The Birthday Present

Long, long lashes and eyes the color of crisp, cloudy winter days. Rosy, puckered mouths curved into little smiles as they slept. Perfect, unblemished skin save for matching birthmarks underneath their right ears.

          Luisa couldn’t help herself. Every night, she tiptoed to their crib and watched her two beautiful babies sleep, curled around each other, fingertips touching. Max and Miri, Miri and Max. They were carbon copies of each other, just male and female and two years apart. 

         Luisa had been warned by the mothers that first children often get jealous of new additions, but Miri – her sweet, sweet girl – had attached herself to Max the very day they brought him home and never let go. Now, she refused to sleep without him and clung on whenever Luisa tried lifting him away. 

         And every night, wrapped in the soothing, protective silence only darkness can provide, Luisa stood over them, a shadow illuminated by moonlight slipping through curtains, and whispered a little prayer: Please, God, don’t let anything happen to them. 

***

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Miri, happy birthday to you,” the group chorused, out of tune.

“So cute!”

“Smile for the camera!”

“Don’t forget to blow out the—”

“Make a wish!”

Miri blocked out the noise and took a deep breath to extinguish the candles. She remembered when she was younger and could sometimes blow them all out in a single breath, but now it took quite a few.

“You didn’t make a wish,” someone said accusingly. “You just blew out the candles.”

Miri didn’t bother correcting them. At some point in her old age, she’d realized there was no point wasting breath on ignorant people; it was much better to remain silent and appear wise. They didn’t know that she hadn’t needed to think about her wish because she had wished it so many times before – 88 times before, in fact, every single birthday since she was twelve.  The words were permanently etched in her subconscious, lingering, ready and eager to leap out as soon as invited (and sometimes even when not).

“Let’s cut the cake.” That was Amanda.

“Cake!” screeched one of the little ones.

Miri sat back in her chair, watching the scene through rheumy eyes: two of her granddaughters, Amanda and Lia (her favorites, actually, but no one could know that), cutting slices of cake in the darkened room, their husbands talking in the corner. Her daughter, stricken with dementia, gazing blankly at her hands. Her son, corralling the many little great-grandchildren, so many she couldn’t keep track of them all. Various nursing home friends, though she could barely call them that. They were more just people she was inextricably tied to by a factor outside of her control – age. All her real friends were dead. At least her favorite nurse, Laura, was in attendance. 

Miri felt something close to contentment settle over her. It wouldn’t be so bad if this was it, the end. She just wished—no, there was no use even thinking it. But it was too late. Her wish wormed its way back into her conscious and she let out an audible sigh. Really, she argued with herself. This year is no different than the others. Don’t think it. Stop, already. But her mind seemed to have a mind of its own, and the feeling of contentment vanished, just like it always did when she remembered what was missing. Not that she ever forgot, really. His absence had become as permanent and significant as his presence would’ve been.

Miri realized with a sudden start that her two granddaughters were now sitting on either side of her, clasping her hands and trying to get her attention. The rest of the party was solemnly gathered around the table, oddly quiet (even the little ones, though that was probably because they had been given slices of cake).  

         Lia was talking to her. “Miri, I know you said you didn’t want any presents, but we thought you deserved something special. After all, today is your 100^th birthday. That’s an incredible accomplishment—”

         “No, no, that makes it seem like I had something to do with it. It’s just genes,” Miri said.

         “You can take more credit than that. It’s no secret you’ve had a difficult life. I mean, you made it through two wars and a depression, for God’s sake. And you triumphed. Miri, you triumphed. You defeated the odds and overcame the obstacles. That’s why, from all of us, we want to give you a present. We know you’ve tried investigators before, but we thought we’d give it one more shot and this time—this time it worked, I think you’ll really like it. Or, should I say, him.”

         As she finished her sentence, the door opened, and Miri watched as someone wheeled in a man in a wheelchair. Time lengthened, and for many moments, there was a disconnect between Miri’s eyes and brain. She stared at him with detached disbelief, waiting for her brain to catch up and register what she was seeing. Miri felt a wet droplet on her hand and realized she was crying. Max. 

***

         It was her fault. It was her fault for not keeping a closer eye on him. She never should’ve agreed to go. She was the older one, the mature one. He was her little brother and she had a responsibility: keep him safe. She shouldn’t have lied to their mother, saying they were going camping. It was so silly in retrospect. The potential for disaster was endless. But the trip there had been fine; the walk to the station was pleasant, and they made up songs to sing at the top of their lungs. There was no issue buying tickets and they bought sodas to drink as they waited, swinging their legs against the hard metal benches. 

         As the train whisked them into the city, she had had her first misgivings about the trip. It was awfully dangerous for two children to wander around London by themselves. But Max really, really wanted to – he loved London – and quite frankly, she wanted to go as well. 

         The day was a glorious taste of freedom and adult life. They walked everywhere, visiting all the major tourist attractions and using combined allowance money, saved for two years, to go to real restaurants for lunch and dinner. They certainly got a few stares, but the day went amazingly well, almost too good to be true.  That’s why Miri was feeling confident enough to tell Max to get on the train without her while she ran to the restroom. She watched him climb aboard, quickly did what she had to do, and ran back, all in the span of a few minutes. Moments after she got on, the train pulled away from the station and she went to join Max. 

He wasn’t there. 

         Miri raced around the carriage, then the next and the next, desperately hoping Max was hiding somewhere, playing a trick on her. After she’d run the length of the train multiple times, she went to the conductor in tears, shaking his arm and asking him to please turn the train around because her little brother had been left behind. The conductor said he was sorry but there was nothing he could do, and she should try to catch the earliest train back to London.

         That day, Miri and her parents went back, filed a police report, and combed the city for Max, but he had vanished. After two weeks of searching, they went home, each consumed in private suffering. The loss affected the family in different ways, but nothing was ever the same. Her mother retreated, rarely talking and never leaving the house, and her father threw himself into work, not coming home until late at night, leaving Miri to struggle through the grief and guilt on her own. Their family was permanently shattered, and it was her fault.

         Now, after so many years – in some ways, many lifetimes – of wishing and hoping, of prayers going unanswered, it seemed ridiculous, laughable, even, that Max was here, sitting across from her with tears trickling down his own cheeks. Miri reached out and touched his hand, confirming he wasn’t an apparition. Beneath the layers of wrinkles and sun spots, she recognized his face as she last saw it, some 88 years before. 

         “I’ve missed you,” she whispered.