Birthday Blues
Niall
“DON'T PUT HIM in the ground! Please don’t put him in there!”
I could tell I was crying, that kind of sobbing that makes your throat feel like it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper.
But I couldn't grasp much else—not the logic of the words spilling out of me, nor the suffocating feel of the black wool suit I was wearing. “He can’t breathe in there. You’re trapping him! ”
I was projecting, of course.
I was the one who couldn’t breathe right now. The air in the graveyard felt thick, stagnant, and tasted of damp earth and lilies. All mixed with the raw throat feeling and the salt of my tears. I was making a scene, a jagged tear in the solemn and dreary fabric of the afternoon.
Mr. Ruin Everything. That was me. Always.
Uncle Paddy was the one holding me. I fought against him, my small fists thudding against his chest, but he just gathered me up like a toddler and held on.
He didn't tell me to be quiet. He didn't tell me I was embarrassing the family.
He just squeezed until my ribs ached, anchor-heavy against my storm.
What would I have done if I’d reached him?
I’d already seen the casket. I’d seen him lying there, looking like a waxwork version of the man who used to swing me onto his shoulders.
But seeing those men—Da’s friends, the fathers of my friends, lads who’d shared laughs with him just weeks before—closing the lid...
that was the breaking point. And now the ropes were groaning. Now he was going down.
I could hear Claire wailing nearby, a high, thin sound that pierced the gray Irish sky.
All I could see was her face, blue and frozen, like it might have been if she hadn’t survived the ice incident all those years ago.
What it would have been like if someone closed her in a casket and put her in a box.
She hated the dark.
I hated this.
“Let me go,” I was sobbing, pushing Paddy’s arms.
“Shh, Nialler. Shh, now. It’ll be a’right.”
Everyone was standing around in black suits and dresses. And my dad was in a black suit too, but he wasn't standing obviously.
My father was dead—which wasn’t fair.
It just wasn’t fair.
“Shh, Niall,” Uncle Paddy whispered, rubbing my back. “Shh.”
But I didn't want to shush. I wanted to scream.
I wanted my dad back.
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I'M LIKE THE grinch of birthdays.
I don’t mind the other holidays. Easter is fine, once you get past the stiff collars and the church pews.
Valentine’s Day is a bit of a laugh if you’re seeing someone, and a good excuse to get hammered if you aren't. Plus the craft things are fun when you’re in primary school.
Christmas has its own brand of magic, even if the house feels a bit too quiet these days.
And honestly, I love my Mam’s birthday. I like making a fuss of her, making sure she doesn't spend a single second thinking about what’s missing.
I even enjoy the massive, chaotic joint parties JJ and Claire have in March.
Since their birthdays are only two days apart, it’s always been one big blowout.
Usually, it’s whatever Claire wants and JJ just agrees to everything she decides.
That’s how he ended up with a pink-princess-themed tenth birthday.
Though to his credit, he wore the plastic tiara with a disturbing amount of confidence.
But September 13th? That’s the one day on the calendar I’d like to take a torch to. Every year it crawls back around, a silent, mocking reminder: You’re alive another year, and he isn’t.
Comet and I round the corner on our nightly circuit around the estate.
He's only eight, still in the prime of his life, but I’m a hawk about his health.
Ever since JJ’s golden retriever passed last year, I’ve been obsessive.
The vet says exercise is the key, so I make sure we hit the pavement every evening, rain or shine.
Comet’s tail wags in a rhythmic blur, his nose twitching as he investigates every tuft of grass along the curb.
We make our way toward the Town Square, the yellow streetlamps flickering to life against the deepening blue of the sky. Most of the shops are already shuttering for the night. I stop outside the pound store, looping Comet’s leash around the post.
“Alright, Niall?” Mr. O’Reilly calls out, not even looking up from the paper as the bell jingles.
“Alright,” I mutter. I grab a bottle of water and a pack of peppermint gum, moving toward the counter with a brisk efficiency.
“Big day tomorrow, eh?” He grins, ringing me up. Of course, he knows what tomorrow is. Everyone in this town knows everybody’s business.
I feel my jaw tighten on its own, even when I try to force it to relax. “Suppose so.”
He chuckles, clearly oblivious to the storm clouds behind my eyes. “Seventeen. Lord, I remember when you were knee-high to a grasshopper, causing havoc in the aisles. Nearly an adult now, lad. Driving, pints... the world’s your oyster.”
The world is a graveyard, I think, but I just force a stiff nod. “Yeah. Cheers, Mr. O’Reilly.”
“Tell your Ma I was asking for her.”
“Will do.” I shove the change into my pocket and head back out. Comet lets out a sharp, happy bark when I emerge.
I wish I could be a dog. Or a little kid again. It seems like dogs and little kids never have anything to worry about.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re the star of the show, I know,” I mutter, untying him. “Let’s go home, lad.”
We jog back toward Alderbank, the orange glow of the sunset bleeding into a bruised purple. It is quiet in this part of town, save for the occasional car driving by or someone walking their dog—the latter always slowing us down. Comet just has to stop and say hello. He’s much more sociable than me.
I check my phone. 8:30 PM. Mam is next door with Aunt Ro, probably drinking tea and talking about the bakery or whatever it is grown ladies chat about. Claire had been in the kitchen when I left, surrounded by flour and coloured sprinkles. She’s insisted on making cupcakes for me for tomorrow.
I'm dreading tomorrow. I'm dreading the birthday dinner at the Keane’s where I’ll inevitably be a brooding prick, ruining the atmosphere despite my best efforts to be “normal.” I'm dreading the party on Friday, where I’ll likely drink until I can't remember my own name just to stop the clock from ticking forward.
Tomorrow should be a celebration. It should be chocolate chip pancakes topped with that sickeningly sweet cake frosting Da used to make.
We would have frosting spelling out 17 and 43, and Claire would be hovering, making sure the ‘Da-sized’ plate is ready.
I would have to endure one of his ‘Man-to-Man’ talks—those long-winded, wisdom-filled lectures about integrity and hard work that I’d give anything to hear just one more time.
But that tomorrow is a magical fantasy land that doesn’t exist.
My feet pick up as I come back around the corner, back into the estate and onto our road. Comet begins pulling on his leash as the house comes back in sight, excited to get inside and have his treat.
I unlock the door and let Comet run in ahead of me, kicking off my shoes and tossing my keys on the table by the door.
“Mam?” Claire calls from the kitchen.
“Just me,” I say, walking down the hall.
Claire is hunched over the counter, her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth in total concentration as she pipes swirls of pale blue frosting.
She looks so much like Mam like that—the same sharp focus, the same tilt of the head.
If she doesn't keep bleaching her hair that gold-blonde, she’d be a dead ringer for her.
Kind of like how I’d look like Da if I didn’t bleach mine.
“How was your run?” she asks, not looking up. “Hi, Comet baby! Who’s a good boy?”
“Fine,” I say, putting my half-drunk water bottle from the pound store in the fridge. I lean against the counter, watching her.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say softly, unable to ignore the nasty feeling curling in my gut. It's the hankering, the need for a bottle. I know as soon as I can, I'll be locking myself in the dark and having a drink.
Claire pauses, the piping bag hovering over a cupcake. “Do what?”
“The cupcakes. All the effort. I don’t care about the day.”
Claire finally looks at me, her brown eyes narrowing. My sister is slow to anger, and very few people can actually tick her off. I'm one of them. “Well, I do. I care. And Mam does.”
“Claire—”
“No,” she says, pointing the frosting tip at me like a weapon. “You’re not doing this. Every year, you mope around like you’re being marched to the gallows, when all we try to do is make it a nice celebration.”
“It’s not a celebration for me,” I mutter, staring at the floor.
“It’s your birthday! And it’s Daddy’s birthday too. So why can’t you just shut your mouth and let me make things happy for you?”
She always talks about him like that—in the present tense. I think to Claire, she never fully accepted that he's gone. Like if she can just ignore the loss, it's like it isn’t really there at all. How lovely it must be to have a mind that lets you do that. Mine couldn't ever be so kind.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a headstone. “Claire, please.”
“No,” she says firmly, or as firm as she can be. “You’re going to eat your stupid, indulgent cupcakes. You’re going to smile for Mam. And you’re going to be happy, even if you have to pretend, because I can’t handle you being broken tomorrow. Not tomorrow. You can be mopey some other time.”
I stare at her for a long beat. She's so like him—stubborn, fiercely loyal, and able to see right through my bullshit. And I know that in all reality she just wants me to be happy. “Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll smile.”
“Good,” she grins, returning to her work.
I shake my head, heading for the basement door that's under the stairs. Comet follows, his nails clicking a staccato rhythm on the wood.
The basement is a graveyard of our childhood. Old beanbags, boxes of textbooks, old toys we used to play with everyday—now collecting dust in the dark. I sit on the old corduroy couch, which has a deep, musky smell to it.
I reach underneath, my fingers finding the cool, smooth glass of the whiskey bottle I keep hidden there.
I unscrew the cap, letting the medicinal tang of the alcohol fill my senses. I take a long swig, wincing as the liquid fire burns its way down my throat, numbing the jagged edges of my thoughts.
Comet rests his heavy head on my knee, his dark eyes watching me with that knowing, canine sorrow. It's only now I realize I’d forgotten to give him his treat while we were upstairs.
“Yeah,” I mutter, scratching behind his ears. “I know. ‘M sorry, lad.”
I take another sip, leaning my head back against the cushions.
In the dim light, I can almost see him. I can see him sitting on the floor with Claire, helping her build some lopsided Lego tower or playing with her dolls in that dollhouse he built while I try to act ‘too cool’ to join them.
I can hear his laugh—that deep, rumbling sound that makes everything feel safe.
“Think you’ve had enough there, Nialler? You’ll be no good for the match next Saturday if you keep that up.”
The clear as day voice startles me. I open my eyes, the hallucination fading. I am alone. Just me, a dog, and a bottle of cheap penance.
Comet whines again, nudging my hand with his nose.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter, capping the bottle and shoving it back under the couch.
I head back upstairs, Comet trotting at my heels. Claire is wiping down the counters now, making me wonder how long I’d sat downstairs. It feels like merely two minutes for me. Possibly twenty in real world time.
“All done?” I ask, leaning against the door frame of the kitchen.
She glances up at me and nods. “Yeah. Just cleaning up. They’re grand—you’ll love ‘em.”
“I will. Don’t worry.”
She hesitates, her rag pausing on the granite. “Niall?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay? Really?”
I look at her—at the sister who crawled in my bed in the months after Da died, keeping me company in the dark.
She was so little then, wiping my eyes and saying it’s alright, Nialler, don’t cry.
I'm supposed to be protecting her, not the other way around. I put on my best captain’s face.
I give her the smile that convinces the scouts and the teachers and the world that Niall Blue is solid as a rock and not crumbling from the inside out.
“Yeah, Claire-Bear. I’m alright. I’m always alright.”