royally
paid for spending the evening texting half the teens in our zip
code, will be adored by all present.

As I listen to hurried chatter of excited
voices, my eyes remain on the now-empty spot on the kitchen floor.
Is this what it will feel like when they’ve gone off into the
world? Will I still hear their laughter echoing in this house?

“I love you.” My husband’s words are soft in
the quiet room. I know the exact look on his face when he speaks
with that tone—the tone he’s been using lately when he talks about
us having another child, one more child, before no more are
possible.

I love this man. I love seeing his sleepy
eyes in the morning. I love holding his body against mine in the
night. I love to hear him tell the same stories over and over
again.

And I love his children.

One more?

Yes.

The word crosses my lips just as the dog, her
mood much improved, comes flying into the kitchen. She dances, and
whines, and slobbers until my husband relents and reaches for her
leash. I always get a good laugh out of their little routine; as
far as I’m concerned, she’s the one taking him for a walk.

But I do wish, just this once, her timing had
been better.

“Cakes,” my husband says, using the nickname
he gave me back when we were dating. “We can’t be late. We’ve got
theater tickets, remember?”

He says the words proudly.

I know he’s lying.

Today is my birthday. I am one giant step
closer to a number that used to seem impossibly far away. I
remember all the penny-wishes I used up as a kid, trying to get to
double digits faster.

And now I keep reaching for a pause button
that doesn’t exist.

I don’t necessarily want to go back in time.
Every now and again, I just want to stop it from moving forward.
Too much is out of focus, happening too fast.

I won’t know what it’s like to live these
years until they have long since passed me by.

Right now, I’m not aware of the background
sounds and smells, the details of images that will take center
stage when my eyes no longer see much, and my legs won’t carry me
anywhere worth going.

Maybe that’s why life is lived on
fast-forward. Maybe that’s why we’re not able—not designed—to
pause, to catch our breaths, to gain perspective. Perhaps we are
each walking around with giant nets, capturing every detail that
can be collected. Somewhere along the line, these details are
turned into memories that are so real we can touch them and hold
them, just as we ourselves used to be held.

They become the liquid gold of old age.

The healing tonic no lab can create, no
doctor can prescribe, no talent can fake.

“Cakes? The theater?” My husband points to my
robe.

I look at him, trying to absorb every detail
about him, about this minute.

You see, tonight is my surprise birthday
party. He thinks I don’t know. He’s been twisting himself into
knots for weeks trying to hide the evidence.

I’ve enjoyed every adorable moment of it.

“I’m so impressed you got theater tickets for
my birthday!” I kiss him. It never hurts to play along, not when
he’s gone to so much trouble to honor me. “Give me ten
minutes!”

I climb the stairs and pad softly down the
hall to our master bedroom. Earlier, I’d pulled my favorite
cocktail dress out of my packed closet and noticed it looked
rumpled from being crushed against other clothes. The hour had been
far too late to dash to the cleaners and beg for mercy, so I’d
steamed up the shower and hooked my dress over the glass door to
try and freshen it up a bit.

The truth is, I don’t really didn’t care if
it isn’t crisp and perfect. What’s a wrinkle or two, anyway?

How easy it is to be cavalier when the
creases are in my clothes.

I flip on the bathroom light and position
myself in front of the mirror. The lines in my forehead stare back
at me. So do the grooves in the skin around my eyes and mouth. My
husband says he likes them, says they are evidence of a happy
life.

I make faces at my reflection. As long as I’m
not smiling or laughing, the wrinkles aren’t too noticeable, I
decide. But who chooses a life—or a week or a day—without laughter
simply to mask the passing of time?

The shoes I’d planned to wear have
disappeared. With a little time and effort, I’m certain I could
locate them in one of my daughter’s preferred hiding places. But
time is what I don’t have right now. I don’t even have the time to
get annoyed.

The dog, likely in protest of the toy-washing
incident, has licked my patchwork evening bag—a prized bargain I
unearthed years back at the outlets—from top to bottom. Not wanting
to touch it, I use my toes to tuck it under the bed and out of
sight.

The jewelry I’d selected with such enthusiasm
this afternoon no longer appeals to me. I always wear the same
earrings, anyway. Gold and dangly, neither fancy nor casual. They
were my anniversary gift from my husband the year our daughter was
born. I still tell him he overspent, but to his satisfaction I wear
them almost every day.

“He loves you” they seem to sing out to me
when they catch the light and shine it on my reflection in the
mirror. They make me happy, remind me of him.

Through the open bathroom door I hear my
husband call out my name. I toss my robe aside and pull the dress
from its hanger. Mindful of my fresh lipstick, I carefully lower it
over my head, and take satisfaction in the bright color and good
fit of the fabric.

“Cakes!” The urgency in my husband’s voice
increases. “Cakes, we’ll be late. You look beautiful even in your
bathrobe. You always look beautiful. We need to get on the road
soon—traffic and all that.”

Knowing this man as I do, loving him, our
children, our life, I suspect his main concerns are as follows: his
excitement to surprise me—his beloved wife, the mother of his
children—with a special evening he has personally planned; and the
urgent pull of his empty stomach.

But don’t hold me to the order.

I pull the last of the Velcro rollers from my
bangs, give my hair a quick brush, a few pats, and I’m ready. My
fingers pass over the light switch as I’m leaving the room.
Happy birthday
, I say to myself.

Wearing my fancy dress, my not so fancy
earrings, my wrong color shoes, and my everyday purse slung across
my shoulders, I step out into the hall looking much the way I
always do: quality, well-made pieces that weren’t put together in
quite the right way.

Me. In a nutshell.

At the top of the stairs, I stop and listen
to the sounds of my world floating up from below. These are my real
gifts, my liquid gold.

I hear them with my heart. I store them in my
soul.

I think of the memories we’ve made together,
of the memories yet to come.

And I am no longer afraid of the years
already gone by.

All that I have now, at this very moment,
will again be mine. Yes, a long time from now—when I am an old, old
woman—my life will be returned to me, to hold, to savor, to love
again.