It’s My Party

IT’S MY PARTY

There are yellow roses. Hundreds of yellow roses all around my room. Ralph is on my nightstand in a stripy conical hat. He’s got a tiny party horn in his mouth.

“Good morning, Ralph.”

He blows the party horn and wiggles his little legs.

“I know, I know,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

There’s a large box at the foot of my bed. It’s tied with yellow satin ribbon. I yawn, flop over and pull it toward me.

“Is this from you?” I ask Ralph.

He deflates, shakes his head no.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “Your presence is my present.”

He holds his cheeks.

I tug gently at the ribbon and undo the neat bow. I set the satin aside, folding it up and placing it behind me on my pillow.

I open the box. Inside is a new dress. A birthday dress. It’s a pale yellowy gold, with lacy sleeves and a corset back.

I put it on immediately. I admire myself in the full-length mirror. I run my hands over the fabric, over my body, over my skin. My face. My brilliant nose. My pretty eyes. My ample cheeks.

I get my hairbrush. It has a thin silver handle engraved with flowers.

I carefully lower myself to my knees, making sure the dress doesn’t wrinkle. I fan it out around me. Then I brush my hair.

I never used to take the time to brush my hair, but it really makes all the difference.

Ralph is still blowing his party horn.

“You don’t have to keep doing that,” I tell him. “Save some energy for the party.”

He gets in one more blow before letting the horn fall from his mouth. He then crawls into bed and takes a quick nap.

I check the time, and it’s disappointingly early. I change out of my dress and back into my pajamas. I make myself toast and a mimosa. I watch a reality TV show marathon about women trying on wedding dresses.

“They’re so excited for one day in a pretty dress,” I say. “Someone really should tell them. They can wear a pretty dress whenever they want.”

Ralph grunts. He’s annoyed that I’ve woken him with my bullshit.

“Women are out there tethering themselves to mediocre men just so they can wear a ball gown. It’s a shame.”

He grunts again.

“Okay, sorry, sorry,” I say. “I’ll shut up.”

Ever reliable, the TV has eaten away the hours. I thank it and blink to turn it off. I leave my dirty dishes in the sink.

I’m not going to do dishes on my birthday.

And besides, they can take care of themselves.

I put my dress back on. My shadow laces the corset. Ralph helps, too. He doesn’t contribute much, but he’s a good boy; he tries.

I feed him dead flies out of the palm of my hand.

“Few more minutes,” I tell him as I step into the bathroom to put on some makeup. Lately, I don’t wear much, because I’ve come to realize that I don’t need much, but it’s a special occasion. And it’s fun to wear lipstick.

As I lean in close to the mirror, dragging the tube across my bottom lip, I’m afflicted with a very specific memory of putting on lipstick before a dinner date with Sam. It was maybe four years ago. We were just going to our usual place around the corner from our apartment, but I decided to put on lipstick. When I emerged from the bathroom, he smiled and said, “Look at you.”

I haven’t thought of him much since his grand exit from my life, but occasionally I’ll experience an echo, the phantom sensation of an emotion that I know is expired. Sometimes it’ll trick me, and I’ll think that I miss him, that I still love him, that I’ll never fully amputate him from me. Usually then I count to eight, because I remember once reading about how, after people were beheaded by guillotines, their severed heads could blink and twitch for up to eight seconds.

By the eighth second, I’ll have regained my composure and reunited with the truth.

I’m glad to be rid of him.

“Look at you,” he said, and I didn’t hear it then, but replaying it now, I recognize the hint of condescension.

Condescension, the quiet destroyer. The spot on the lung discovered too late.

“Look at me,” I say, marveling at my reflection. “Look at me.”

I put Ralph in the front pocket of my dress.

“Ready?” I ask him.

He’s got his party hat, his horn. He’s so excited he can’t stop dancing. I shouldn’t have fed him the flies. He’ll go crazy for another half an hour and then pass out cold.

I don’t bother to lock my apartment anymore. I come and go as I please. Lynn has agreed to let me have the downstairs as well, and soon I’ll be able to remodel. I have some ideas. Sophie will help, of course.

The sun is generous in June. It’s high and bright despite the hour. It winks at me.

“Stay up as late as you like,” I tell it. Ralph thinks I’m talking to him. He does a flip inside my pocket.

“Hi, Annie! Happy birthday!” My neighbors all wait for me at the ends of their driveways, waving as I pass by, wishing me a happy birthday. Some of them hold sparklers.

“Thank you,” I tell them. “Thank you so much.”

Strange to think that a year ago I was in some random bar in the city taking tequila shots with Nadia, making a wish on a tea light candle.

What did I wish for?

I wished for happiness.

At the time, I thought that meant I was wishing for Sam. It’s best not to be specific with wishes. Otherwise, you end up getting what you think you want instead of what you really need. How dangerous.

When I get to Main Street, I pass the Good Mug first. Oskar and Erik stand out front. Erik hands me a bag of coffee beans.

“Happy birthday,” he says, smiling. He’s a very handsome kid. He’s going to cause real misery with that face. Obliterate fragile young hearts.

Oskar says nothing. He stands in the shadow of a streetlamp, half of his face in darkness. The visible half is stern.

I stare at him. If I focus for long enough, he’ll be forced to do something.

“Oskar,” I say.

He bows his head slightly. Maybe of his own free will or maybe not.

I wait for him to meet my eye. I wait to see if he looks at me the same way he looks at Sophie. But then Rose begins to sing “Happy Birthday,” and Deirdre is walking toward me with a giant cupcake.

Everyone on the street joins in except for Oskar, and Tom, who is hiding behind a bottle of syrup with a bow on top, which I assume is my present.

The crowd harmonizes in a big finale and then erupts in applause.

“Here you are,” Deirdre says, bestowing me with the cupcake.

“Thank you,” I say. “I don’t want it right now but thank you.”

“I’ll save it for you,” she says. She backs away from me, vaguely flustered. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” I tell her. “It was really nice of you to make it for me. I just don’t want to eat it right now.”

There was a time when I would have eaten it anyway, because it seemed the polite thing to do, because I was too afraid of hurting someone’s feelings.

Imagine.

I receive more gifts. The syrup. A book. A necklace. A bottle of wine. A jar of jam. A basket to carry all of my presents.

The crowd continues to clap for me as I make my way to the gazebo.

I cut through the field, which is crowded with empty tents. I follow the sidewalk, pass the playground.

“Annie,” Sophie says, “happy birthday!”

She has decorated the gazebo with thousands of flowers. Roses and peonies and lilacs. Snapdragons and spiral eucalyptus and carnations and thistle. Ranunculus. There are candles and sparkly lights. And she stands in the center of it all, wearing a dress that matches mine. Only hers is dark purple.

“You look beautiful,” she says. “You like the dress?”

“I love it,” I tell her. “Thank you.”

“Come sit. I’ve set us up a little birthday picnic. Bread and cheese and figs and roast chicken and wine. Lots of wine.”

She’s put a table in the middle of the gazebo. It’s covered with a black lace tablecloth. The food is beautifully arranged, and she’s brought glass goblets for the wine. I climb the steps, and she greets me with an embrace.

“It’s fun to celebrate birthdays,” she says. “Make sure you write it down. Otherwise, you’ll forget it eventually.”

“That’s good advice,” I tell her.

I sit on a stool and let Ralph climb out of my pocket and onto my lap.

I try to feed him a bit of chicken, but he’s not hungry. He’s overexcited; he can’t stop fidgeting. I close my hand and summon a compact mirror. I prop it open on the table and lift him up so he can admire himself in his party hat. This should occupy him for a while.

Sophie pours the wine and begins to scoop pomegranate seeds onto her plate, adding slices of bread and cheese.

“Go on, Annie,” she says. “Birthday banquet.”

I tear off a piece of bread and begin to nibble. I don’t have much of an appetite. Maybe I’m overexcited, too. Something tumbles in my gut.

“What a special year it’s been,” Sophie says. “We met. Became friends. We fought. We made up. It’s been such a privilege to witness your transformation, Annie. So wonderful to be your friend.”

She raises her goblet to me.

“Thank you, Sophie,” I say, clinking her glass with mine. I sip my wine.

There’s a small crystal bowl filled with blackberries. I take a few and eat them out of my hand.

“It’s such a rare thing,” she says. She’s staring off into the distance somewhere beyond me.

I turn around. There are only woods there. Only twilight.

“What?” I ask her.

“This. Our friendship. You.”

I nod. “I don’t know where I’d be without you, Soph. I owe it all to you. Honestly, I do.”

“Nonsense,” she says.

“It’s true,” I say. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be somewhere feeling sorry for myself. Feeling powerless, hopeless. Or worse. I’d be in a relationship with someone who was slowly sucking the life out of me without me even realizing, thinking it was what I wanted.”

I take another sip of wine. I hold my goblet. I like the way the cool etched glass feels in my hand.

“When I was young, I used to pick out my cereal based on the prizes advertised on the box. I’d eat all the cereal, and then I’d get to the prize, and it’d never be as good as how it looked on the box. And I would have eaten all this cereal I didn’t even like just to get this disappointing, dinky little toy or whatever. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. About how that could have been my whole life. I would have been an old woman somewhere, wrinkled as a raisin, realizing I’d spent all my good years eating shitty cereal for an unsatisfactory prize.”

“Mm,” Sophie says. “I’ve never had cereal.”

I laugh. “Really?”

“I’m glad you see now,” she says, “what I’d been trying to tell you all along.”

“I do,” I say. “I’m so happy. The happiest.”

“Oh, Annie, to think! We’ll be able to celebrate so many more of your birthdays together. So many you’ll lose count.”

She reaches across the table and wraps her hand around my wrist, her fingers stroking the soft valley of veins, feeling the gentle surf of my pulse. Her amber eyes drip with affection.

I lift my glass. “Another toast!”

She raises hers. Ralph perks up and begins to parade around the table.

“To the years ahead,” I say. “To the future.”

And what a thing it is to know.

My future is my own.