Chapter Twenty-three
Dallas
It’s been hours. I’ve walked the dog. Shoveled the porch. Chopped wood. Patrolled the pond for more breaches in the ice. I even snuck back in the cabin and refilled the coolers with snow when she was in the shower.
Marti probably thinks I’m avoiding her. Punishing her for what happened yesterday. She’d be wrong. I’d have worked my fingers to the bone whether or not she was here. It’s the only way to keep the thoughts at bay.
But the thing is—it’s not working. Every swing of the ax has me seeing DJ’s face. Every crack of the wood has me hearing his laughter. Every goddamn tear that freezes on my cheek reminds me of the years I’ve spent without him.
Bex went inside long ago. He’s smart like that. Me—not so much. My fingers are so cold I can’t even wrap them around the ax anymore. I sit on my chopping stump and look back at my cabin, watching the trail of smoke plume from the fireplace vent in the roof.
I sniff, and the smell of baked goods permeates my nostrils. She’s baking? But the oven doesn’t work.
My thoughts shift, and I remember last night. She read to me. No one has ever read to me. I mean, I’m sure Mom did when I was little. But that’s different. Hearing Marti’s soothing voice as she read one of my favorite thrillers—is that what caused me to sleep so well?
I cock my head. I don’t even remember dreaming. Did I? Not a night has gone by in the past few years without me dreaming of Phoebe or DJ. It’s crazy to think that Marti reading to me was better than any sleeping pill I’ve ever taken.
As I ponder this, I see movement in the window. Marti is standing there in my Yale hoodie. She smiles and waves. Why isn’t she pissed at me? She has every right to be. I was basically a dick to her this morning. I seem to be excelling at that lately.
I wave back, my fingers stinging under my thick gloves. But I don’t smile. Today is not a day for smiling.
She sits on the sill, sipping something from a mug. It must be something warm and I momentarily imagine that warmth spreading throughout her body.
I shake my head, disgusted with myself that I’m thinking such thoughts on today of all days. I turn, pull my keys from my pocket, and get in my truck. I start the engine and blast the heater. I’ll sit here until my fingers thaw. Can’t chop wood with frozen fingers. But with the way the truck is facing, I can’t help but look toward the cabin. At her. Perched on my windowsill. I’m a good thirty feet away, but things pass between us. Things I haven’t felt in—
I cut the engine, get out of the truck, and slam the door way too hard, causing snow to come loose and cover my boots. In an attempt at even more avoidance, I busy myself scraping the few feet of snow off the hood even though it’ll likely get covered again. I look at the drift that surrounds the truck, wondering just how long it’ll be before Luther or a snowplow will reach us. Wondering just how I feel about it.
Being back in the cold has my fingers hurting again. Knowing I shouldn’t stay out here any longer, I gather an armful of wood and carry it inside.
Upon opening the door, I’m hit with a gush of warm-ish air along with the overwhelming scent of… cake?
I pile the wood in the corner and glance at the kitchen. Marti is biting that lower lip again—this time in apparent nervousness-–and her focus is all over the place, except on me. She’s sitting at the table. The table that is, in fact, holding a cake.
A cake with three candles.
I power over and sneer at her. “Is this some sort of sick joke? What the fuck, Marti?”
She holds her hands up. “I know how this must look. But please let me explain. Then, if you want me to throw it out in the snow, I’ll do it.”
“What the hell is there to explain? You made a birthday cake for my dead son.”
She nods. “Yeah. I did.”
Sickness grips my stomach. “Why?”
“Sit.” She motions to the other chair. “Please.”
I do, albeit reluctantly. I cringe at the thought of looking at the cake though, but my eyes go there anyway, no matter how much I don’t want them to. Three fucking candles. Jesus.
“After my, um… losses,” she says, “I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to celebrate any holiday or birthday again. But Asher, he was far wiser than I gave him credit for. He forced me to acknowledge those important days. It was hard that first year, I’m not going to lie. It’s still hard, even years later. It’s difficult celebrating anything knowing they’re not with me.”
She picks at a spot on the table, holding a lighter in the other hand. At least she didn’t light the candles. That would just be… wrong.
“On March fifth, when I was thirteen, Asher came home from work with a cake, and I almost threw it at him. He got so mad at me, upset that I didn’t want to acknowledge our father’s birthday and celebrate him for everything he was to us and all he did for us.” She nods at the cake. “So from then on, we celebrated his birthday and those of others we’d lost. We’d eat the entire cake, the whole time sharing stories about our loved ones. On our dad’s birthday, we talk about what we loved about him, and sometimes what we hated, like when he made us pull weeds. When we celebrate Mom’s birthday, I listen to Asher recall his memories of her. It's a way for us to remember. To feel close to them. To honor them. To honor everyone .
“If you think it’s stupid, I’ll throw it out. But, Dallas, it would be great if you could try. Just a little. Even if you don’t say it out loud, maybe you could think of a happy memory of DJ. And if you wanted, you could light the candles and wish him a happy heavenly birthday. It’ll be hard. But one thing I promise you—it’ll also be cathartic.” She quiets for a moment. “What do you say?”
I stare at the cake. The cake for my son. The one that should have been baked by my wife. One that DJ would blow out the candles on as he stood up on a chair, leaning over the table.
I can almost see it—DJ at three years old, falling face first into the cake to get a bite as I record it on my phone for all of eternity. Or maybe he would reach out with his bare hands and squish a fistful between his fingers, licking it off while telling me how much he likes the sugary icing.
Prickly tears run down the back of my throat. I swallow hard and close my eyes. “He… he had just learned how to sit up. We would prop him up with pillows, terrified he’d fall over. And when he did”—my voice cracks with emotion—“he would laugh. He thought falling over was the funniest thing.”
I get up quickly and pace the room, my chest tightening with each step. I spare a glance at Marti, and she offers me an encouraging nod and a sad smile. Why am I going along with this? It’s not making me feel any better. It’s only dredging up memories that died along with them.
I draw in a stabbing lungful of air and continue. “He wasn’t crawling yet. But he’d do this thing when he was on his stomach. His butt would go in the air and he’d inchworm his way across the room.” A picture of him doing it appears in my head and I chuckle. Then I cry out in pain because it hurts so bad.
Arms come around me in a warm embrace, holding me tight. I sob into the side of her head. She cries with me, somehow sharing a pain I doubt she could even possibly imagine. I don’t know how long she holds me like this, or how many tears I cry, but afterwards I realize I feel… better .
Feeling like a blubbering idiot, I pull away and cock my head. “How did you bake a cake without an oven?”
“It wasn’t that hard,” she says, wiping the remainder of her tears. “You had two skillets of the same size. I whipped up some batter and took a chance. I have no idea if it’ll be any good though. I didn’t have the benefit of searching the internet for a recipe.”
“What kind of cake is it?”
“Carrot.”
“DJ hated carrots. He’d spit them out all over the floor and we’d have to clean up a slobbery orange mess.”
The sweet laughter on Marti’s lips makes me smile. She holds out the lighter. “Do you want to do the honors?”
It feels strange lighting candles on a birthday cake for a boy who isn’t here to blow them out. If you’d have told me yesterday that I’d be doing this, I’d have called you crazy with a capital C. But here I am, doing it. I close my eyes, visions of DJ dancing in my head. What he might look like. How he’d call me Daddy.
“Happy birthday, little man,” I squeak out through the lump in my throat.
“Happy birthday, DJ,” Marti whispers respectfully.
I blow out the candles then look across the table. “Thank you.”
She smiles and picks up a knife, cutting us each an oversized slice. “Will you tell me about him? I’m all ears. And we have a lot of cake to get through. It’s tradition, Dallas. We have to eat the entire thing.”
We spend the next hour eating, talking, and crying our way through his cake.
Marti’s eyes sparkle with tears when I take the very last bite. And … fuck me , she was right. This feeling I have. It’s more than cathartic. It’s everything.