Today is my birthday, and I’m not entirely sure how old I’m turning. It’s weird, because I know what year I was born, and I know what year it is, but I can’t make the difference between those two years match the number in my head.
Forty. That’s the number in my head. I should be turning forty today.
But I’m not. According to math—which is notably more reliable than my memory or whatever feelings I’m having—I’m turning thirty-nine. The problem with turning thirty-nine today is that I distinctly remember turning thirty-nine last year. I haven’t told anybody that, and I’m not planning to.
My daughter, Emma, sits on my lap, clapping her hands and chanting, “Cake! Cake! Cake!”
I give her a squeeze, earning a high-pitched squeal, and snuffle her cheek.
My loved ones fill the dining room around us, some sitting at the table with me, some standing, all ushering in the start of my fortieth year with a boisterous round of “Happy Birthday”. My younger brothers part in the doorway from the kitchen, dodging the purple and green balloons taped to the corners of the door frame as they make way for my mom.
She sways into the dining room, a birthday cake held out like an offering to the gods. The rich chocolate frosting glistens with a sprinkling of golden glitter, and two candles burn with delicate flames atop the cake: a three and a nine. Both waxy numerals are about as tall as my thumb and decorated with multicolored polka dots. Thirty-nine. Not forty.
My mom sets the cake down on a table that has seen countless birthdays, and looks it, with enough dents and scratches to warrant being dropped through a wood chipper rather than dropped off at the Salvation Army.
The birthday song comes to a close, and my friends and family chant, “Make a wish! Make a wish! Make a wish!”
I suck in a deep breath, hug Emma close as I crane my neck to reach her head, and silently wish for my memory to get its shit together. And then I blow, careful to keep the puff of air short and sweet. Only a toddler likes spittle on their cake, and I’m not planning on handing the whole thing over to Emma.
My loved ones cheer as the tiny flames sputter out, and Emma strikes. She manages to dig four fingers into the side of the cake before I can catch her wrist.
“Hey!” I pull her hand away, but the damage has been done. Four lines have been clawed into the thick layer of frosting, the mark of my little monster.
Emma stuffs her fingers into her mouth, smearing chocolate frosting from the bottom of her nose to the tip of her chin. “Mmmmm… Yummy!”
A laugh cracks my stern expression, and I shake my head. “All right, munchkin, let’s get you strapped in,” I say as I push my chair back and stand. I plop her down in the booster seat strapped to the chair adjacent to mine at the head of the table. I fasten her in, and when I straighten, my mom offers me a chef’s knife.
She winks at me. “Birthday girl does the honors.”
I swipe the knife by the handle before Emma can grab it with her frosting-free hand, then sidestep back to my place and pluck the two oversized candles from the top of the chocolate masterpiece. I set the candles on the edge of the cake plate and sink the knife into the cake. The layer of frosting is thick, and the cake itself is dense, offering greater resistance. My mouth is already watering by the time the blade of the knife clinks against the plate.
Every year, my best friend, Kara, attempts to one-up herself by making me a richer, more decadent chocolate cake than the previous year. So far, she has yet to disappoint, and I have high hopes for this year’s offering.
“This looks a-maz-ing,” I tell Kara as she reaches around Emma to set a stack of purple paper plates beside the cake. She adds a plastic cup filled with a bouquet of disposable forks.
Kara barks a laugh. “With the amount of chocolate I melted down, it should make you cry tears of joy,” she says, tickling Emma’s neck with her fingertips.
Emma giggles and swipes at Kara with her slimy frosting hand, and Kara shrieks and backpedals.
I snort a laugh as I make a second cut, then slide the knife under the wedge and carefully pry it free. It’s a laughably large piece of sugary deliciousness, and it’s all mine. My four-year-old, Miles, leans forward on his elbows, practically drooling as he tracks the slow progress of the generous slice from cake plate to paper plate. I gently tip the wedge of cake on its side as I place it on the top plate in the stack.
“I call dibs on that piece!” Miles proclaims, his heart in his eyes.
“No can do, little guy,” I tell him, lifting the plate off the stack and setting it on the table in front of me.
“First slice goes to the birthday girl,” Kara adds, settling in behind his chair. “Them’s the rules.”
Miles pouts for half of a second, but his mournful gaze evaporates as he watches the knife slice through the cake again. “I want a gigantomungous piece,” he says, getting to his knees on the chair so he can lean forward even more.
“You’re not getting any piece until you sit in the chair the right way,” my mom says, moving in to stand behind Emma’s chair, her eyebrows raised for emphasis. “Butt down, Miles.”
He complies with a huff.
I shift the top plate with its smaller piece of cake off the stack and set it on the table in front of Miles.
He looks heartbroken, and he opens his mouth to complain that the piece is too small.
“You can always have more,” I tell him before he can start. “But if you whine, you won’t get any.”
Miles grins, placated by the promise of more, and reaches for the cup of plastic forks. His arm isn’t quite long enough, and Kara helps him out, plucking a fork free and planting it in his piece of cake. “There you go, kid. Dig in.”
He does.
“We’ve got the big four-oh next year,” Kara says.
I freeze mid-cut, a shiver trailing down my spine. Déjà Vu. When I look at Kara, she’s staring forlornly down at the candles discarded on the edge of the cake plate. We’ve done this before. This exact tableau is imprinted in my mind. Miles, Kara, me. This has happened before. I have the strong suspicion that she’s about to say something about turning twenty-one.
“I almost can’t believe it,” Kara says, leaning forward, her forearms resting on the back of Miles’ chair. She shakes her head. “Forty. Us. I’d swear we just went on my twenty-one run a couple years ago.”
I stare at Kara, paralyzed by my prediction coming true.
Kara reaches out to give my arm a conciliatory rub, her face twisted into a compassionate pout. “Horrifying, I know.” She sighs and releases my arm, looking skyward.
I blink and force a chuckle. “Yeah, I can’t believe it,” I say, playing off my unease as general shock about aging. I slice through the cake, shift the piece to a plate, then grab my wine glass and lift it to my lips. I take a gulp that is too large to be enjoyable and choke as I swallow. “How did we get so old?” I ask, my eyes watering as I cough to clear my throat.
Kara pats my back roughly, and I lock eyes with her, my whole body jolting with each thump.
“That’s not helping,” I say deadpan.
Kara shrugs, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Hey,” she says, holding her hands up defensively. “I may or may not have just saved your life.”
“Sure you did.” I return to my cake cutting.
Once everyone who wants dessert has it, I push the plate with the remaining third of my birthday cake toward the center of the table—and out of my children’s reach—and push back my chair to stand once more. I make eye contact with Emma, then with Miles. “I will be right back,” I say. I look pointedly at my ridiculously large slice of chocolaty heaven, then meet my children’s eyes again. “Don’t even think about it.”
But the gears are turning behind Emma’s eyes, and I know the potency of my warning will fade exponentially with each passing second I’m gone. Whoever first said, “Out of sight, out of mind,” definitely had a two-year-old.
I study Emma through narrowed eyes. Her focus is on my piece of cake. It’s a purple elephant, and now that I’ve made it forbidden, it’s all she can think about.
Not willing to risk my precious slice of heaven, I pick up my plate and carry it into the empty kitchen. I open the door to the cabinet that houses the dishes and place the paper plate with my prize on top of the stack of dinner plates, then shut it away.
I retreat down the hallway, past the powder room, and through my bedroom to the attached bathroom. It’s nothing fancy—just a toilet, a single-sink vanity, and a tub-shower combo. The finishes have been updated several times over since the bungalow was first built over a century ago, but the bathroom itself is far from new.
I shut the door and pull my phone out of my back pocket before I sit on the toilet. I scroll through my photos, finding last year’s birthday celebration. As I skim through the photos, I can’t help but note how similar the scene is.
The balloons are a different color but are pinned up in the same places. Emma is in the high chair instead of the booster seat, which is propping Miles higher on his chair, but they’re sitting in the same places. All the same people are present. John still isn’t. His vacant chair at the far end of the table sits like a John-shaped black hole sucking the joy from the room. That was my first birthday since cancer took him.
I close my eyes, grief an iron fist gripping my heart. Slow inhale. I exhale shakily and open my eyes. I continue scrolling through the photos.
There it is. The cake.
I pinch and spread my fingers on the screen, enlarging the photo to zoom in on the cake. On the candles. On the three-inch-tall wax castings of what looks a hell of a lot like a three and a nine. I squint, huddling over the phone like I’m about to proclaim it’s my precious.
The world tilts to the side, then corrects itself. Overcorrects itself. Suddenly my brain is on a tilt-a-whirl, and I’m so dizzy I have to set my phone down on the floor and brace my hand against the wall to prevent myself from toppling off the toilet. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for—hoping for—the dizzy spell to pass.
The sense that I’m on unsteady ground slowly abates, and I crack one eye open, confirming that the bathroom has stabilized. I open my other eye and blow out a breath.
“No more booze for you, Janie,” I mutter under my breath, silently adding a promise to be a better human and take it easy on the alcohol for a bit. I didn’t think I had that much to drink, but I’m too old and have too much responsibility to be giving myself the spins. Ugh, or hangovers. I’m already dreading the hangover. And yet, other than the dizzy spell, I barely even feel tipsy.
Sighing, I finish on the pot and retrieve my phone from the floor. The photo of last year’s birthday cake is still open, zoomed in on the candles. On second look, I can clearly tell the cake is topped with a waxy three and eight. I shake my head, tuck my phone into my back pocket, and wash my hands. I quickly twist my hair into a loose bun and wipe faint smudges of fallen mascara from under my eyes. For a moment, I stare at myself in the mirror. I wear makeup so infrequently now, my made-up face looks strange to my own eyes.
On my way back to the party, I stop in the kitchen to chug a glass of water, then retrieve my slice of cake from the cabinet. I really don’t feel drunk, but I’m sure the cake will soak up whatever wine is still sloshing around in my belly. I carry my cake into the dining room and quietly slip through the crowd to the sliding glass door, flashing smiles to a few people as I pass them.
I retreat to the peace and quiet of the back deck, setting my plate on the railing as I gaze out into the moonlit backyard. A faint breeze shifts the small hairs that have escaped from my bun, tickling the nape of my neck. Darkness shadows the woods lining the fence that surrounds the backyard, but I can hear leaves rustling in the wind, and louder, sharper noises of nocturnal critters moving about.
I pick up my plastic fork and take a frosting-laden bite of cake. Rich, chocolaty goodness explodes on my tongue, and I close my eyes, not bothering to suppress my moan. Damn, that’s a good cake. I open my eyes, lick my lips, and greedily take another bite.
At the sound of the slider opening behind me, I glance over my shoulder. Miles steps out onto the deck and throws his whole body into the act of pulling the door shut again. Chocolate frosting surrounds his mouth, smudged, as though he tried to wipe his face clean but gave up when he realized the effort required.
“Mommy, I’m sleepy,” he says, rubbing his eyes as he drags his feet over the wood boards on his way to me.
I pick up my plate and move to one of the outdoor rockers. They had been a Mother’s Day gift from the kids—ahem, John—along with the promise to build a fire pit for us to sit around during summer nights, each of us rocking a kid to sleep on our laps. He never had the chance to build the fire pit.
I sit in the rocker and set my plate on the small teak table to the chair’s left, then open my arms to welcome Miles. He falls into me, pulled by my maternal gravity. I hoist him up onto my lap, and he curls into a ball against me, soothing my aching heart the way only he and Emma can.
I kiss the top of his blond head, breathing him in, then tuck his head under my chin. “You don’t want any more cake?”
He shakes his head, nestling in. “I’m sleepy,” he repeats.
“Me too, bud.” I hold him a little tighter, knowing one day I’ll blink, and he won’t want to snuggle with me like this anymore. “Me too.”