Clairvoyant

A middle-aged woman with concern whittled intensely into her features paced anxiously in her kitchen. The linoleum on her floor creaked as furious feet shuffled across them, with flecks of chewed cuticles falling onto them precariously.

A man of five decades and the salt-and-pepper hair to show for it eyed the fiercely striding blur of a woman.

“He doesn’t want AirPods, obviously,” she finally uttered, glancing up from her stare on the worn linoleum to look at the man. “He’s never been a kid who keeps up with the trends.”

“Well,” the man replied. His tone was indifferent -- his actual concern for the situation at hand under the guise of calm collectedness. “You’re not wrong.”

“So what do we do?” she urged, eyebrows raising to emphasize her worry.

“We can just do what we did last year, and the year before that. He likes flowers, even though he won’t admit it. And we can bring him some books, since he likes to read. You know he likes when we bring him bestsellers,” the man crooned gently.

When the woman finally met the man’s imploring gaze, her eyelashes fluttered away from his stare away to the auburn splotch of water on the ceiling.

“Books and flowers. Sure,” she whispered, unconvinced. “It’s his --”

“21st birthday, yes,” he interrupted as he nodded. “But we should let him celebrate with his friends for that. What, you want to bring him a bottle of wine?”

“He wouldn’t want wine,” she replied with sudden anger.

The man observed as the concern in her face was carved out by heady indignation -- something that happened more frequently in the last few years. Outwardly, he would say he was used to it, but truthfully, it startled him each and every time. It left him breathless and winded. Exactly like how --

“He would want beer. You know him,” she spat.

“Okay. So we take beer. Flowers and books. What books?”

“Bestsellers! You said it yourself!”

“He’s always wanted to read classics. I don’t know that he keeps up with the bestsellers --”

“Of course he does,” she murmured, voice cracking. “He always keeps up with everything. You underestimate him.”

“I don’t,” the man uttered, with flames starting in his throat. “I do not.”

“Fine. Then you pick the books. I’ll pick the flowers.”

-

“Do you think he likes sunflowers over daisies?”

The man swept his lashes up from the grainy font of the Sunday New York Times and quirked an eyebrow. He couldn’t tell what she was up to -- simply hadn’t been able to read her for a while now.

“Of course.”

The woman whipped herself around with vehement hatred glimmering in her eyes. The lines that had settled into her face over the years made sharp, abrupt cuts into her features that reminded him of --

“Why is it that you’re acting like I don’t know that?” she demanded.

“I’m not,” he sighed. “You just asked.”

The fury dissipated as quickly as it came and took with it the viscosity of the air. She grinned wickedly.

“I did, didn’t I?”

-

“Sunflowers or daisies, Rob? It’s a simple fucking question.”

The woman shook in her pilled cashmere sweater with eyes unwavering in contrast to the rest of her body. A hot scarlet blush casted her stare darker than she might have ever intended, but in the moment, it was working for her.

“Sunflowers,” Robert murmured, holding out his hands to calm her, as though she were a feral animal that had wandered into their home. “It’s always sunflowers.”

“No, it isn’t!” she shrieked, throwing the chef’s knife that sat on the counter behind her.

Robert threw himself against the wall closest to him in a desperate attempt to dodge the lethal steel launched at him. The air whistled as it flew past him, just barely missing his ear. He listened to the crumbling drywall block the path of the knife, then the metallic clatter as it hit the linoleum, and finally, soft sobs as the woman before him dropped to the ground.

“Oh, Claire.”

-

“Do you think he would rather read Great Expectations over Lord of the Flies?”

Robert had been stirring the blanched sugar into a stale mug of coffee when he asked the question.

Silence.

His eyes narrowed briefly as the metal spoon hit ceramic, and he glanced behind him to see what was going on.

Claire glowered at him over her own cup of coffee. Pure abhorrence. Absolute fury.

“You don’t know?” she asked, deadly quiet.

“Just,” Robert answered, “making conversation, love.”

The fury dissolved from her face just as the sugar sweetened his coffee, brought everything back to order, as if it really could. It was his fault for asking for confirmation.

Each year was a rampage about what to buy Sam for his birthday. The kid was easy to please -- liked just about anything they gave him, but still, Claire was always in a tizzy about it. She hadn’t been in the past --

“It’s Great Expectations, Rob. You knew that, right?”

-

“Beer?”

The word -- the question -- had caused Claire to throw her water glass onto the floor and send glass flying into her shin and across the room.

“Yes, Rob,” she hissed, seething, “beer.”

It was his mistake for asking again.

“Claire, you’re bleeding.”

“I should clean up this water,” she whispered, walking away.

-

“...happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Sa-am, happy birthday to you!”

Sam didn’t respond to their dissonant rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

Robert and Claire had given him his gifts -- a six-pack, sunflowers, and Great Expectations -- as soon as they’d arrived, partly out of excitement to hear his reaction.

They’d set the presents down gingerly before his marble headstone and imagined he’d laughed at how poorly they sang him his song. Imagined how he’d laughed himself to tears at their singing, then at the six-pack.

A cerise blush rising up his neck from the bright sunflowers, and a look of gratitude when he saw the title of the book.

Thanks Mom.

Thanks Dad.

You’re the best.