by Maggie Bloom
Mom brushes a wisp of hair out of Angie’s face and sighs. “She loves those things.”
“Maybe you’re going to be a pilot someday,” I suggest.
“Or a bird,” Dad says with a chuckle.
With Mark in the lead, we form an orderly line and traipse back into the museum (technically, the café and the Soundstairs are outside the entry gate), where we board the escalator and float toward the upper level, Dad hoisting Angie up for a primo—and mesmerizing, by the astonished look on her face—view.
No offense to Mark, but the Hall of Human Life is a bit advanced for Angie, the first stretch of exhibits appealing more to health-conscious yuppies than antsy four-year-olds (though, to be fair, we had a blast rearranging the internal organs of a plastic dummy). Still, we venture deeper into the hall and, after fighting our way through a bottleneck of museumgoers, land in front of an exhibit Angie can appreciate: a brain-to-brain comparison of the grey matter of a turkey, a cat, a monkey, and a human.
“Oh, look!” I chirp, pointing at the cat’s brain, which is about the size and shape of a jumbo walnut. “It’s Snowball!” Dad and Angie crack up, but Mom just shakes her head. Mark, on the other hand, squints confusedly. “Angie’s got a kitten,” I explain. “Guess what color she is.”
I’m being facetious, and Mark knows better than to respond. Instead, he pulls the map out again and starts puzzling over it. “Uh, wait a minute,” he says, spinning around. “We missed the bees and the chicks.”
Sounds like a ‘50s rock band. “The bees and the chicks?”
He scratches his chin. “That must be what everyone’s doing over there,” he says, nodding at the cluster of bodies we’ve just plowed through.
“I think I’ll sit this one out,” Mom says with an unnecessarily panicked look. I mean, I know she’s allergic to bees, but I’m sure the museum isn’t going to let one sting her.
“Me too,” Dad says, and, without further ado, they stride for the exit.
I hug Angie to my hip, and Mark closes in on us. As a unit, we hobble over to the throng of spectators encircling what turns out to be a baby-chick incubator.
As soon as Angie glimpses the chicks, she spouts, “Ooh, ooh! Can I hold one?”
Her question goes unanswered as I wedge myself between two robust grandmas for a better view of the fuzzy critters, which are hopping and pecking around inside a plastic bin lined with sawdust. A second bin contains a couple of newly hatched chicks—still slimy and wobbly on their feet—and a number of eggs on deck to pop.
It’s our lucky day, too, because there’s a hatching in progress, which, according to the sign on the exhibit, may take up to twenty-four hours to complete (and is probably the source of all this curiosity).
“I can’t see,” Angie whines and, in short order, Mark has hoisted her onto his shoulders, making me grateful for Mom’s insistence on Angie wearing pants.
As cute as the hatchlings are, all eyes are on the egg, which is cracked and pulsating, when—oh my God!—a tiny wing punches out!
“Whoa!” someone shouts.
Followed by an ecstatic: “It’s coming!”
A third voice coaxes: “One more push!”
I’m no ornithologist, but the chances of this baby breaking free as we huddle around ogling it seem dubious, though such a turn of events would be a cool birthday present for Angie.
As if to prove me wrong, the egg shimmies and rocks, the wing flapping about erratically, the shell splitting in half. Through the gap, I spy a mass of gooey, matted feathers.
“It’s coming!” someone yells again. “Look, look!”
I steal a glance at Angie and Mark who, like everyone around us, are wearing the sort of awestruck smiles you’d expect to find on the faces of the chosen ones at the rapture.
Despite its encouraging start, the egg goes still for a while. A few observers slough off, allowing Mark to move in and press his delectably warm front to my eager back. And that’s how we stay—stuck together like happy pancakes—until, with a sudden burst of energy, the chick’s backside comes tumbling out, its head and feet still concealed by the shell, which remains hinged together only by a thin membrane.
“She’s pink!” someone squeals. “I can see her skin!”
I’m not entirely sure, but I swear I hear the chick cheeping as it squirms for freedom.
And squirm, it does. “Hoooly . . .” someone drawls.
“I see the beak!” reports another voice.
Then: “He’s coming! He’s coming!”
The chick kicks away the rest of its shell, revealing a pair of comically large feet and a dazed, exhausted-looking—and, yes, cheeping!—face.
There’s an extended and unanimous: “Aaaaaawww.”
In the rush of feel-good excitement, Mark whispers in my ear, “I love you.”
If I weren’t about to cry, I’d return the favor. Instead, I reach up and stroke his arm, hoping he knows that, from this moment forward, I can’t imagine my life with anyone but him.
Chapter 26
“We’re gonna be late,” I tell Mom, who’s doing pirouettes around the kitchen searching for whatever last-minute supplies she thinks we need for the party. “Mark’s got everything under control. I promise.”
“Have you fed the cat, Emmaline?”
“Well, no. I’ve been busy getting Angie ready.” And, if I do say so myself, I’ve done even more of a bang-up job than yesterday, my daughter’s ringlet curls cascading down her back like a golden mane, her lacy fuchsia dress the perfect complement to her sparkling hazel eyes and irrepressible grin.
I shuffle through the cabinet where, last I knew, Snowball’s kibble was stored. “Where’d you put the cat food?” I ask. Mom directs me to a drawer beside the refrigerator, and Angie and I get the kitty fed and watered. “All set. Can we go now?”
Mom ends her frantic rummaging and joins Angie and me in the foyer, bags full of presents swinging from her arms like spider monkeys. An hour ago, Dad headed over to the restaurant to help Mark set up.
At the curb out front, Mom’s Subaru is loaded to the roof with advertising materials for one of her local clients. “We can take my car if you want,” I offer.
She has little choice but to accept, and soon we’re putt-putting away to what seems like something much more significant than a four-year-old’s birthday party.
This is what it feels like to be a grownup, I realize. And a parent. To have the weight of another human being’s life on your shoulders. The sad thing is, I haven’t felt that weight until just this moment, a sign that maybe I’m finally ready to be the mother Angie deserves.
The party is not a surprise, but once we finagle our way into a parking spot, I get the bright idea to blindfold Angie. Mom’s not quite on board with the plan—what if she trips? she asks with a sour face—but I overrule her and, using a slightly crumby (as in dotted with actual remnants of food) pair of used tights, cover Angie’s eyes, careful not to disturb too much of my hairdressing handiwork.
As it turns out, Mom’s fear isn’t so farfetched, and I end up rescuing Angie from destruction no fewer than four times on the short walk to The Olive Branch. “You first,” I tell Mom, holding Angie back for her grand entrance. Mom forges ahead, too tired (yes, I’m wearing her down!) to argue.
Once she’s disappeared inside, I lean over and whisper in Angie’s ear, “Okay, we’re here. Are you ready for presents and cake and games and loads of people who”—I gulp, overcome by emotion—“love you?”
She nods, the makeshift blindfold rubbing away some of the “special big-girl makeup” (in reality, a slight dusting of pale pink blush) I’ve allowed her to borrow from her big sister’s stash, just for today.
I’ve been holding her hand since we exited the car, but now I give it a hopeful squeeze. “Well, let’s go, then!”
Nothing could prepare me for the perfection awaiting us inside, Dad and Mark (with the help of a small army of magical elves, it appears) having transformed the main dining room
into every little girl’s glittery pink princess fantasy.
And the people! Who knew a last-minute e-vite could summon so many bright, shiny faces? (A quick scan of the crowd reveals not only Aunt GiGi, Dex, and Jung, but also Jimmy, Kayla, and their three boys—plus Fiona, Xander, and a bunch of other kids from Red Light, Green Light, all clustered around a buffet table doing arts and crafts.)
My heart swells with appreciation. When my gaze finds Mark (he’s loitering by the kitchen, as if he’s a neutral observer instead of the golden-hearted father of a soon-to-be ecstatic four-year-old), I shoot him a wide grin and mouth: thank you.
He nods humbly.
This is it, I guess. Let the festivities begin. “Hi, everyone,” I say, feeling like Angie and I are onstage at The Oscars. “Thanks for coming to Angie’s very special, awesomely fantastic fourth birthday party!” A bunch of cell phone cameras shoot up as I unfurl the tights and step aside to watch my daughter’s reaction.
Joy. Sheer, unadulterated joy. And who could blame her? I mean, the Barbie tent city alone would make any girl (and quite a few boys) weep on sight, not to mention the four—count ‘em, four—disco balls throwing funky light shadows everywhere.
A chorus of birthday wishes fills the air. Angie tucks her chin to her chest and snuggles against my hip. “It’s all right,” I assure her. I pat her head and raise her chin. “Don’t be nervous.” I point out a stack of colorfully wrapped gifts in the corner by the fireplace. “Look at all those presents. Those are for you.”
My instincts are right: nothing distracts a child like the promise of copious amounts of stuff.
Out of nowhere, someone taps my shoulder. “Excuse me,” a woman’s voice says, “is there anyone to seat us?”
To seat her? “Um, who are you?” I respond, forgetting my manners.
She surveys the dining room and grimaces. “Oh, is this a private party?”
I glance over my shoulder, realizing that 1) I’ve left the door open to the public and 2) the public, including this woman and (presumably) her two grown daughters, has drifted in. “Sorry,” I say, frowning. I usher the trio back toward the door. “We don’t open until five o’clock. You’re welcome to come back then.”
Luckily, the interlopers are understanding, because I’m not in the mood to bounce their asses to the curb like I’ve had to do to a drunken loser at The Crowbar every now and then.
I secure the door behind them. When I turn back to the party, Angie is gone, and Mark has taken her place. “So, what do you think?” he asks, gesturing at the still-stunning transformation. “Pretty cool, huh?”
That might be the understatement of the century. I peck him on the cheek and ask, “How’d you pull this off, anyway?”
“It came to me in a dream.”
A giggle slips out of my mouth. “You’re joking, right?”
He hangs an arm around my waist. “Actually, no. Why do you think I suggested the party in the first place?”
“The kindness of your heart?”
“Obviously,” he says.
From the corner of my eye, I catch GiGi staring at us. “Have you met my aunt?” I ask, assuming introductions are in order.
“The tall one in the yellow bird hat?”
I’m so accustomed to GiGi’s zany style that the nest of parakeets atop her head has escaped my attention. “Yep, that’s her.”
“Nice lady.”
“I think she wants to see us,” I say.
Angie has fallen in step with her friends at the crafting table, where Mom, Kayla, and a few of the other mothers are huddled around supervising the cutting and pasting, freeing Mark and me to circulate as if we’re greeting guests at our wedding. (A freaky thought, but one that has crossed my mind far too often of late.)
For the better part of ten minutes, we endure a cringe-worthy conversation—come to think of it, it was really more of a monologue—with GiGi and her date, an overly sun-tanned veterinarian who wouldn’t let up with the dog-neutering anecdotes. (I swear to God, if my mind flashes on canine testicles one more time, I can’t be held responsible for my actions!) Once we’ve extracted ourselves from the onslaught, I announce, “I’m starving.”
Mark chuckles. “After that? You must have a stomach of steel.” He leads the way to an alcove by the windows, where a table of homemade kiddie appetizers—French fries, pizza bites, the same kind of chicken fingers he unknowingly made for Angie on opening night—has been noticeably picked over.
I tuck a couple of fries and a pizza bite into a sparkly napkin and nibble them as we mosey to Angie’s side. As the swell of mommies envelops us, I say, to no one in particular (though I’m hoping Mom will chime in here, so I’ll feel less guilty about cutting her out of the birthday planning): “Should we do cake or presents first?”
Mom takes the bait and declares, “Presents.”
At the same exact time—I mean, they couldn’t’ve synchronized it better with a couple of Olympic-quality stopwatches—Mark says, “Cake.”
Good grief.
“Um . . .” Let me ponder this for a moment. “Presents and then cake?” I say, giving Mom the win. (After all, it makes sense for the guests to be rewarded with a sugary treat once they’re done not getting any gifts of their own. Plus, if Mark plans on being with me for the long haul—and I hope he does—he’s going to have to get used to being disappointed every once in a while.)
Mom smirks, and Mark concedes with a nod. The three of us round up the kids, some of whom have meandered as far as Mark’s pristine kitchen and are on the verge of creating a whirlwind of chaos. With the little demons corralled by the fire, Angie gets to work ripping through the tower of presents, barely slowing down to follow Mom’s instructions and thank each gift giver before moving on to the next crinkly wrapper-and-bow combination.
Midway through the teardown, Angie hits an aluminum-foil-clad box bearing a roughly fashioned paper tag. “That’s mine,” Mark says, grinning. As casually as she’s picked it up, though, Angie pushes the box aside and grabs a much larger gift that I recognize as being from me.
“What’s she doing?” I say.
Mark’s shoulders slump. “That’s all right. She’ll get to it.”
Not before she opens—and gets wildly distracted by, I predict—the My Little Pony Exclusive Deluxe Playset I’ve purchased at Dad’s suggestion. “True,” I say, holding my breath and hoping that, for Mark’s sake, Angie’s reaction is muted.
It’s not.
“Eeeee!!!!!” she squeals, shredding the polka-dotted wrapping paper.
For the umpteenth time, Mom repeats, “What do we say, Angeline?”
“THANK YOU, EMMAWINE!!!”
“You’re welcome.”
Mark’s hand settles on my hip, and I lean into him. “Oh, here we go,” I say, the foil-wrapped box making an encore appearance. “She’s gonna open it this time, I think.”
Angie turns the package over and picks at the corner of the wrapping.
“Can you see?” Mark asks, his voice brimming with excitement.
We move a little closer. “Now I can.”
Angie gets the wrapping off and fights through the thin cardboard packaging, eventually revealing a silver filigree jewelry box. “Thank you”—she passes the aluminum foil to Mom, who studies the tag and cups her hand to Angie’s ear—“Mark?”
Well, she knows her father’s name, at least—even if Mom had to prompt her.
Mark takes a step forward. “Open it. There’s something inside.” Too impatient to wait, he’s drops down on the floor. “It goes like this,” he says, helping her unhinge the lid.
Angie’s eyes shine. “A bracelet?” She traces the silver links, stopping to pinch a topaz charm between her fingers. “Pretty.”
“It’s your birthstone,” Mark explains. He takes the bracelet in his hand and points out an engraved, heart-shaped pendant. “And see? Your initials are right here: A-B-W. Angeline Brooke Waters.”
I am stunned.
Mark hooks the b
racelet around Angie’s wrist and, for some dorky reason, I start clapping. Thank God, everyone else follows along.
The last few presents are quickly unwrapped, and we gather around the special dessert table Mark (or one of his magical flunkies) has set up by the hostess stand to display a gorgeous two-tiered, pink-frosted cake bearing the traditional Happy Birthday! slogan. Encircling the cake are a dozen or so matching cupcakes that look like ray-gun-shrunken versions of the original.
“Should we dim the lights?” I ask, even though it’s the middle of the day, “to make it more festive?”
Mark fights an eye roll. “It’s your rodeo,” he says, shooting me a sultry grin. He ducks away, returning with a culinary torch that looks like a cross between a hair dryer and a handgun.
“You’re not lighting the candles with that, are you?” I ask.
He shrugs.
I knew he was too good to be true. “Isn’t that kind of . . . overkill?” Where the hell is my purse? I know there’s a lighter in there somewhere, even if I haven’t fired up a cigarette in a dog’s age. “Does anyone have a less aggressive means of getting these”—I wag a hand at the candles—“lit?”
Jung pops up beside me with a small disposable lighter. “Ah, thanks,” I say. It’s hard to believe that, after our history as roomies, Jung and I know so little about each other. (Like, does she smoke? If so, I never saw any evidence of it.) “Here goes,” I say, sparking the first of four tall, rainbow-colored candles—another good choice by Mark—to life.
Mom and Dad shuffle Angie into place in front of the cake. Again, a bunch of cell phone cameras shoot up. I progress to the second candle, the third, the fourth. Mark and I lock eyes and, in unison, begin singing “Happy Birthday.”
Everyone else joins in, and Angie lights up—not just from the candle glow, which is flashing warm shadows across her face, but from the love coursing through the room like a common heartbeat.
I am happy—truly happy—for the first time in my life, which is why I should’ve known to be on the lookout for Murphy’s Law. Instead, I remain blissfully unaware as we move into the second verse of the song, our voices soaring like rockets, until . . .
