The Last Birthday Party

by Gary Goldstein

  “There’s nothing you could be that would make us unhappy, honey,” Jeremy had answered in all truthfulness. “Except maybe a Republican.”

  They’d laughed at that then, and Jeremy chuckled again now.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Matty, as he began to clear the table.

  “You are,” said Jeremy, and left it at that. He loosened the Velcro straps, keeping his arm in place and stretched it out a bit, flexing his fingers. Matty looked aghast.

  “What are you doing? Are you supposed to do that?”

  “Relax, it’s fine. It’s something Annabelle showed me. It really helps,” Jeremy explained as the ache drained from his arm.

  “Well, okay, she’s the expert, I guess.” Matty dumped the takeout containers in the trash pail under the sink, then rinsed off the silverware. (He was okay eating out of plastic but not with plastic.) “What kind of name is Annabelle, anyway? Is she, like, from the South?”

  “I don’t know, it’s her name. She’s very nice. I like her.”

  Matty turned to face his father with a Cheshire grin. “Do you like like her?”

  “What? Why would you ask me that?”

  “I just asked if you liked her. What’s wrong with that?”

  “It was the way you asked.” Jeremy reattached the straps to his arm and resettled himself in the chair.

  Matty dried his hands on a dishtowel, which he then folded into a square. “Well, maybe it’s because of the way you answered. All defensive like.”

  “I was not defensive.”

  “Ah, doth the lady protest too much?”

  It took a second for Jeremy to realize he was the lady. “Do you want me to ‘like like’ her?”

  “I want you to do whatever you feel like you want to do.” Matty plopped down across from Jeremy, glanced at his phone, then back at his father, who looked unsettled. “What?”

  “Would you tell your mother the same thing? To go for it—with some new guy she met? Like, right now?” asked Jeremy, perhaps unfairly.

  “I wouldn’t have to.”

  “What does that mean?” Jesus, was there somebody else after all? Had Jeremy completely misread that, overly trusted Cassie’s loyalty, if not her commitment to him?

  “Y’know what? Sorry I said anything—about anything. I’m glad you like this Annabelle, and I’m really glad she taught you how to put on something other than that ratty hospital gown. And you don’t have to tell me how she did that if you don’t want to.” Matty waved a hand at Jeremy’s new “ensemble”: gray Adidas track pants, a black and scarlet San Diego State T-shirt (a gift from Matty’s freshman year) with the right side scissor-cut open and closed back up with safety pins, gym socks, and some seen-better-days Nike slides. Dashing.

  “There’s not a lot to tell,” Jeremy answered, trying hard not to sound defensive. “Annabelle cut the T-shirt so I could put it on without having to take the brace off, which, let me warn you, is a bear. She also pinned it back together. The rest I managed myself, with a couple of pain-saving tips she gave me.” He felt obliged to add: “It’s her job, it’s what she does.”

  “Okay, cool,” said Matty, whose interest, as it was wont to do, vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He rose from the table. “Anything else you need before I go?”

  Jeremy steeled himself, then stood to face his son. “Just tell me: Have you heard from your mom?” Even though he was starting to come to terms with their break, Jeremy still had so many questions for Cassie, and it was driving him a little crazy. He truly didn’t want to involve Matty any more than necessary, but, well … maybe just a little.

  “We had a few texts this morning.”

  “Do you know where she’s staying?” Jeremy caught himself. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want, or if she doesn’t want you to, or whatever.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

  “Wait, did she ask you not to?”

  “Dad, I’ve gotta go.” He grabbed his retro-style Ray-Bans off the counter and slipped them on, looking like a 1980s movie star.

  Jeremy and Matty stared at each other a moment, as if they both wanted to say something but were thinking better of it: Jeremy to press his son on what he knew; Matty, never the world’s best secret keeper, to tell what he knew, but struggling to respect his mother’s wishes—whatever they were.

  “Hey, I didn’t even ask, how are things with you and Sven?” Jeremy, rarely one to leave things on a sour note—except maybe with Cassie—tried to right the ship.

  “Sven? Good, I think.” Matty removed his sunglasses, wiped them clean with his T-shirt, and put them back on. In that moment, Jeremy saw a flash of concern in the boy’s eyes.

  “You ‘think?’”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. He’s been a little elusive lately. But he’s also been busy with work, so maybe …”

  Jeremy could tell Matty was realizing something may be up with his boyfriend. Jeremy also realized that Matty might be more into this guy than he’d been letting on, had moved beyond the “I like him, he’s cool” phase.

  “It’s all good,” Matty offhandedly concluded.

  Yeah, thought Jeremy, that’s what we all say.

  CHAPTER

  14

  The call from Lucien the next morning was, to say the least, a surprise. Jeremy had been trying not to stress about his job loss or his new work prospects, of which there were none—not that he’d exactly been burning up the world to find any. He had largely convinced himself that even if he could land another steady gig, he was too hamstrung by his current one-handed, one-fingered typing style to commit to writing anything longer than an email—and a short one at that.

  Or was he being a wimp? Was he not going to write anything for another five weeks? Really? That seemed like a colossal waste of time, of his ability, and of the one thing he did best.

  Then, of course, there was Jeremy’s money situation, which he had also been avoiding thinking about, having no idea yet how things would shake out financially if—no, when—he and Cassie came to terms on their split. It was time to get real. He’d ask Annabelle for help at the keyboard today, see if she had a plan.

  Jeremy’s first thought upon seeing Lucien’s name appear on his phone display was that he was being rehired. That hope was immediately dashed.

  “I wish I had better news for you, sport,” said Lucien, sounding once again like the Connecticut WASP he aspired to be.

  “That’s okay,” Jeremy lied. “I’ve actually got a few new irons in the fire.” Yeah, like learning how to shower without ending up back in surgery.

  “That’s outstanding, J, good to hear. I knew you’d land on your feet.”

  That made one of them, thought Jeremy as he paced the length of the kitchen.

  “Though, to be honest, that’s not what I was calling about—on a Sunday.”

  “Oh, okay, then. What’s up?” Jeremy gazed out the window above the sink that looked out on their sunny backyard. A pair of hummingbirds frolicked in the ceramic birdbath, a housewarming present from his parents so many years ago.

  “I ran into Cassie last night,” said Lucien.

  “You did?” Jeremy didn’t even try to feign casual. A third hummingbird now joined the birdbathers.

  “Yes. At Salt & Straw? On Larchmont?”

  It was an artisan ice cream shop where for a mere six bucks you could get a scoop of bone marrow and smoked cherry ice cream, hold the attitude.

  Jeremy’s first thought was that Cassie didn’t eat ice cream, avoided sugar when she could, and not just in Matty’s passing-fancy way either. And what was she doing in that part of town? Was she staying somewhere in well-heeled Larchmont Village or maybe nearby in the even tonier Hancock Park? Was she at Salt & Straw alone, or …?

  “What did she ha
ve to say?” asked Jeremy, dialing back his tone of alarm.

  “That the two of you were taking a break.”

  “Oh, is that what she’s calling it?” Jeremy simmered, turning away from the kitchen window. Fuck those happy hummingbirds.

  “I pretended I didn’t know, because, well, I really don’t.”

  Jeremy studied his flip-flopped feet. “Yeah, well, it’s a long story, one I can’t even fully explain.”

  Lucien took that in, then: “Anyway, it’s none of my business, and you can tell me to go stuff it if you want, but I consider you a friend and …”

  He hesitated, as if he were suddenly sorry he’d started the whole thing. Jeremy certainly was. And “friend” was becoming debatable.

  Lucien exhaled. “I think she was with someone.”

  For all of his ex-editor’s attempts at propriety, he wasn’t above a good bit of gossip, though it was usually consigned to the antics of his fellow newsroom staffers and the occasional off-the-wall film publicist.

  “Well, was she or wasn’t she?” asked Jeremy, taking a seat in the kitchen chair. He had a feeling this conversation was just beginning.

  Lucien painted a vivid picture of what he saw at the upscale ice cream parlor. That is, after he got his order (a pint of black olive brittle and goat cheese) and said goodbye to Cassie, he glanced back and saw a younger, athletic-looking guy with short dark hair and a trimmed beard, someone who Lucien had assumed was just another customer in the long line behind Cassie, put his arm around her and snuggle in for a kiss—which she returned, as Lucien put it, “with enthusiasm.”

  Jeremy closed his eyes, felt a rock the size of a bowling ball settling in his stomach.

  “Jeremy, are you there?” asked Lucien.

  Jeremy still said nothing, and Lucien picked up the slack.

  “I’m so sorry, Jeremy, but I thought you should know—if you didn’t already. I mean, you didn’t, did you?”

  Jeremy shook his head no, then, realizing Lucien couldn’t see it, said it out loud and hung up the phone.

  Jeremy stared out the window again as the sun spread across the grass- and slate-covered yard. The hummingbirds were gone. A shadow fell over the ancient grapefruit tree that filled the far corner of the garden. He thought about the times in the first years after he and Cassie had bought the house, when they would put toddler Matty to bed, grab a bottle of anything red and relax in the teak Adirondack chairs that once sat beneath the drooping branches of that august citrus tree. They’d sip their wine, talk about the day’s events, their future plans—Cassie wanted to get her law degree (she did); Jeremy wanted to write and sell another screenplay (he didn’t); as a family, they wanted to take wonderful trips (they took a few)—and hold hands while they’d sit back and wish upon the stars.

  He felt a tear stream down his cheek, then another. He stood there, eyes glued out the window, weighed down by that nutty abduction pillow and the stunning realization that the train had left the station, and he was still standing on the platform.

  The sling was off for the first time since the surgery, and it was positively terrifying. Annabelle showed Jeremy how to safely remove it—or rather, how someone else should safely remove it for him. As she said during her last visit, there was no non-injurious way he could physically do it himself. He was also warned that any sudden upward movements with the affected arm could damage the healing rotator cuff. By simple force of habit, patients would often reach for the soap or adjust the showerhead with their distressed arm. So, in effect, don’t fucking move—unless you’re paying complete attention.

  Jeremy didn’t realize how much, in a few short days, he had come to depend upon the brace, intrusive as it was, to protect him from potential discomfort or damage. Standing in the bathroom without the pillow was far more painful than wearing it. Paying complete attention or not, he had no idea how he would shower sans sling without accidentally screwing up his shoulder.

  Enter the beach ball.

  Annabelle, her dark waves bunched atop her head, a few stray gray strands peeking out at the hairline, watched Jeremy with an eagle eye as she held an inflatable rubber beach ball under his carefully tilted arm. Thank God he went extra heavy on the Mennen that morning; he’d even spritzed himself with an old bottle of Aramis he’d exhumed from the back of a bathroom cabinet.

  She gently pushed the colorful ball up into his armpit. “Now slowly squeeze your arm and hold it,” Annabelle ordered, gradually removing her hands from the ball. The waxy rubber against Jeremy’s skin felt strange and cold. He tried to relax, if only to be a good boy for his earnest therapist who, he noted, had replaced her capris and koala shirt with snug black jeans and a print peasant blouse. Instead of sneakers, she wore a shiny pair of baby pink Crocs with short white socks. Again, adorable.

  Distracted by Annabelle’s sprightly Sunday wardrobe, Jeremy let the beach ball slip out from under his arm, which inadvertently jerked upwards, causing him to let out a high-pitched yelp. Annabelle reflexively reached out and steadied his arm as the beach ball rolled across the porcelain floor.

  “Sorry,” said Jeremy, his shoulder throbbing in time with his panicked heart.

  “Gotta keep your eye on the ball, son,” Annabelle joked. Her hands were still protectively on his arm. Jeremy eyed her, appreciative, trying not to seem too unnerved by the close call he’d just had.

  Satisfied that he was okay, Annabelle let go of Jeremy. “Watch the arm,” she reminded him. She picked the ball up off the floor and aimed it at her patient. “Beach ball, take two.”

  This time, more fully concentrating, Jeremy kept the slippery sphere lodged under his arm as Annabelle explained how he should “handle” himself in the shower (not that way, but they did get a laugh out of the phrase). She even took photos with her iPad that he could show Matty so he could duplicate her efforts when he arrived later that day. She emailed the pictures to Jeremy.

  “Do you just have the one son?” asked Annabelle as Jeremy led her into his office. Next up was some occupational therapy at his laptop so he could continue with his own occupation.

  “Yeah, Matty. Matthew, actually, but no one’s ever called him that. Too formal. He’s always been kind of a … jaunty kid, I guess you’d call it.” Jeremy dragged an extra chair over to his desk so Annabelle could sit next to him.

  She pointed to the old snapshot of Jeremy and Matty on his bookshelf. “Is that him?”

  “Yeah, maybe eight years ago. Some film festival around town I took him to.” Jeremy sat at his desk, turned on his computer, and gestured for Annabelle to join him.

  “Good-looking boy,” she said, studying the photo.

  “Blame it on his mother,” Jeremy answered with needless self-deprecation. He couldn’t help but flash on an image of Cassie and some hot, younger guy feeding each other fancy ice cream off plastic spoons, and tried in vain to shake it off. Was Cassie’s date someone new? Someone she met right after she left Jeremy? Someone she’d known for a while? A long time? A very long time? The reason she exited the marriage? None of the above?

  Jeremy felt Annabelle’s eyes on him as she took a seat. “Actually, I think he looks just like his father,” she said without a hint of coyness.

  Annabelle moved her chair in closer to better see Jeremy’s screensaver: that decade-old family photo from their London trip. “Is that her?” she asked, pointing at Cassie, fresh faced and ponytailed like the day they met.

  Jeremy nodded and, as quickly as his one finger would allow, opened a new document file, preferring to see a blank screen. But Annabelle wasn’t done.

  “She’s pretty. And on the tall side, no? I’ve always wanted to be tall. You looked happy back then. Were you?”

  Jeremy hesitated, had to think about it in light of recent developments. “I think so. But my head’s apparently been up my ass about a lot of stuff, so, y’know, I can’t swear to it.”

&
nbsp; “I don’t mean to pry, but I’m always interested in what brings people together—and what splits them apart. I mean, one minute you’re standing at the altar vowing to love, honor, and obey, next minute you want to kill the person. How does that happen?”

  Annabelle had a way of cutting to it without being cutting; charmingly inquisitive, if Jeremy had to define it. She was without that inherent little challenge that would so often enter Cassie’s voice—a note that had lost its appeal as time went on.

  “What about your better half? Is he still ‘better?’”

  Why was there a part of Jeremy that was hoping the answer would be no?

  “How do you know it’s a ‘he?’” asked Annabelle with a flat stare.

  Oops, kneejerk alert. Jeremy felt like a dope, once again misreading a situation. How many times had strangers asked Matty if he had a wife or girlfriend? Why did people just assume these things? It was disrespectful. He really had to start doing better.

  “In fact, I don’t,” Jeremy answered, a bit cowed.

  Annabelle let loose one of her playful smiles. “I’m just messing with you,” she said. “He is correct. But he is also, unfortunately, quite dead.”

  Fuck cancer. Jeremy recalled the phrase on Annabelle’s water bottle. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he offered. Now he felt really dumb. “When did he …”

  “It was a year this past Monday,” she said, gazing at Jeremy’s blank laptop screen with resignation.

  He wanted to know more, wanted to know everything, felt such sudden compassion for Annabelle that it was almost overwhelming. Jeremy’s recent trifecta of trouble was tough, but it couldn’t be anywhere near as bad as what she must have gone through. What she still must be going through.

  Annabelle snapped to, sat up straight and pointed to his computer. “Wait, are you the same Jeremy Lerner who writes for the L.A. Times?” Jeremy was jarred by the sharp turn in the conversation, and realized Annabelle maybe needed to return to more neutral—read: less emotional—territory.

  “That would be me,” he answered. “Or should I say, used to be me.”