by Linda Benson
My dad’s short laugh sounds like a dog choking on a piece of meat. His face twists into a disgusted look and his words come out slow and measured. “Well, let me just say, young man, that at your age, you have no idea at all what is good for you in life. Now, get your shirt on, put on a tie, and meet me downstairs at the car in ten minutes. And that is the end of this discussion.”
I don’t answer. I slam my cereal bowl down on the counter and grit my teeth. If I open my mouth again, I don’t know what might come out. I can’t even look at my dad. I keep my clenched hands close to my sides because I feel like punching something.
My mother moves toward me, like she can make everything better in my life. I turn sideways, avoiding contact, and race up the stairs to my room, two at a time. I button my shirt with my fingers trembling, and somehow, although I’m not sure how, tie my tie. I wander down to my father’s car and gingerly step inside.
He’s on the cell phone, and he flips it closed with a flourish. “Change of plans,” he says, without even looking at me. “Something came up with the senator and we’ve had to reschedule. We’ve put off the meeting until tomorrow afternoon.”
“On Monday? But I have basketball practice…”
“I just spoke with your coach.”
On Sunday? My dad called my coach on Sunday?
“He understands the importance of this meeting with the senator, and he let you out of practice tomorrow. Now let’s go on over to the golf course for lunch. You never know who you might run into over there. Looks like the sun is going to stay out, so we might play a few rounds anyway. It’s a great game for networking.”
My dad starts the engine but before he can move down the driveway, I open the door and place one foot on the driveway. “I’ve—I’m gonna stay here and do homework,” I say, not catching his eye.
“All right. Suit yourself.” His voice is like steel.
I clamber out of the car before he can change his mind, and he peels out down the driveway without me.
41-Olive
I wake up on my birthday with my gut churning. Everything has changed. I thought Aunt Trudy was my friend, but she doesn’t even listen to me. After I told her I didn’t want David at my party, she invited him anyway, right in front of everyone! How could she?
I can smell the carrot cake in the oven but I try to ignore it. I glance at the chair in the corner where my suitcase rests. Last night I carefully folded every last piece of clothing that I came with and tucked them neatly into the suitcase. I am going to be ready when my mother shows up to take me with her.
Avoiding the kitchen, I feed the cats, put Goldy outside to play, and clean the puppy pen and the cat box without anyone asking me to do it. I barely say a word to Aunt Trudy. She is leaving me alone also, although she did say “Happy Birthday” really loud once, before my ears were barely awake.
Now she is frosting the cake with store-bought cream cheese frosting. I tell her that I don’t feel well, which is true, and spend most of the morning in my room. So much for my exciting fourteenth birthday. The only people who I know are going to show up are Swede, who is pretty much around here all the time anyway, and my mother. But I don’t know what time she’ll get here. The bus arrives in the morning from the south. I think the bus going back to California doesn’t leave until afternoon. She could be on the bus, but maybe she’s driving up to see me. She might even stay overnight. She can sleep in my room and I can sleep on the couch.
Swede arrives around one o’clock. I’m not sure he really cares that much about my birthday. He just wants to see Aunt Trudy. He’ll probably be happy when I’m gone, and then they can just have their little twosome dinners, or whatever it is two middle-aged people do together.
“Hey, where’s that birthday girl?” he announces, as he bangs open the front door carrying packages.
“I’m right here,” I say softly. Swede’s an okay guy. I’m not really mad at him. I just want my mother to come so badly I can hardly stand it.
Swede puts two packages down on the table in the kitchen. There are already two there from Aunt Trudy, and an envelope. “Well,” he says, “do you want to open your packages first or eat cake first?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know,” I say. Shouldn’t my mother be here before we start?
“Well, then let’s eat cake and open packages at the same time,” says Aunt Trudy.
I feel like I’m about five years old, celebrating my birthday with just my family. Only this isn’t really my family at all. My brother Pendleton is somewhere far away. My dad, as usual, is never around. And my mother. How come no one talks about my mother at all?
Reluctantly, I open the packages. Swede has given me a necklace with a horse on it, and a book of poetry, because he knows I like to read so much. The presents from Aunt Trudy are pretty much what I expected. A pair of warm winter lace-up boots and a fleece-lined jacket with a hood. They would have been great if I was staying the entire winter, but I’m not.
The final present is small. In fact, it’s just an envelope. “You can wait to open that until we’re done with cake,” she says.
Aunt Trudy disappears into the kitchen, and when she comes out again she is balancing the carrot cake in front of her. All fourteen candles are lit and the flames flicker as she takes each step. She and Swede start singing together, in out-of-key harmony, “Happy Birthday to You, Happy Birthday…”
The phone rings loudly and they stop singing. Aunt Trudy sets the cake down on the table with the candles still lit. “Hang on, honey.” She grips the phone as if it’s someone important. This will be my big surprise. I know it.
“Here, take the phone, Olive. It’s your brother, and it’s not a good connection.”
Pendleton’s voice is garbled and sounds very far away. I am afraid I’m going to cry in front of everyone, so I take the cordless phone into my room and shut the door.
“Happy birthday, Olive. Wow, I can’t believe you’re fourteen. What are you doing today, anything exciting?”
“Aunt Trudy made me a carrot cake,” I say, but my voice comes out shaky. “I…I was just starting to blow out the candles, but so far there’s only me and Aunt Trudy, and her friend named Swede here.”
“Well, that’s good, little sis. I wish I could be there, too.”
“Remember those big parties that Mom used to always have for us? We’d go to the beach and build a bonfire. Mom should be here soon. She’s coming today to surprise—”
“What are you talking about, Olive? Mom’s not coming up there.”
“Yes, she is,” I say sharply. “I’m waiting. Then we’ll have a real party, like the big celebrations we used to have. Don’t you remember?”
“Olive, you must have a short memory, that’s all I have to say. Or you’ve lost your mind completely. Don’t you remember your thirteenth birthday?”
My nose is snuffly now, because talking to him is bringing up so many emotions, and he’s so far away. “No, not really.”
“Oh,” he says. “Then I suppose you don’t remember waiting in the car all night while Mom was inside the Torchlight bar drinking, and the bouncer was keeping an eye on you in the car and you cried for about three hours straight until she came back out. Yeah, that was a great birthday, all right.”
“What are you talking about Pendleton? That’s not—”
“And the time she said she was going to take us both bowling for my birthday, only then she started ordering beers from the bar, and we just sat there watching her drink and laugh, only we weren’t laughing at all, and you were crying ’cause you wanted to go home—”
“Shut up, Pendleton. That’s not true. You’re a liar.”
“Sweetie, you’re my little sister, but you have to remember it how it is. You can’t make up stories about your life the way you’d like it be.”
I gulp back a sob. I don’t want to hear him talking. I want to hang up the phone on him, but I can’t. He is my lifeline to the only real family that I have.
“You stay there with Aunt Trudy, Olive. That’s the very best place for you right now, at least for a while.”
“But Mom’s coming for me. I know it…” I sob.
“Hey, I gotta go. Some other soldiers need to use this phone. Things will get better for you, Olive. Believe that.” And the line goes dead.
I sit on my bed, cradling the receiver against my head, listening to the dial tone on the other end of the line. I feel like all the breath is sucked right out of my body. I sit there for a really, really long time.
Finally, Aunt Trudy comes in to see what’s going on, pries the phone from my hand, and leads me back to the kitchen.
42-David
I am so furious at my dad, I can barely walk back to the house. Not only is the whole day ruined, my entire life feels like it’s ruined.
I can’t believe that my dad is trying to call all the shots in my life. Did he do this for Lincoln and Grant, too? I mean, I always thought that Grant joined the Marines and Lincoln the Navy because they wanted to. But now, because my dad was in the Air Force, he wants at least one of his sons to “follow in his footsteps.”
If I ever get married and have kids, I’m going to let them be whatever they want. Why would I want them to go after the same dreams as me? It’s stupid, that’s what it is.
I lie on my bed with the door closed. I could still go to Olive’s birthday party, but I don’t know if I should go or not. I mean, she wasn’t the one who even told me about it. It was her aunt that actually invited me, but then Olive got upset and ran out of the room. Maybe she’s tired of adults making all the decisions about her life, too.
I point the remote and flip aimlessly through the channels on the flat screen mounted on the wall above my dresser. I watch a dumb movie for a while, but I keep thinking about how pissed my dad was and replaying his stinging words in the car: “Suit yourself.” And then the sound of his Lexus squealing away.
I peek out my bedroom window. This morning was sunny, but now it’s raining. Hard. Not the warm, refreshing rain from last summer. This is a hard November rain, slanting sideways, pelting against the panes of glass. I shudder and wonder how long before my dad leaves the golf course and comes home.
I’m tight with anxiety, waiting to hear my dad’s car pull in the driveway. I just know he’s going to climb the stairs, come into my room and chew me out. Or lecture me about how my “choices” affect my future. I am so sick of hearing that.
I feel like my arms are strapped to my side like a little robot wind-up toy. Then someone pushes me ahead saying “go, do your thing,” but I can only move in one direction and can’t change course. I try to concentrate on the television, but I keep going over and over things in my head.
Finally I hear the engine of my dad’s car pulling into the garage. I hold my breath as I hear footsteps on the stairs. When I hear a tiny knock on my door, I breathe, because I know it’s just my mother.
“I’m sorry,” she says. She glances at the edge of my bed, but then spins the desk chair from my computer desk around and sits facing me.
“What are you sorry for?” I ask. It comes out kind of sarcastic, but I didn’t mean it to. I’m not really upset with my mom.
“Sorry I’ve spent so many months lying around feeling sorry for myself. I haven’t been much of a mother to you.”
I say nothing. What is there to say?
“And I’m also…sorry I never stood up to your dad more.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, he’s just so damn bossy sometimes.”
I stifle a laugh. My mother never cusses and it sounds funny to hear her say that word. “Is he home?”
She nods, but speaks in a low voice. “He’s got the television on downstairs, so he can’t hear us. I swear, sometimes he sounds like a big buffoon lecturing everyone.” She smirks. “Guess he gets that from being a lawyer.”
“I guess so.”
“I usually just let him talk, because I always assumed he was making the right choices for you. But now—”
“It’s okay, Mom.”
“Two of my boys are already out and gone,” she chokes the words from her throat, “and I’ve only got you left.”
“I’m still here.” My voice sounds squeaky.
“I know,” she says, using the side of her hand to wipe away a tear. “And I’m not sure—” She doesn’t finish the sentence, and starts again. “I’m…very proud of you, David. And I just want you to know…that I’ll stand behind you no matter what decisions you make in life.”
I’m quiet for a minute. I’m not used to having heavy conversations like this with my mother. She’s usually just, well, here. A nice woman who lives in this house and is married to my father.
“Okay,” I say, with a small kernel of satisfaction lodging in my gut. “Thanks.”
She stands and slips quietly out the door. I try to make some sense of her words. Maybe she finally realized that Grant coming home wasn’t the only important thing in her life. I’m her son, too.
What a weird Sunday. It’s late afternoon, and I’ve killed practically the entire day up in my room. I could probably still go to Olive’s if I wanted to, but I don’t know what time the birthday party actually started. If I knew, I could ask my mom to drive me up there, but then I’d feel like a little kid getting dropped off by a parent. And I don’t even have a present for her.
Hopefully I’ll see Olive tomorrow. She wouldn’t be leaving for California so soon, would she? Maybe if I ride the bus in the morning, she’ll be sitting in the back seat like usual and we can talk.
I creep downstairs and peek into the family room where my dad is watching the news. I slink into the kitchen, racking my brain for some cool parting gift for Olive. A birthday and going-away gift combined. Something personal, but not too personal. Something she won’t get the wrong feeling about. Something that says she’s special, that I think she’s cool, but what else? I don’t know.
I’m in the kitchen eyeing the cupboards when it comes to me. I stand on my tiptoes and search around at the top, behind the canned goods. There. The perfect gift. I tuck it under my shirt and head back upstairs.
43-Olive
After the phone call with Pendleton, I follow Aunt Trudy like a
rag doll into the kitchen and plop on a chair. She is cutting the cake. We didn’t even finish the Happy Birthday song, and I didn’t blow out my candles. So much for wishing. I have no wish left, except just to forget all about my life.
“We tried to leave the candles burning for you, but they were melting all over the frosting,” says Aunt Trudy. She slides a piece of carrot cake in front of me. I can barely smell it because my nose is so stuffed up.
“Here’s your last present,” she says, holding out an envelope. She stands there, waiting for me to do something.
Swede sits in the corner recliner. The white kitten jumps in his lap and he maneuvers his plate of carrot cake high, away from the kitten’s nose.
I haven’t touched my cake.
Aunt Trudy looks at me expectantly. “Open it,” she says.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the letter. The envelope is blue, like it’s a birthday card, with my mother’s name, Jade Kristopherson, on the upper lefthand corner. Inside are four pieces of lined letter paper with lots of words on them. I recognize my mother’s handwriting. I unfold the papers with difficulty, and with blurry eyes, read the words:
Dear Olive,
I hope you get this letter on your birthday. I wish I could be there but I can’t. I’m staying with my friend Lily for a while, to get myself together. (You remember Crazy Lily?)
I learned a lot from my counselor in jail. First off, I have to take responsibility for my actions. I wrote to the lady I stole money from and said I was sorry.
I should never have used the credit cards from her purse that she left on top of her car. Even though we were broke at the time.
I’m also sorry that I haven’t always been the best mother to you. But I am what I am, a
nd that’s all I can say about the matter.
I hope you’re doing good at Trudy’s and you like it up there in rainy Washington. My sister is a good woman, and she probably could’ve done a better job raising you than I ever did. I need to find a job, because Lily just got laid off, and she doesn’t have much money for rent. She heard there are jobs in Las Vegas dealing cards, and I may go over there with her and see about that. I’ll let you know.
Good luck, and give Aunt Trudy a hug for me, okay? I’m glad she could take you in when she did.
Happy Birthday, Olive. I’ll see you one day, when I get things straightened out a little better.
Love,
Your Mother
I fling the letter on to the kitchen table like it’s poison. “When did this come?” I say.
“It came in the mail last week,” said Trudy. “When you were at school. Your mother asked me to wait until your birthday to give it to you.”
“You’ve had it all that time?” My voice rises. “Have you talked to her?”
Aunt Trudy moves toward me, but I take a step back, standing defiantly against the door leading into the living room. My piece of carrot cake sits untouched on the kitchen table.
Aunt Trudy clears her throat. “She called a couple of weeks ago. Apparently she got early release in October. She didn’t want anyone to know and asked me to wait until she sent you the letter. She said it would explain everything.”
“You mean you knew?” I gasp. “You knew she was out of jail?”
“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you,” says Aunt Trudy. “I only found out myself a couple of weeks ago. She’s staying with a friend for a while, and she wanted to tell you herself, in a letter. I—”
“I thought she was coming to the party!” I say, my words sounding foolish as they come out of my mouth. “I can’t believe you knew she wasn’t coming and you didn’t tell me.”
I see Swede get up from the recliner chair, looking uncomfortable. I can’t talk to him right now. And I’m certainly not going to talk to Aunt Trudy. I run into the bedroom and slam the door behind me. I push the button in the doorknob to lock it. I need to be by myself. I need to decide what to do now.
