Nate had given himself a break for the rest of that weekend, something he rarely did—he of the Busy Hands Are Happy Hands club. Even as a kid, he was never one to park himself in front of a TV for hours on end and watch a sporting event or sitcom reruns or some reality show marathon. These days, even a two-hour movie was too long a sit for him, the itch of unproductiveness or downright sloth creeping into his bones at the thirty-minute mark. If he did finish a film, on streaming or cable (forget theaters), it was usually in three or four sittings, which was strange considering he had infinite patience for his work projects, so often filled with the kind of minutiae and painstaking focus that would drive another person bonkers.
He put aside his latest home task—finally restaining those sallow kitchen cabinets—and spent the day sleeping in (which, for Nate, meant till eight o’clock), eating a big, leisurely breakfast of pancakes and eggs and about a gallon of coffee, walking Cody for an hour or so around the blissfully quiet Occidental campus, and then sprawling on his bed, air conditioning cranked high, and reading the entire first half of another of his dad’s favorite books, The Accidental Tourist by Anne Tyler. A story of a withdrawn guy haunted by tragedy who finds love with a lively dog trainer, the book was one he might have once found too quirky or melancholy but now connected to in stirring and unexpected ways. Around five o’clock, he conked out mid-page for an unprecedented nap (the last time he slept during the day was a decade ago when he had the flu), awoke at six in time to feed Cody, nuked a Trader Joe’s frozen lasagna for himself, then crawled back into bed to finish the book before turning in for the night. It was one of the most relaxing days Nate could remember and, even though it felt a little “lonely old mannish,” he didn’t care. It was a vacation from life.
That isn’t to say he wouldn’t have liked his sleepy Sunday to be interrupted by a communiqué from Jennifer, who’d kept radio silent since he’d dropped off the flowers and mushy note. Perhaps he should have rethought them both. Nate had to force himself not to check his phone every five minutes in the event of a missed call, text, or email from his maybe-probably-soon-to-be-officially-ex-girlfriend. He finally had to put two rooms’ distance between himself and his cell, leaving it in the kitchen while he read in the bedroom. (He also turned off the ringer and all alert sounds for good measure.)
It once again drove home the truth: that Nate had fucked up his relationship with Jennifer and had only himself to blame. Still, he kept picturing the vibrant calla lilies filling her blown-glass vase, a kind of symbol of Nate’s love for her—whether she wanted it or not.
Driving to the South Pasadena office park to begin week two of their latest landscaping job (the extensive redo would easily take another two weeks but it was serious cha-ching), Nate slowed at a construction stop on Fair Oaks Avenue and absently stared out the window at a digital time and temperature sign outside a U.S. Bank: 70 degrees … 8:03 a.m. … September 2. Holy shit—it was his birthday! Are you fucking kidding me? he thought, astounded that the date hadn’t registered with him all weekend or even when he woke up that morning. It hit Nate like an anvil just how truly in the ozone he’d been—for so long.
“Happy birthday to me,” Nate said aloud in glum astonishment.
He was jogged back to reality by an insistent car horn from behind signaling that the lane had reopened. Nate hit the gas and moved off down Fair Oaks. You’d think at least Cody might have said something birthday-ish when he nudged Nate awake at his ritual 6 a.m.
Was it any coincidence that Nate had forgotten his birthday on the first one he’d be celebrating without his dad? (He didn’t need Mira to answer that.) Jim had always been the first to wish him a happy birthday. When Nate was growing up, he would rouse him with a birthday cake breakfast and a pile of presents, goodies based on not-so-subtle hints his son would start dropping in the weeks—sometimes months—before the big day. Jim would pretend not to be registering Nate’s gift “suggestions” but secretly kept an ongoing list and tried to fulfill the boy’s every earnest request. Once Nate had moved out, his father would call him at exactly 7 a.m. to make sure he’d be his son’s first birthday greeting, even if Jennifer—or maybe another sleepover guest—had gotten there first (which Nate never let on, lest he deny Jim his proprietary spot).
It was, of course, a year of firsts—first everything without his dad. Nate had muddled through this past Father’s Day without him, but Jim had died so soon before it that the emptiness of the holiday barely seemed real. The true challenges would be here before Nate knew it: Jim’s birthday in late October and that awful corridor between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day that could test the fortitude of even the happiest, most complete person.
The fact remained that today was Nate’s birthday, that he had no plans to celebrate it and no one to celebrate it with. He didn’t mean to be a baby about it, but he wasn’t exactly feeling great about the day’s prospects. He was also wigged out that it took an electronic sign outside a random bank to remind him of something he should have been thinking about the second he woke up. What was that about?
He decided to file it under “shit happens” and bring it up tomorrow night in therapy. It would doubtlessly take up the entire fifty minutes.
“Happy birthday, partner!” Danny shouted as soon as Nate arrived at the job site.
If Nate didn’t feel dazed enough, that was just the icing on the, uh, birthday cake. How the hell did Danny remember when Nate didn’t?
“Because it’s the day after my birthday, stupid,” Danny informed him with a cockeyed grin that said: yeah, you screwed up. The guy was nothing if not cool.
“Yikes, sorry about that,” Nate said sheepishly, and then told Danny how he’d even forgotten his own natal day.
“Okay, that’s kinda fucked up,” Danny responded, looking more concerned than amused. It made Nate squirm, so he charged off toward the south side of the sprawling, low-rise office building where he and Danny—and steadfast project assistants Butch, Luis, and Edgardo—were about to plant a row of towering olive trees.
Danny sped after Nate and stopped him in his tracks. “I wasn’t done!” Danny said. “I’ve got questions—birthday questions.”
Nate wanted to get to work and leave the birthday stuff behind, at least for now. But Danny wouldn’t budge. “So, you and Jen gonna go out tonight, get crazy?” he asked, knowing the answer but testing his friend anyway.
“Yeah, I doubt that,” Nate answered. “It might help if we were actually talking.”
Danny crossed his arms and planted his feet in the grass where they were standing. “I’m listening,” he said, making it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere—and neither was Nate.
Nate glanced over at the guys, who had begun digging enormous holes for the new trees. They’d be busy for a while and Danny was intractably in Nate’s face, so he filled his friend in on all that had—or hadn’t—been going on with Jennifer since he’d last broached the subject the night of their celebratory drinks. In truth, there wasn’t so much to tell, with the story of the calla lily fiasco closing out the bleak summary. He took full responsibility for Jennifer’s need to separate before Danny could blame him for it: He knew Danny thought Jennifer was pretty near perfect and that Nate was a bonehead.
“How much ‘time alone’ do you think she’ll need?” Danny asked. He’d relaxed his stance and backed away a bit, giving Nate some space.
“I don’t know—a lifetime?” Nate managed a dark smile.
Danny did something he didn’t often do: He considered his answer. “She’ll come around,” he finally concluded.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t.” He shrugged endearingly. “Just seemed like the right thing to say.”
Nate smiled and clapped Danny on the shoulder. “Let’s get busy, yeah?” That day alone, they had to plant those five massive trees, tear out patches of the front lawn to make way for new flower beds, and refill the planter boxes along the building’s east flank with eco-friendly succulents.
“Might be a good time to patch things up with your mom,” Danny said, as he fell in next to Nate. “Birthdays put everyone in a good mood.” Nate hadn’t told Danny anything new about the Amy situation but he’d obviously gotten the point.
“Except me,” Nate shot back. It was only like eight thirty, he thought. The day could improve. How, he wasn’t sure.
“Hey, you can hang out with me and Leesh and the kid tonight. We’ll get pizza from that place you like—what’s it called, Pomodoro?”
“Palermo.”
“Bottom line, bro, you shouldn’t be alone on your forty-first birthday.”
Nate shot him a dry look. “Thirty-first.”
“Just checking,” Danny said, grinning.
Nate mulled Danny’s offer as they approached the glass-encased building. He decided he didn’t want to put anyone out—and wasn’t sure he’d be the greatest company. “Appreciate the offer, pal, but I’ll be okay.”
“Your call. We got you, that’s all.”
And before Nate could thank him, Butch, Luis, and Edgardo, like a practiced musical act, dropped their shovels in unison and launched into a noisy rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.” Meantime, Danny, singing along, produced an immense chocolate layer cake as if from thin air (was it hiding behind a tree?), lit a candle, and presented it to Nate to do the honors.
He was stunned, overwhelmed, and so damn moved that he blew out the candle and burst into messy tears. Danny bear-hugged Nate like he was going off to war and let him unload into his broad shoulder. Butch, Luis, and Edgardo didn’t know what to do, say, or think—didn’t they just sing “Happy Birthday?”—so, one by one, they gingerly picked up their shovels and resumed digging. The cake could wait.
Despite the way it looked, Nate’s day had just improved.
Danny insisted they call it a day an hour early and Nate gave in without a fight, even though they’d barely gotten past the lawn removal. It was, after all, his birthday, and he still had half a cake to finish. (Once Nate’s waterworks display was over, they all shared slices of the superb cake and Luis sweetly joked that his singing could make anyone cry. All discussion of Nate’s meltdown thankfully ended then and there.)
When Nate arrived home around five, he found a parcel lodged in his mailbox. It was neatly wrapped in brown postal paper with no return address. He brought it inside along with the leftover cake and set them both on the kitchen counter. He goofed around with Cody a minute, grabbed a Blue Moon from the fridge, took a long swig, and then opened the curious package. It contained a wrapped gift and a card with “Nate” written in tight, angled script across the envelope.
He studied the handwriting: It wasn’t Jennifer’s—hers was wider and loopier—so he figured this had to be from Amy. Which it was. He pulled out a colorful card with a generic but heartfelt birthday greeting inside. It was signed: I’ll be celebrating tonight with or without you. Love, Amy. Nate stared at her message, remembering how she said that she’d lit a candle on every one of his birthdays. He wondered if she’d done so today. Or was she waiting for him? I’ll be celebrating tonight with or without you. Was that an invitation? Was she hoping he’d show up at her house and they could mark his birthday together?
As Nate considered her veiled offer, he unwrapped the gift, tearing away its silver-and-gold embossed paper to reveal an enlarged, brass-framed copy of the family photo they’d taken that night in Fresno: Nate, Amy, Robin, Gene, and Diane all in various stages of slapped-on smiles. They looked momentarily happy—and maybe they were—like any other bunch of tossed-together family members with a patchy history. And what clan doesn’t have its skeletons? It still shocked Nate to think he had a “clan.” An extended family. If he wanted one. Sadly, he still wasn’t so sure. And there it was yet again, Amy’s claim: You don’t really know what you want.
I know what I don’t want, Nate thought. Didn’t that count for something?
Nate took the framed picture and his beer to the kitchen table and sat in one of the old wrought iron chairs, his mind spinning. As he swallowed more beer, he returned to the thought of Amy lighting that birthday candle all those years (was it on a cake?), in memory of the son she gave away—and maybe trying to make herself feel a little less awful about what she’d done. It couldn’t have been easy for her in any way. She’d said as much and Nate was inclined to believe her.
Even though Jim had proven to be an unreliable source of truth, Nate also couldn’t help but think that if his dad saw something good and decent in Amy, young as she was at the time, that she must still be a person of character, of quality. All she wanted now was to love her son—better late than never, some might say—and Nate was not allowing that to happen. She was losing out and so was he. Yet something was stopping Nate from spending his birthday with her—or anyone else for that matter—and he decided he needed to honor that feeling, whatever the reason.
He’d bring it up in therapy, he thought, for the umpteenth time that day. He’d better book a double session.
Nate wondered if the family photo wasn’t a kind of manipulative gift on Amy’s part: Here, look at what you’re missing. It was hard to say, and maybe best not to ponder.
Nate strode into the office and went for the bookshelf that had long held that old snapshot of Jim and Eileen. He removed the dusty photo (God, he had to start cleaning more) and replaced it with the picture of Amy and company. He stood back and gazed at the shelf, at the jarring change in décor and all that it represented: Mira had told him to “eliminate” Eileen and “make room” for Amy, right? Sure, the action seemed a bit on the nose, but Nate felt strangely satisfied, strangely … liberated by it. He could practically feel a new space ticking open in his heart—and another one closing.
He wasn’t ready to toss the picture of Jim and Eileen—maybe never would be—so he slipped it into the bottom of a desk drawer, beneath a stack of old papers, where it could quietly live for now. Nate glanced over at the new family photo once again and realized it was next to a copy of Michael Chabon’s The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, a book Jim had recommended countless times until Nate finally read it and thought it was pretty great. Stirred by the synchronicity of the moment, Nate slid the book off the shelf, fell onto the couch—Cody instantly curling up next to him—and began to reread the old novel. Unlike much else, it was as good as he remembered. As was the rest of the chocolate birthday cake, which he demolished.
It wasn’t the worst birthday after all.