Now
Forty-three years ago today, my dad got what he claimed was the best birthday present of his life: a screaming redhead with bright blue eyes who would grow up to share his love for puns. It doesn’t seem right to celebrate a birthday without him.
If I had my way, I’d sleep through this whole day and skip ahead to tomorrow. But one of my closest friends, who I love dearly most of the time, thinks he knows what’s best for me. And what was acceptable last year won’t fly now that Dad has been gone almost two years. Which is why I’m sitting at Dublin’s, my neighborhood bar, in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon.
“You’re supposed to be happy,” Maks says from the barstool next to mine. “There’s a reason people say happy birthday—not sad and lonely and depressed birthday.”
“And you’re supposed to be at work,” I say, sidestepping the issue of my day of birth.
“Pfft,” he says, dismissing the thought, as if a regular paycheck and insurance weren’t a big deal. Since I was laid off three weeks ago, I’ve gotten a new appreciation for things I used to take for granted. “Work is for the horses,” Maks says. “There are more important things.”
I don’t feel like getting into a debate over linguistics, so I don’t tell him the saying is actually “for the birds.” Instead, I give him an if you say so smile and take a sip of the drink I’ve been nursing for the last half hour.
“I’m serious,” Maks says. He pouts, and I smile. It’s easy to picture him as a kid, wearing the same distressed jeans and a black band T-shirt, his Ukrainian accent the only thing keeping him from fitting right in.
He takes a sip of his whiskey ginger and turns to me, ready with another attempt to cheer me up. “Did you know the birthday song was written by a kindergarten teacher back in the eighteen hundreds?”
“You told me that last year on my birthday,” I remind him. “And the year before that.”
He makes a show of rolling his eyes and turns back to the TV, where the commercial break is over, and Maury Povich is about to reveal the paternity of a young boy.
Maks instantly perks up. “Scarlett!” he calls to our favorite bartender, frantically pointing toward the TV.
The bar is relatively empty between the lunch and after-work crowds, so Scarlett obliges and turns up the volume. Maks takes my hand in his, gripping it as if he has stakes in the results.
“In the case of four-year-old Jason,” Maury Povich says as he opens the telltale envelope. “Victor”—dramatic pause—“you are not the father.”
“I knew it,” Maks says, pumping our fists in victory. My smile breaks free and I have to laugh at his enthusiasm. Reality TV—even the most unreal kind—has always been Maks’s guilty pleasure.
Scarlett mutes the TV again as a phone number comes on-screen, inviting viewers to call if they want to determine the paternal status of someone in their family. I wonder if people know they can get the same results at home with a little spit, a test tube, and a postage stamp. Although they’d miss out on the circus sideshow and whatever compensation they get for airing their dirty laundry on national TV.
“Would you ever go on a show like that?” Scarlett asks, glancing behind her at the TV. Light from the window reflects off her nose ring, casting tiny rainbows on the bar.
“I unfortunately know who my father is,” Maks says. His eyes dart toward mine, as if hearing the word “father” will undo me. But I’m stronger than he gives me credit for.
“I took one of those DNA tests a few years back,” I tell Scarlett. Maks looks pleasantly surprised that I’ve joined in the conversation.
“Find anything interesting?” she asks.
“Only that there’s a genetic reason I think cilantro tastes like soap. Other than that, I’m a full-bred Jew. Ninety-nine-point-five percent Ashkenazi, and point-five percent Eastern European.”
“No Irish?” She gestures toward my curly red hair, which has always been my most defining feature.
“Only on St. Patrick’s Day,” I say, twirling a strand around my finger.
Maks’s ears perk up at the opportunity to rattle off more useless trivia, like the charming human Wikipedia he is.
“It’s actually a common misconception that the Irish have a monopoly on red hair,” he says. “In twentieth-century Europe, red hair was as linked to Jews as big noses. Most of Shakespeare’s Jewish characters had red hair—and Judas is almost always a redhead in Italian art.”
Scarlett nods in mock interest. After the great tomato debate last summer, she learned that sometimes it’s best not to engage.
The bells on the front door chime as Margaux, the other half of my best-friend duo, walks in. Her arrival plays right into Maks’s hands.
“Now this one got the DNA surprise of a lifetime,” he says, pointing toward Margaux.
“It’s rude to point,” she says before wrapping me in a hug, then taking the barstool to my left.
“Hey, facts are facts,” Maks says. He turns back to Scarlett and explains. “Turns out our little Francophile is zero percent French, which makes the ‘aux’ ending of her name ironic, don’t you think?”
“So ironic,” Margaux says, brushing her smooth black hair behind her ears.
I laugh, remembering the day she found out that only half of her family history was accurate. While Margaux had always known she had a mixture of European and African ancestry, she’d been told the European part was French. But it turned out the white man her great-grandmother had scandalously fallen in love with in the French Quarter of New Orleans had roots in Belfast, not Bordeaux.
We drank so much wine that night—French, of course—as we had a deep discussion about the significance of identity, who and what defines us. Margaux had always been proud of her French ancestry and had attributed her impeccable style and love of wine and cheese to that heritage.
The way I saw it, she was the same person she always had been, no matter what cultures collided to create her. The specifics of her DNA didn’t change who she was. If anything, it gave her a more interesting story to tell.
“Where’s Jeff?” Margaux asks, looking around the bar.
“He’s meeting us later at the restaurant,” I say, hoping he’s able to get out of work on time. I twirl my engagement ring, missing him. He’s been working so hard lately, putting everything into his presentation for a potential client. If it goes well, he’ll be the lead candidate to take over when his boss retires next year.
Scarlett sets a glass of white wine in front of Margaux. “Looks like you could use this,” she says.
I glance at my best friend, who does look like she’s had a day. Her lawyer uniform—a pencil skirt and blouse—is as crisp as ever, but the brightness is gone from her deep brown eyes. She looks defeated.
“How was work?” I ask.
“Ugh,” she says. “I don’t want to talk about it. How’s your birthday been so far?”
“Ugh,” I tell her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
We laugh and clink our glasses.
Two and a half drinks later, I hear the Jaws theme song coming from my phone. Maks raises an eyebrow, daring me to answer. I send the call to voicemail, not wanting to put a damper on the day now that I’ve actually started to enjoy myself.
“Was that Mommy Dearest?” he asks, a mischievous grin on his face. He knows exactly who it is—he’s the one who programmed the ringtone for her.
I nod and put my phone back down on the bar. “I don’t feel like talking.”
“Hey, it’s your birthday,” Maks says.
“And she’s the one who gave birth to you,” Margaux counters.
“Not by choice,” I remind her.
I may have been my dad’s greatest gift, but I was my mom’s nightmare come to life. They were in college when she got pregnant, and thanks to my impending arrival, she had to drop out of school and her sorority. They got married, then had me. My twin sisters weren’t born until thirteen years later, when my parents actually wanted a family.
The phone rings again, and before I can get to it, Maks picks it up.
“Elizabeth!” he says into the phone. The cheer in his voice is genuine—for some reason the two of them adore each other. “She’s right here.”
I reach for the phone, but Maks isn’t ready to give it up. He nods as if she can see him, then laughs a little too loudly before saying, “Oh, girl, you don’t have to tell me.”
“Give it,” I say, wrestling the phone from his grasp. “Hi, Mom.”
“Paigey,” she says, using my dad’s nickname for me. “Happy birthday, darling.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, trying to sound sincere.
There’s a beat of silence, and I’m reminded how hard it is for us to communicate without having Dad in the middle. I wonder if she’s thinking about him, too.
“Did you get my gift?” she asks.
“Not yet,” I tell her. “But I got an email about a delivery—I’ll pick it up when I get home.”
“Okay, then.” She sounds disappointed, but not as disappointed as she’d be if I told her the truth.
“Hey, Mom—thanks for calling, but I’ve got to run,” I tell her. “I don’t want to be late—we’re meeting Jeff for dinner across the street. But I’ll see you next weekend.”
“Right,” she says. “Next weekend. Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
I hang up, wishing I’d put my phone in my purse and out of Maks’s reach.
“You opened the present before we left your apartment,” Maks says, confused.
Margaux frowns. “You didn’t like it?”
“No,” I tell her. “But you will. More of your anti-aging cream.”
Maks groans. “Why don’t you just tell her you don’t like the stuff?”
“It’s too late for that,” I tell him.
Three years ago, the first time my mom bought me a jar of the ridiculously expensive anti-aging cream, I accidentally told her I liked it. Now, she buys it for me every chance she gets. At least it doesn’t go to waste, thanks to Margaux.
“Your mom is more understanding than you give her credit for,” Maks says.
Instead of answering, I drain the last of my drink. Maks makes it sound easy—but he’s never been a daughter. And he’s never had Elizabeth Meyer as his mother.