Chapter 37
Today was supposed to be wonderful. I was supposed to see him.
He was supposed to pick me up and drive me to Beluga Point, where we were supposed to have a picnic overlooking the inlet.
But then he texted this morning saying that he just couldn’t make it happen, that today was turning out to be a busy one.
Gwen’s best friend’s fortieth that he forgot about and a dental appointment for Gregory.
He apologized profusely, and I texted him back that it was totally okay, the way I was supposed to.
But it’s not okay. I’m not okay. It’s stupid, that I care this much about something so small. It was a fucking picnic.
“Well happy birthday, sweetheart,” Mom says as she stands over the trash bin, scraping off the burnt edges of a cinnamon roll with a butter knife. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get off work, but I figured we could have a nice morning together. Make it special regardless.”
I try to drum up a half-enthusiastic response but it falls flat and Mom asks if I’m alright, then I try to drum up a half-enthusiastic response to that and it falls flat too.
She keeps scraping the burnt parts of the cinnamon rolls while she looks at me, the sound of the scrapes melodic and looming.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” she asks. “Because your eyebrows are bent in that furrowy way they get when you’re deep in thought about something. Brooding. Not that you’re a sulker. I didn’t raise a sulker. Just…heavy. You seem heavy.”
I hate that thing moms have, where they can sense exactly how you’re feeling in exactly the moments you’d least like them to.
“Yep. Fine. Good,” I say.
“Is there someone you’d rather be spending your birthday with?” Mom asks.
“No, of course not,” I lie. “Happy to be spending it with you.”
“Well good, cuz I’m happy to be spending it with you, too.
At least your birthday morning.” She bends over to kiss me on the top of my head and sets what’s left of a cinnamon roll in front of me, then she pours us each a steaming mug of coffee and motions her head toward the four gifts in the middle of the table, wrapped in old newspaper.
“You gonna open ’em? I’ve gotta run here in a sec, but I wanted to see your reaction.”
The first present is a zip-up sherpa hoodie from Target. The second, a jumbo pack of Sour Patch Kids. The third, a tube of mascara. “That’s your favorite kind, right?” she asks. It’s hers.
I unwrap the fourth present. It’s a rectangular box bearing the photo of an aggressively lime-green electric scooter.
“Isn’t that the one you wanted?”
It is the one I wanted. Three years back. Before I could drive.
“I knew you’d love it, been waiting so long,” Mom says before I can react, tears brimming at the thoughtfulness of her own gift.
“I feel so bad I couldn’t get it for ya earlier, but what’s that saying?
Good things come to those who wait, right?
And I know you’ll have to wait a while longer, till the weather clears, but what’s another couple months, right? ”
“Right,” I nod.
“Alright, sweetheart,” she says, patting my shoulder twice. “I love you so much. Mwa. I’ll be back later, let’s try to grab dinner or something—you, me, and Tony, if he’s up for it.”
And she’s out the door. I chuck my cinnamon roll into the trash, rip the top off the bag of Sour Patch Kids, and shovel a handful into my mouth.
I run to my bedroom and hurl myself onto my bed, whipping open my laptop, desperate to chase away this heavy emptiness.
To fill it with items that can carry me away, that can lift me into a version of myself who is light and whole and happy and satisfied with what she’s got.
Who wants for nothing because she has everything she could possibly need.
I add and add and add. If capris don’t do it, maybe a maxi skirt will. Or a shimmering cream eyeshadow. Or a pair of patterned tights. Or a stupid fucking sweater with a stupid fucking boatneck that doesn’t even suit me.
And then my phone lights up with a text. Surprise! Was able to skip Gwen’s friend’s party (thank God), so I’ve got a couple hours to spare to celebrate a certain someone’s birthday…
What if Mom had gotten off work and planned a day for her and me to spend together?
What if I was bored and went to Frannie’s?
What if I’d been called in to work? He texted like he knew I didn’t.
I wouldn’t. Like he knew there was nothing I could possibly be doing that I wouldn’t drop in a second to be with him. And he’s right.
let’s do it, I text. when will you be here?