Cake and Candles

“Cake and candles G!” was the first message Gerard saw when he opened his eyes.

He assumed this was a new way guys said happy birthday, but Deran had been 36 for a full five months. In other words, he was too damn old to be saying cake and candles.

Instead of texting that, he wrote, “Thank you fam!” Deran had been his boy since freshman week at Prairie View; no need to take his frustration out on him.

“Happy birthday baby,” a voice drenched with sleep murmured from behind him. He could feel Tiffany’s cool breath against his shoulder with each word.

He turned over, taking her in. The front of her oversized cheetah print bonnet stopped just below her eyebrows. She pulled it up, smiling at him.

“Thank you, beautiful.”

“How do you feel?”

He couldn’t tell her the truth. That the weight of his three unpublished manuscripts wore heavier on him each day, and that his back ached from the fight he’d broken up in the middle of yesterday’s lesson.

So he said, “I feel 36.”

“Well you look 26,” she said, placing a kiss on his lips. “You ready for your extra-special birthday breakfast?”

He smiled at her, sniffing the air. How had he missed the unmistakable aroma of bacon?

“When did you make breakfast?”

“While you were asleep, duh.”

His brow rose when he noticed she didn’t move towards the kitchen. “You’re not eating with me?

“Morning sickness,” she said grimacing. He looked at her swollen belly, tenting her–well actually his– T-shirt. His smile was mostly genuine. He had always envisioned himself being a father. What he hadn’t envisioned was barely scraping by on a teachers salary when he welcomed his child into the world. He wanted to spoil his child in ways his parents hadn’t been able to spoil him. But with their combined student loans and the mortgage, that didn’t seem possible.

“You okay?” She questioned, her sculpted brows furrowing.

“Yes,” thank you for breakfast baby. He rubbed her belly before heading to the kitchen.

She had made his favorites. Cheesy grits, bacon, eggs and french toast. She had even topped his french toast with diced strawberries. The woman was a Godsend. Walking into her salon to get his locs retwisted was the best decision he’d ever made.

A satisfied moan escaped him as he shoveled a forkful of french toast into his mouth.

“You know, it’s not too late to take the day off. You could always tell the principal you have a flat,” Tiffany said, appearing in the kitchen.

“On my birthday? A little convenient don’t you think?”

“You know what I think Mr. Thompson? I think you wanna spend your bday with your students. I think you want to be flooded with, “Happy birthday Mr. T!” She said in a singsong voice. He fought back a laugh. She wasn’t entirely wrong.

Tiffany’s predictions were spot on. By lunchtime his desk was littered with handmade birthday cards and candy from his students. And he felt lighter, until his phone vibrated with an email. His shoulders sank at yet another literary agent rejection: “It just wasn’t a good fit.” Three manuscripts. Three protagonists so real he could imagine passing them on the street, and yet, for all intents and purposes they were no more than figments of his active imagination.

Maybe it was time to hang it up and focus on a more practical pursuit. The assistant principal had been talking retirement for the last two years. And as a veteran teacher with the longest tenure at Park View Middle, it was a position he could easily claim. He mulled over the thought as he bit into a buffalo wing. Just then, his classroom door opened and Ms. Asante walked in. A floral scent always seemed to announce her presence as much as her footsteps.

“Mr. Thompson, I came to bring birthday greetings!”

“Thank you! Did the students tell you?”

“No, I have my ways of knowing,” she said, winking mischievously.

It was rumored among students–and some of the faculty–that Ms. Asante practiced voodoo. Because of that, some teachers kept their distance. Last school year, a parent had even claimed that she’d cursed her son into being a D student. Gerard didn’t care if she was a practitioner or not, but he was curious.

“Is it a good one so far?” She asked, sitting at one of the students' desks.

He looked up from his lunch, giving her his full attention. Ms. Asante was a woman to be respected. Though she looked around 40, he could tell she was older. She had a way of looking at you that felt more like she was looking into you. And as the weight of her seemingly simple question settled over him, he knew there was no point in lying to her.

“It’s nothing special. Not a milestone, just another year passed with nothing to show for it.” Ms. Asante looked at him as if he’d spit on her. Then she leaned back in her chair and smirked.

“Let’s see what I know about you. You can stop me when you hear a lie.” He nodded his agreement.

“You have two degrees, a beautiful wife that keeps your locs looking fresh, students who adore you, and you’ll be a first time father in a few months. And oh I forgot one, aren’t you a homeowner?”

“Okay, I see what you did there,” he smiled in spite of himself. “I have a lot to be thankful for. But…”

“Go on. It’s a safe space.”

“I feel like I’m just going through the motions, just getting by.” He didn’t bother mentioning his author aspirations. Admitting to three unpublished manuscripts was more than a little embarrassing. Besides, the way she seamlessly outlined his life made him wonder if she was clairvoyant.

“I’ve been there before,” she said with a faraway look in her eyes. “And I learned that there’s power in the pen,” she said, pulling a purple pen out of her purse. Its gold trim gleamed as she extended it to him, an oddity under the classroom's dull fluorescent lights. As he held it, he was surprised by its weight and warmth.

“You are the author of your own story. Whatever your heart desires most, you can write into existence.” A mirthless laugh escaped him. If it were that easy, everyone would have whatever they wanted.

“Just try it.” She rose from her seat. “Oh and when you’re done, please return my pen,” she said with a wry smile from the doorway.

When the door closed behind her, he grabbed a blank sheet of paper from a desk. Clearly someone hadn’t done their assignment. He pushed his annoyance to the back of his mind as he sat back down. The blank page had lost its lure, but this would be easy. It was just him, the page and the pen. No need to front.

More than anything, I want to be prolific. My books flying off the shelves and my name on best seller lists.

Instantly, he was flooded with guilt. His heart’s truest desire should have been for Tiffany to safely deliver their child, not fame and fortune. Within seconds he was distracted from his thoughts as the once lilac colored ink glowed violet. The desk and chairs around him became a blur as he felt himself being drawn towards the paper.

“What the fu–” Before he could finish, he was sucked in.

He landed on a shiny tiled floor with a hard thud, sending a shock of pain through his already sore back. From what he could tell, he was in a lobby. Well dressed men and women milled around in clusters, speaking in hushed tones. Nearly all of them clutched at least one book. He could hear amplified voices coming from the direction the groups walked towards, like someone was on a microphone.

“Oh my gosh baby, are you okay?” He breathed a sigh of relief. If Tiffany was here that meant he hadn’t completely lost it.

“Tiffany, where am I?” He looked up– and froze. The woman staring down at him was not his wife. Her look of concern shifted as her brow rose.

“I know you didn’t just call me by your ex-wife's name.”

“Ex wife?”

He patted his right pocket, grounded by the familiar bulge of his cellphone. He feverishly opened the calendar app.

He opened and closed the app. The date didn’t change. Five years had passed.

He looked towards the direction of the steady stream of light filtering in from large glass doors. As he looked closer, he noticed signage that made his jaw drop.

Welcome to the 15th Annual Black Authors Series

Keynote: Tommie Michelle — Pulitzer Prize Finalist

Featured Guest: Gerard Thompson — New York Times Bestselling Author

Before he fully had time to process, a tall lanky man approached.

“Hello Mr. Thompson. I’m Justin, the event coordinator. Tommie Michelle just wrapped up her talk. They’re ready for you on stage now.”

He was too disoriented to respond. A woman he’d never met before referred to Tiffany as his ex-wife, and was talking to him like they were a couple. And apparently he was a New York Times Selling author about to give a talk five years in the future.

This had to be a lucid dream.

“Mr. Thompson?” The man repeated questioningly.

“He had a little fall. I think he may have bumped his head, but he’s ready.” The woman explained, with a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll talk about the Tiffany thing when we get home,” she said in a low voice.

“Sorry to hear that. I’ll bring an aspirin and water once you get settled on stage,” the man said hurriedly. A valium was probably a better pick.

The man ushered him forward towards a lecture hall. “You’ll enter from backstage once the commentator introduces you,” he said without slowing his brisk pace.

“Thank you,” Gerard said, stepping through the door held open for him. As he mounted the few steps leading backstage, nervous energy swirled through him. He looked down for the first time. He wore lightly checkered gray slacks, a crisp white button-down, and loafers that looked far pricier than any he owned. Just then, a velvety voice broke through the curtains that shielded him from the audience's view.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. This man hardly needs an introduction, but I’ll give him one anyway. Please help me welcome to the stage New York Times bestselling author of The Trouble with Ink and Water, winner of the Coretta Scott King Award and former esteemed Washington D.C. ELA teacher, Gerard Thompson!”

His eyes misted as Ms. Asante’s words reverberated through his head. Whatever your heart desires most, you can write into existence. He couldn’t believe this was really happening. As the curtains parted, he was met with thunderous applause. The commentator smiled encouragingly as he took the seat next to her.

He awaited her questions anxiously. He hoped she’d ask about one of his existing manuscripts, but he had no way of knowing if any had made it to print. So, he decided keeping things vague was best.

“So let’s jump right into your debut novel, The Trouble with Ink and Water. The Bailey twins pulled at America’s heart strings. Were they inspired by your students?” He breathed a sigh of relief.

“You know, most authors probably wouldn’t say this but it’s the truth,” he said leaning forward. “Every character we write has pieces of someone we know, or a person we wish we did,” he said. As thoughtful hmms, and ahh’s echoed through the audience, he continued on. “The Bailey twins are a collage of many children I taught, or had the pleasure of knowing over the years,” he finished confidently.

After about forty more minutes of banter and probing questions, the commentator who he learned was named Tia Norwood, signaled that the talk was coming to a close.

“Now I see some people have already headed out to the lobby to line up for the book signing. But, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that today is Gerard’s birthday. Would you all join me in wishing him a happy birthday?” He was in for yet another surprise as Stevie Wonder's voice flooded the lecture hall.

As Tia led the audience in a soulful birthday serenade, Justin offered him a chocolate cupcake, which he ate gladly. Time travel had made him hungry as hell. As he beamed at the audience his “wife” smiled at him from the front row, causing his to dim. This moment would have been perfect if his actual wife, and child were here, a child that he was yet to meet.

He had just finished signing the last fans book when his phone buzzed. He was puzzled when the words GJ’s mom appeared on his screen. There was no contact photo attached to the face time call. Still, he answered.

“Happy birthday daddy!” A small brown boy who looked about four said. He zeroed in on his features. He shared his thick bushy hair, button nose and expressive almond shaped eyes. His full lips were nearly identical to Tiffany’s. Tears pooled in his eyes. He had always wanted a junior, and now he was looking at him.

“Thank you son!” The words flowed as if he'd said them often.

“Why are you crying?” GJ’s brows furrowed in a way that was authentically Tiffany. Gerald wiped his face then.

“I'm just really happy to see you.”

“Are you coming to get me this weekend?”

“Of course,” he said as if making promises under these circumstances was logical.

“Gerard, you said you're tied up with speaking events this weekend.”

Tiffany came into view then. The locs that had once fallen to her waist were shoulder length, and she looked slightly older, but even sexier in his opinion.

“Baby, let mommy talk to daddy real quick.”

“Okay.”

Gerard could tell she was walking into another room. When she held the phone up to her face again, she was sitting on a bed.

“Gerard, you can not promise him things if you're not going to follow through.” His heart sank. Was that the kind of father he was?

“I'm sorry. Today has been hectic. I guess the writing events slipped my mind.”

Tiffany scoffed. “Well that's a new one. Writing always comes first.” The look in her eyes was cold and distant. This wasn't the woman who'd made him breakfast wearing one of his old T-shirts this morning.

She took a deep breath, softening her tone slightly. “When we move to Georgia, co-parenting is going to be even more challenging. So, we have to make sure we stick to the schedule unless there's an actual emergency.”

As she brushed a stray loc behind her ear, he noticed a sizable rock on her ring finger.

“So you're married, and now you're planning to take my son and move to Georgia with some guy?” He could feel heat rising in his chest.

“First of all, Ade is not some guy. And last time I checked, we’re both married.” She paused looking at him assessingly before continuing on. “When you decided to move to New York to further your writing career before the ink even dried on the divorce papers, I didn't sweat you. I'd like the same respect.”

He was speechless. Not only had he and Tiffany divorced, but apparently he had moved five hours away from his young son to get ahead. Who had he become?

“Listen, I gotta go. Happy birthday,” Tiffany said seconds before ending the call.

He stared at the screen until it darkened. This reality was not working for him. He scrolled through his contacts and was relieved to see he still had his principal’s number. One thing was for sure, he was going to find Ms. Asante.