Chapter 49
Chapter Forty-Nine
HAPPILY EVER DURING
Arden
Well, I’ve made it through the day. I think to myself as my hands ring the leather of the steering wheel. I’ve pulled into the driveway and put the car in park and am now just sitting here. Waiting. Not for anything in particular, not even hiding. Just that sometimes you need that extra minute, or fifteen, to finish the song that’s being played, give yourself a few extra minutes of reading time. Or just, experience the silence.
It’s acknowledged by all of our friends and family, even those that pre-date the ‘our’ portion of that sentence, that I am and always have been the most insufferable person on my birthday. And yet, I married the man who has always found a reason to celebrate, and of the things he would let pass without celebration, it would never be me. I understand why, we do have too much to celebrate now. Having reached that shockingly picture-perfect epilogue of our novel, even though the story has kept going.
At work I thought I escaped the usual lets-all-pile-into-the-conference-room-for-cake ordeal, but they caught me on the way out the door. I don’t actually blame them. As Will reminded me as we both left this morning, ‘birthdays give people a reason to do lots of things, but at a minimum, it gives everyone else a break from their day and a slice of cake. And you wouldn’t deny anyone cake, would you?’
The November air is in cahoots with that autumn golden hour light, and it catches on our bright marigold front door like it's winking at me.
Will claimed the garage door was broken, which is suspicious enough but more than that, our typically quiet street has a few additional and familiar cars. I smile despite myself, remembering how just this morning he'd kissed me goodbye with a reminder not to work too late. And now, even from where my car sits unmoving in our driveway, I can see that despite the curtains being drawn, there’s the slightest movement inside. Walking up the path, past Banks's scattered chalk drawings, and a magnifying glass and dry brush from her current obsession with archeology, ‘I swear, Will,’ I mutter under my breath at the sneaking suspicion I know what I’m walking into… Though, what promise I am making and to whom, I have no idea.
I push open the front door and step into our entryway with the patterned wallpaper that we spent three weeks debating before finally agreeing on. Even going so far as putting up a panel on each side of the wall to negate the other's point. The house is hushed, but not silent. And the absence of the dogs rushing to my feet tells me everything I already knew.
"SURPRISE!"
The shout comes from everywhere all at once, and suddenly our home is alive with faces I love. They emerge from behind furniture, from doorways, from corners I didn't even know could hide people. And there at the center of it all is Will, holding Banks on his hip, both of them beaming like they've just pulled off the greatest heist in history. And maybe we all have.
"Happy birthday, love," Will says, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice.
"I guess you forgot about the no birthdays rule?" I manage, still taking in the scene.
"More like reinterpreted the no birthdays rule." He passes Banks to Amanda, who's appeared beside him wearing what appears to be…
"Is that a beret?"
Because now I'm noticing the details, everyone is dressed in art museum-worthy attire. Ethan, emerging from behind our sofa, sports a Vincent van Gogh-style bandage over one ear ‘Too soon?’ . Rosalie and Simon are done up as American Gothic, complete with pitchfork. Amanda, besides the beret, has what appears to be a fake mustache and a sign reading ‘This is not a pipe.’
"Welcome," Will announces grandly, "to the Museum of Arden: A Retrospective Exhibition… definitely not a birthday.”
Our living room has been transformed into a gallery space. The walls are lined with photos from throughout my life, each with its own little museum didactic plate offering Will's distinctive commentary. I move closer to read one.
‘Motherhood: A Self-Portrait’
Mixed media: Coffee, chaos, and infinite love
On loan from Will Sterling’s private collection.
A photo of me and Banks, she can’t be more than a few weeks old here. We’re both asleep, likely passed out from our same hungry cry because she wouldn’t latch. But you would never have known it from this photo. It looks incredibly serene. So much so, that Will must have taken the picture to preserve the peace and quiet which we definitely rarely felt early on. We stayed in that apartment as just the family of five (including the dogs of course) for as long as we could. But eventually we outgrew the space, as we had with the others before. Somehow, our lives and all that was in them needed more room. But leaving that apartment was the hardest because it meant leaving her first moments behind as well.
The crowd of guests are all mingling as I tour my personal exhibition. Walking up to another…
‘Bullseye (2009)’
Mixed media: pizza grease and laughter
On loan from Ethan Hayes’ archival collection.
Ethan and I at the bar. A dart tucked behind my ear and another one between my fingers as I pretend to smoke it like a cigarette. My red lips pursed as I put on a show for the camera as I so often did. Never being good at darts, just good enough at distracting my partners. Which worked for most except Ethan.
‘The Literary Escape’
Mixed media: Dog-eared pages, margin notes, and stolen moments
On loan from Will Sterling’s private collection.
This wasn’t taken that long ago. The image of me curled up in the big reading chair in our bedroom with both dogs at my feet. My hand covering my mouth as I got to the plot twist I never saw coming that had me all too eager to throw the book across the room.
Finally reaching my favorite one yet. I wouldn’t exactly call it modern-impressionism, but those guys had similar paint strokes. This one, unlike the others, is not a photo.
‘Mommy - A Portrait’
Bancroft Sterling
Watercolor on paper.
On loan from the artist.
I walk past photos of me, different places and times. Concerts, coffee shops, holidays, and just Mondays. Photos of Will and I in Paris, and Rome. Sitting on the steps of the Met after we got a stern talking to from their tour guide about what they consider ‘inappropriate heckling.’ Which we standby was not heckling but a very appropriate, and well needed correction. Pictures from my parents, of us becoming parents, dog first, then human. So much of it is here. Some strung up, others propped up on easels. Even the occasional installation.
'Woman Dancing to ABBA While Thinking No One Can See Her'
Mixed media: joy, terrible choreography, and complete abandon
On loan from Will Sterling’s private collection.
"You didn't," I breathe, but I'm already laughing.
"Oh, but I did." Will appears beside me, warm and solid and impossibly pleased with himself. "Wait until you see the installation in the dining room. It's called ' Coffee Cups I Have Known: A Love Story in Caffeine.' That, however, is a temporary piece and will be dismantled once the show is over. The rest, I’m still considering leaving.”
I turn to face him properly, taking in his outfit. Crisp black shirt, the cuff of his sleeves rolled up to expose some of his forearms, now adorning matching friendship bracelets we made with Banks last week. He's dressed as a museum docent, complete with the name tag he used to wear, though it’s long since retired since he moved into academia full time. I know he still strolls the halls on occasion. We’ve even made a habit to go back and sit on that bench when we need to run away, to have a serious conversation, or just to remember our youth. The man pictured is younger than the one in front of me, with the shyest whisper of grey tucked by his temples.
"How long have you been planning this?" I’m unable to keep the amazement from my voice.
"Planning? Please,” he scoffs with theatrical indignation. “You know I don’t plan. This was completely spontaneous. I just happened to have several dozen professionally printed museum plates lying around."
"And the catering?" I gesture to the spread of food I can see in the kitchen, all my favorites arranged like still life paintings.
"Pure coincidence. You know how sometimes you accidentally order exactly the right amount of food for thirty-seven people?"
"And Banks kept this secret?" Our daughter, now sitting with Ethan and his son Oliver, both kids wearing tiny matching Museum-Geek shirts and berets, waves at us.
"That," Will admits, "was the real masterpiece."
I shake my head, taking in more details. The way the furniture has been rearranged to create perfect viewing galleries, the soft museum-style lighting, the gentle classical music playing in the background. "I can't believe you did all this."
"Really? Because this is kind of my thing." He pulls me closer, speaking softly so only I can hear. "Besides, I had help. Turns out our friends are good at keeping secrets especially when they think they might get some embarrassing photos out of it. Of course I delivered ."
"I hate you." My smile betrays me completely.
"You love me," he corrects with absolute certainty. "It's been extensively documented. There's a whole exhibit about it in the study. 'The Evolution of Love: From Bathroom Hookups to Bathroom Remodels.' " The soft wink tells me he’s joking and my shock of horror dissipates as his hand wraps my face. His thumb stroking my cheek which is round with joy as he brings his mouth to mine granting me a kiss of all the moments not pictured on the walls.
Simon appears beside us, still in his American Gothic costume. "Please tell me you got to the guest book yet. Will made us all leave reviews. He really wanted to make sure we shouted out the tour guide. You’d think he had a complex about it or something."
I let Will lead me to a leatherbound book on a pedestal in the corner. Opening it, I find messages from our friends written in their best art critic voices:
"The piece titled 'Arden Attempts to Cook Dinner' was particularly moving. The smoke alarm really tied the whole experience together. Five stars." - Ethan
"The early works showing the subject pining were a bit derivative, but the later pieces displaying domestic bliss really demonstrate artistic growth." - Amanda
"The collaborative piece 'Banks's First Steps' brings tears to the eyes, though the artists' commentary of 'holy shit she's moving' perhaps lacks sophistication." - Rosalie
"Hey," Will protests, reading over my shoulder. "That was very sophisticated . "
I'm about to respond when Banks breaks away from her game with Ollie and runs to us, her beret askew. I'm already being pulled along by Banks toward the dining room, where indeed, every coffee cup I've ever owned seems to be arranged in chronological order, including the ‘ceci n'est pas une mug’ mug from Will's old apartment.
I'm standing in our kitchen as Will taps his champagne glass ringing the rooms to attention. I don’t mind being the center of attention, I used to revel in it. But the illumination of it now is less of a spotlight and more of a soft glow.
"To my wife," he starts, "Who, as everyone knows, absolutely despises her birthday with the burning passion of, well… her." Our friends laugh, because of course they do. Will has always known how to work a room.
"You see, everyone has a glass of champagne. And as you know, darling, we can’t waste champagne, even on the worst of days, we pop a bottle of champagne and find reasons to celebrate. But I’m sorry, I can’t commiserate with you this time, because there is nothing in my life I would rather celebrate, than you." He raises his glass higher, and I notice how the golden liquid catches the light. The same way it reflects in his eyes right back to me. "To the woman who somehow makes everyone's life better just by existing. Who probably has a much cleverer, and definitely dirtier toast prepared, because let's be honest, she always does."
"To Arden," he continues, his voice getting that soft quality it gets when he's being completely sincere. "Who hates being celebrated but deserves it more than anyone I know. So here's to you, darling. You can sulk about your birthday with your champagne, and we'll all just keep right on adoring you anyway."
He winks at me across our large kitchen island, past the ridiculous number of small basil plants mingled with flower arrangements, and there is no part of my smile, or myself I could ever hide from him.
The house settles into that particular kind of quiet that follows a really good party, the kind where the walls seem to still sing with laughter and the air holds onto fragments of joy like fireflies. Streamers droop lazily from our ceiling beams with their shadows across the walls in the dim light.
Banks and Oliver fell asleep in her room hours ago, somewhere in the middle of Mamma Mia. Their latest obsession. I blame Will. Even with the guests and music, we could hear their little feet bouncing and singing along. It wasn’t until they fell silent Ethan went to check on them and confirmed they were both completely knocked out. The sugar rush from the birthday cake and nonstop Super Trooper marathon exhausted them.
Ethan helps straighten up some, asks if Oliver can stay the night, wishes me a happy birthday and heads home. We’ve talked before about how lucky they are to have each other, and while we hope they stay friends as we have, maybe without some of the detours, it's nice for them to have each other now.
The crowd dissipates as it does. And I find Will by the kitchen sink with his sleeve rolled up washing up a bit. The music has changed back to the playlists of our home as I hear him harmonizing with the running water. And I would walk five-hundred miles… and I would walk five-hundred more.
I duck under his arm to join him as he kisses the top of my head. Taking my spot next to him at the sink and grabbing a dish towel to dry.
"So," Will says, his hands deep in soapy water, "should we address the fact that our daughter is currently having a sleepover with a boy?"
I snort, taking in the aftermath of what Will has dubbed 'The Greatest Exhibition of Our Time' and it feels like it. Empty champagne bottles standing like tiny glass soldiers on every surface, glitter scattered across the hardwood floors like daisies.
"This isn’t the first time, we literally used to put them in a crib together to stop them from crying. Plus, they fell asleep watching Meryl Streep and Colin Firth wearing spandex and singing about the Greek islands."
"Still," he says, absently handing me another dish, "I wasn’t expecting them to be curled up like puppies in her reading nook."
"You mean the reading nook we built specifically so she could, and I quote, 'have a place to run away?’ "
"I just didn’t think it would be with a boy. I don’t know when we need to be concerned about it." In some ways I know what he means. They are best friends now. They are young and don’t understand the societal divisions structured around gender in a way that will pressure them out of this ignorant bliss.
“I think we have a little more time before this becomes a Joey and Dawson situation” I say as I take another dish.
I reach for a champagne cork that was left on the counter and a sharpie from the ‘everything drawer’ scrawling ‘40th’ on the side of it to add to the collection. The glass apothecary style jars where we’ve kept all the champagne moments over the years. We’ve filled up more than a few, always slightly different shapes and sizes. When we can adding the reason to the cork. Some are better than others. Taylor Swift Eras Tour was a great cork. IKEA trip , not so much. Though Will stills swears that successfully assembling the three bookshelves without divorce, or murder , was worth celebrating.
"Should we clean up?" I ask, making absolutely no move to do so more than the handful of dishes I wiped down.
"Definitely," Will agrees, pulling me closer. "Right after I finish cataloging this moment for the next exhibition."
"Oh? And what would you call this piece?"
He pretends to think, adopting his former museum docent voice with practiced precision, and I hear him as clearly as I did that first day, where his voice called to something sleeping inside me, waking up parts I didn't know were dreaming.
“Happily Ever After.”
The song changes like it was part of the plan. It plays in a way our feet always find familiarity as we danced to it in black tie for the first time as husband and wife. His soapy hands grab mine and slowly spins me as does regardless of music, location, or audience. We dance through the gallery of our life, celebrating mine, buzzed on the bubbles of commiseration that taste so much like happiness.
I look at this man who turns ordinary moments into exhibitions and bad days into celebrations. I lean into him, breathing in the familiar scent of warm amber and fresh laundry, the smells of home. In the window, I can see our reflection, the two of us, surrounded by love and art and memories, dancing in our own private museum. And I think about the college girl who lost herself in the rejection of love, the young woman who was desperate to prove herself in her choices, the sleepless new mother who googled ‘is it normal if baby breathes this way’ while clutching cold coffee, the associate who decided that victory is not in climbing the highest ladder but the right one, the wife who knows that love isn't just about grand gestures but about someone who just knows when to pick up a box of tampons.
Now here I am at forty, somehow all of these women at once. Their collective wisdom, battle scars and triumphs, wrapped up in this moment, swaying to music in our kitchen as they watch from some part deep within me, knowing that they all have their happily ever after.
Right here.
In the middle of our life.