Chương 4
I bought a pack of ten candles.
At the register, the cashier scanned the balloons and said, “Birthday?”
“My son turns ten.”
“That’s a big one.”
I smiled.
“Apparently.”
The total was thirty-seven dollars and eighty-four cents.
I nearly removed the balloons.
Then I pictured Ethan’s list.
I paid.
Friday afternoon, Patrick called.
I almost ignored him.
Instead, I answered while carrying groceries from the car.
“So Mom says you’re having people over tomorrow.”
“Ethan’s friends.”
“You know she’s upset.”
“I assumed.”
A grocery bag cut into my fingers.
I shifted it to my other hand.
Patrick said, “Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s his birthday.”
“No, why are you making a point out of it?”
“You’re the third person who’s asked me some version of that.”
“Maybe that should tell you something.”
“It does.”
He exhaled sharply.
Patrick had always sounded most offended when other people refused to be embarrassed.
“Lily heard about the party.”
“How?”
“Mom mentioned it.”
I stopped halfway up the porch steps.
“So Mom told Lily?”
“She didn’t do it maliciously.”
“Did Lily ask why Ethan shouldn’t have a party?”
“That’s not the issue.”
“It’s becoming my favorite family phrase.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
I set the groceries down.
A carton of eggs tilted sideways inside the bag.
“Patrick, what exactly are you asking me to do?”
“Keep it small.”
“It is small.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I want you to say it.”
He went silent.
I waited.
Finally, he said, “Don’t invite Mom and Dad.”
I frowned.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
That seemed to surprise him.
“Oh.”
“You told me Lily was upset.”
“She is.”
“Then why would Mom bring Lily here?”
Another silence.
“You’re twisting everything.”
“I asked a question.”
“Jesus Christ, Allison, you have become exhausting.”
That hurt more than it should have.
Patrick and I had been close once, or close enough that I had believed it.
When Ethan was born, Patrick assembled the crib because I could not make sense of the instructions.
He drove me to the emergency room when Ethan developed croup at eighteen months.
He once spent four hours replacing a broken alternator in my old Honda and refused to take money for it.
Those things were real.
So were the other things.
That was the problem with family.
Nobody was only the worst thing they had done to you.
“I’m not asking you to come,” I said.
“Good.”
“But if you do, don’t bring Lily and Noah unless they understand tomorrow is Ethan’s birthday.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means there won’t be extra presents for them.”
He gave a short laugh.
“You think we expect presents?”
“Last year Mom brought Lily a gift to Ethan’s birthday dinner.”
“She’d had a bad week.”
“She got a necklace.”
“It was twenty bucks.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You sound exactly like Mom.”
That stopped me.
Patrick knew it would.
“You’re keeping score.”
His voice became quieter.
“You always say you hate when she does that.”
I stared at the grocery bag.
The eggs were still sideways.
Maybe one had cracked.
For a second, shame slipped neatly into the place where anger had been.
Maybe I was keeping score.
Maybe I had been carrying an invisible account book for years, recording every Christmas, every compliment, every unequal gift.
Patrick pressed into the silence.
“You’ve always been sensitive about this stuff.”
There it was.
Not an answer.
A diagnosis.
I picked up the groceries.
“I have to put food away.”
“Allison.”
“Tomorrow is happening.”
“Fine.”
His voice hardened again.
“Just don’t act shocked when Mom reacts.”
He hung up.
I stood on the porch until the screen went dark.
Inside, one egg had cracked.
I threw it away and hated myself for noticing that the carton now held eleven eggs the day before Ethan turned ten.
Saturday arrived bright and windy.
By one-thirty, three balloons had escaped the fence and one had lodged in the maple tree.
Ethan stood in the backyard wearing his new soccer jersey, watching the driveway every thirty seconds.
“They’re coming,” I said.
“I know.”
At one-forty-five, Marcus arrived with his mother.
Then Ben.
Then Theo and Jamal together.
Two more boys showed up within ten minutes, carrying gifts in bright bags and enough energy to power the neighborhood.
The backyard filled with noise.
Somebody kicked the ball into the flower bed.
Somebody spilled orange soda.
One boy announced that pepperoni was disgusting after eating two slices of pepperoni pizza.
Ethan laughed until his face turned red.
I took pictures without asking him to pose.
At three-twelve, while the boys argued over whether a goal counted, the side gate clicked open.
My mother stepped into the yard.
Dad was behind her.
Patrick followed.
Jessica came last.
Lily and Noah were not with them.
My mother looked at the balloons, the half-eaten pizza, and Ethan racing toward the soccer net.
Her expression did not change.
That was worse than anger.
She walked directly toward me.
“You lied to me.”
Six children were close enough to hear.
I wiped my hands on a paper napkin.
“Not here.”
“You told me you understood.”
“I changed my mind.”
Her mouth tightened.
Dad looked at the ground.
Patrick folded his arms.
Jessica glanced toward the children as if checking whether they were listening.
They were.
Of course they were.
Children always heard the things adults most wanted them not to.
Mom lowered her voice, but not enough.
“You have embarrassed this entire family over a birthday party.”
Behind her, Ethan stopped moving.
I saw it happen.
His shoulders went still.
The soccer ball rolled past his foot.
A year earlier, I might have asked my mother to come inside.
I might have apologized for the misunderstanding.
I might have spent Ethan’s birthday managing grown adults until his own happiness became background noise.
Instead, I looked at my son.
He was watching me.
Not frightened exactly.
Waiting.
May you like
I turned back to my mother.
“This is Ethan’s party.”
