Chapter Thirteen
Rise and shine,” Joy says.
It smells like coffee. I open my eyes. She’s standing at the end of our bed with a tray in her hands and a tea towel flung over her shoulder. “Happy birthday!” She grins.
I sit up while she puts the tray over my lap. I say, “Wow. Thank you so much.”
I rub my eyes. I slept through any noise she made in the kitchen.
“I tried to be quiet. I almost set the fire alarm off, but I opened the windows just in time. And don’t worry, I cleaned the kitchen as I cooked.
I’ve got a whole day planned for us. I’m going to have a quick shower, okay?
I got pancake batter in my hair. I need to wash it off so we can start celebrating. ”
I’m not fully awake yet. I sip coffee from the mug on the tray.
“Did I say thank you?” I ask as she walks into the bathroom.
She pops her head out of the doorframe. “Yes, you did. You’re welcome, babe.”
I hear the rumble of our water heater turning on and the patter of the shower running.
A breeze wafts through our window and moves my hair off my neck.
I look around our room. The clothes Joy and I wore yesterday are folded on a sitting chair in the corner.
It’s a bright, sunny morning. The light from the window creates a block of sun on the foot of our bed, where the cats are basking in its glow.
The shadow of my head and shoulders is obstructing the light, and Lou is lying slightly in the shade of me.
I close my eyes. I’m a year older. It’s strange, getting older. Sometimes I feel like an old lady remembering moments I had when I was younger. I’m conscious of how lucky I am to be alive, healthy, in a safe place where I live with someone I love and who loves me.
I open my eyes and look down at the breakfast Joy made. There are dried yellow roses in a little glass vase. A cup of cranberry juice. Sliced oranges. She’s placed blueberries in the pancakes to write out thirty-three, which is how old I’m turning today.
I puncture a berry with my fork. Purple juice saturates the surrounding pancake like a bruise.
Ben was thirty-three when we broke up. That was over ten years ago.
I find that staggering. The difference between me now and me ten years ago is stark.
The disparity feels as dramatic as the difference between me at eight and me at eighteen.
I was a different person. I didn’t hear the same assured voice in my head I have now.
I wasn’t a kid, but I had just been a kid.
I didn’t understand what I wanted in my life the way I do now.
I wish I didn’t think of Ben on my birthday.
I wish I could exist in this moment without carrying the baggage I’ve collected throughout my life.
I like being older. I’d rather be me now than me any age prior.
But there is this heaviness to aging. Who I am was built on the shoulders of the person I was last year, and the year before, and before, and before.
I’m not just thirty-three; I’m twenty-seven.
I’m eighteen. I’m nine. I was just born.
And I have to carry all of those versions of myself, the feelings they have, and the mistakes they’ve made, everywhere I go.
I close my eyes. If I’m an old lady remembering her life, I wonder if I’ll understand things differently than I did when I was thirty-three. I wonder what mistakes I will have made that are weighing on me. I hope I’m making fewer mistakes.
Ben died when he was forty-three. He was born in July.
On one of his birthdays, when we were together, we went to the batting cages.
He loved going there. He played baseball as a kid.
I remember cheering for him from behind a chain-link fence.
I can see his face grinning at me over his shoulder.
He had a bright, friendly face. Kind hazel eyes.
Ben called me “dove” because I tripped over one on our first date.
He and I were strolling in a park, eating soft-serve ice cream.
A pack of pigeons were scattered across the path ahead of us.
I wasn’t looking down, and a slow bird didn’t scuttle out of my way in time.
The bird was fine, but I fully tripped to the ground. My waffle cone went flying.
Ben rushed to help me up, concerned, but found me laughing.
I cackled. “Did I just trip over a fucking bird?”
He laughed too. We were both laughing so much that he struggled to help me up. He stood over me, holding both my hands, while we both wheezed, mouths open.
Later that afternoon, he changed my name in his phone to “Dove.”
I told him it wasn’t a dove I tripped over. It was a pigeon.
He said, “Aren’t doves just pretty pigeons?”
I didn’t know the answer, and I’ve never looked it up.
“Do you want your present before we go out, or later tonight?” Joy asks. She’s out of the shower, drying her hair with a towel.
“Whatever you want,” I say. She smells good. She uses this bodywash with patchouli, black pepper, and vanilla in it.
“I’m excited to give it to you,” she says while pulling it out of the closet. “Sophie and I got it while I was with her. I saw it and thought, Darcy’d love that.”
She puts the gift down on the bed. It’s big and rectangular.
I tear the paper and see that it’s a framed print.
It’s Auguste Toulmouche’s 1866 oil painting, The Hesitant Fiancée.
It features a disgruntled-looking bride-to-be sitting in an opulent room.
She’s being attended to by her bridesmaids while she sports a strikingly petulant expression.
I love art that features hostile, angry-looking women.
“Do you like it?” she asks.
I smile. “Yes. I love it.”
She grins, and I stand up to kiss her. I hold her arm above her head, and she spins like we’re dancing. We often pretend to dance. Though I guess it isn’t really pretending. We’re actually dancing, I guess.
I say, “Thank you for my present.”
Joy took me out for more coffee at a shop I like, then to a bookstore, and now a petting zoo. We just held yellow chicks and fed the goats. She packed us a picnic to take on a hike after this, and later, we’re meeting up with some of our friends for dinner.
I’m holding a baby lamb. Her fleece is soft, and she’s radiating this gentle heat. She feels lighter and more delicate than I expected her to. I’ve never held a baby lamb before. I’m overwhelmed by how vulnerable I sense she is, a trusting, fragile creature.
Joy is taking my photo. I smile, but I have tears in my eyes.
She tilts her head after taking the picture. “Are you touched by how sweet this little lamb is?”
I nod. “Yes.”
The lamb is sniffing my face.
We meet up with Hodan, Ada, Matthew, and Marco for dinner. We’re at a restaurant that serves small plates. We’ve just been served our drinks.
“So, have there been any more porn watchers in your library?” Hodan asks.
I put my mint julep down. “There’s actually been less lately than usual, despite the press.”
“There’s porn in the library?” Marco asks.
“Don’t get me started,” I warn him.
Hodan laughs.
“You’re the same age Jesus was when he died, did you know that?” Matthew says.
“Am I really?” I ask.
“Yes. Do you have any wisdom to share with us now that you’re Christ’s age?”
Everyone looks at me.
“Uh,” I say. “Don’t drink.” I sip my drink.
They roll their eyes. Ada says, “Come on, give us some advice. What’s something you learned this year?”
I clear my throat. “All right. Um. What happened this year? Oh, Joy and I got married.” I smile at Joy. She’s sitting beside me. She bats her eyes melodramatically at me. “That was the highlight, for sure. What else happened? Um—”
I feel a pang in my chest. I picture Ben’s face and feel my smile fade. My mouth is open, but I’m not saying anything. They’re all waiting for me to speak. “Uh,” I say. I picture Ben looking over his shoulder, smiling at me.
“I had a mental breakdown,” I say quietly.
Joy puts her hand on my leg under the table.
“You what?” Hodan leans forward.
“You had a mental breakdown?” Matthew asks.
Our waitress has come back to our table. She’s placing plates down. We’re all silent except for repeatedly saying, “Thank you” to her with pained smiles.
After she leaves, I put a brussels sprout in my mouth.
“What happened?” Marco asks.
My mouth is full. I cover it with my hand. “Maybe we should pretend I didn’t say that. Sorry. I’m a vibe killer.”
“Who among us hasn’t had a mental breakdown this year?” Hodan says generously.
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Joy says.
They all nod. Ada says, “Yeah. You don’t have to. If you want to talk about it, though—”
“Oh, I’ve been talking about it a lot already. I’m in therapy,” I say.
“We love therapy.” Hodan holds her glass up.
“I’m in therapy too,” Ada says.
“Aren’t we all in therapy?” Matthew says.
Everyone except Joy nods.
“I’m thinking of going, though,” she says. “As I’m sure everyone is aware, I have health anxiety. I’ve got an inkling, based on that anxiety, that I have many other very troubling issues too.”
We laugh.
“All right, so have you gotten any wisdom from therapy, then, Darcy?” Ada asks.
I consider the question. “Yeah, I guess. My therapist said something about it being okay to feel like life is meaningless.”
Matthew laughs. “Wow, where’d you find this therapist? A booth behind a Wendy’s?”
I laugh. “Yeah, exactly, we shared a Baconator and she said it matters that I feel like life is worthwhile, not necessarily that it means something.”
“Oh, I don’t mind that,” Ada says.
Joy holds her glass up. “Cheers to another meaningless, worthwhile year, then.”
We clink our glasses.
Ada touches Joy’s arm. “You didn’t tell us about your visit with your sister, Joy. How’s she doing? And how’s your niece?”
“They’re good,” Joy says. “January was born with some minor limb differences. She’s missing fingers.”
“Oh no, is she okay?” Marco asks.