A Birthday Party

“A Birthday Party”

The lightning flashes, and the thunder echoes across the river, the afternoon waxes away, a typical day except it is my ninetieth birthday. I guess I should be grateful that God above blessed me with a long life. But there are moments when I want to leave these old bones behind and cross over the “Jordon” onto the other side. At this moment, reality reminds me that there is still life to live and enjoy what I have yet to discover.

Deep down, however, there’s a part of me where memories of children dance in my mind, running and jumping in the mud puddles, catching lighting bugs—the laughter of my father and mother filling the downstairs.   I find myself trying to relive those moments, and sometimes late in the night, I can hear them, the voices of distant memories calling out to me, but that is only an illusion of an old woman. 

A spinster is a label other people have given me, while some prefer to call me ‘the crazy lady.’ It doesn’t matter to me, though I like the ‘crazy lady,’ however, either one will do. Anything to keep my personal life a secret from wandering eyes, nosey neighbors, trying to get a glimpse inside my home.  The busybodies are what I call those troublemakers, making me feel uneasy in my house. If I were able, I would get a dog for protection, but I’m too old and set in my ways. Besides, Mr. Ricki, my cat, wouldn’t like a canine in our home.

***

I received a letter from my grandmother, which is quite odd since she hasn’t spoken to my mom or me for twenty years, ever since my mother and I moved away. Being independent and headstrong, my mom’s choice of life never met Sarah, my grandmother. And now that my mom has died, I found myself without any direction of what to do next. That was until the letter came. It was a Saturday, the day after the first anniversary of my mom’s death. At the tender age of twenty-five, a sober and lonely time for me with no ties to this place that I had once called ‘home.’

After making the travel arrangements, I boarded a bus from Philadelphia to Harrisburg, a three-hour trip.  The landscape bleeding together. I meet to rest my eyes for only a moment but I ended up closing my eyes for more than twenty minutes. Except for the layovers in King of Prussia and Lancaster, this trip is turning out to be uneventful. And soon I found myself watching the other people, imaging their life stories, where they came from, where they are making this trip enjoyable to an amateur writer much like myself.

A foul-smelling older man, with brown and gray hair, falls asleep. His snoring penetrates my fluttering thoughts. Who is he? A detective on a murder case? Or is he a private investigator following that blonde-haired lady sitting two seats in front of him?  At the same time, while my thoughts were of him, a young man, twenty-something, long greasy hair, I couldn't tell if his hair is a shade of blonde or brown. In either case, he chooses to sit down across from me.

  Humph, I wonder what his story is?  Down on his luck? An undercover cob, no, he’s too young for that. Or perhaps a mastermind of some unsolved crime? A crime of the century?

“Harrisburg,” the driver announces over the loudspeaker, I stumble to my feet pulling my backpack out of its compartment, getting ready for my next adventure as people are filing out of the bus. Making a few inquires about where I can grab a quick lunch, I hail a cab to take me uptown to the sixteen hundred blocks of N.2^nd Street.

****

“Good afternoon, Mr. Peterson’s office. How may I direct your call?” Irene said

“Yes, this is Ms. Dougherty speaking. I want to talk to Mr. Peterson if you please.”

“Yes, Ms. Doughtery, please hold.”

“Good afternoon Ms. Dougherty. What can I do for you?” Mr. Peterson said

“I would like to change my will.”

“Y-your will?”

“Yes,”

“A-are you sure?”

“Yes, quite sure, Mr. Peterson.”

“Okay, I’ll be more than happy to help you.”

I can’t believe she wants to change her will after all this time. Her granddaughter? What’s her name again? Uh, yes, Julie Morgan Doughtery, that’s it. I was the one meant to benefit from her death. Her home was supposed to go with me, no one else's, And now, in one instant, everything changes. Whom is this person ruining my life? 

I find that Ms. Dougherty is irrational. Her decision to change the will is a mistake. I have to do something and do it quickly before losing the only opportunity to inherit her house.  What can I do? 

“Mr. Peterson?” Irene said

“Yes?”

“Here’s a copy of Ms. Dougherty's updated will.”

“You already made the changes? H-how did you know?

“Ms. Dougherty called a second time and re-laid the message to me.”

“I’ll be back in an hour.”

I wanted to destroy `that piece of paper. However, I knew that as Ms. Doughtery’s attorney, I would violate the oath that I took to uphold the law. But if I can talk with her and express my concerns about handing over her lovely home to somebody unknown. And the repercussions of having an outsider’ taking care of the property could have devastating results. Who knows, maybe this ‘Julie’ person would sell the house that has stood for over one hundred years, a monument to the history of the Doughtery family.

***

“Miss, are you sure this is the place?”

“Yep, this is it,” I said, adjusting the straps on the backpack, getting out of the cab, strolling up to the iron rail gate that surrounds the yard, rose bushes lining along the walkway, A wicker rocking chair moves from the breeze, single candlelight in the bay window, saying ‘welcome home.’ 

“Here goes,” I sighed, pushing the old tatter buzzer, a small reminder of how quickly things can age without notice

“Yes?” a frail voice said, one eye squinting through a tiny opening through the front door

“I’m looking for my grandmother, Mrs. Sarah Doughtery. Do you know her?”

“Yes, she’s me,” Ms. Doughtery said as the door is about to close.

“Wait, my name is Julie Morgan, your granddaughter. I have the letter that you sent to my mom, Mildred, from two days ago.”

She opens up the crack further, faded brown eyes squinting over the top of the glasses that hung at the edge of her nose.  A thin whisk of soft white hair tenderly kisses her wrinkle leather cheek.

“Julie?” Is that you?”

“Yep, grandma, it’s me, Julie.”

“Come in, my dear child.”

Stepping through the threshold was like going back in time, a flower teacup resting on the marble fireplace beneath an oil painting with lines running through the portrait of a young girl in a printed dress—her light brown hair, neatly in a bun, pasty white skin, bright red lips. And on the far corner, a delicate clock, lifeless with its hands frozen in time. Thick, heavy curtains, gray, I think, pulled shut, blocking out the sun’s light.

“Julie, have you come to celebrate my birthday?”

“Y-your birthday?”

“Yes, it’s today.”

She fusses with her hair as we sit down on the couch, the excitement over her birthday, though truthfully I never knew that much about my grandma, my mom hardly spoke about this lady sitting next to me.

“Happy Birthday, grandma.”

“Dear child, thank you,” Ms. Dougherty said, “Now come with me to the kitchen.”

As I follow her, effortlessly pushing the walker as it squeaks across the shag carpet. The teapot whistles as steam pour out of its spout. The song “I’m a little teapot, short and stout” started to play in my mind then its words spilled out of my mouth as I started humming the tune.  

“One lump of sugar or two”

“Two”

The gentleness of her hands holding onto my hands. She looks thin, stretched somehow, I could not help the feeling that I should have come and visit years ago, and now, it appears that I may be too late. But it’s her smile, warm and intriguing, that I find fascinating. It wasn’t sad or disappointing, only full of hope.

We spent the rest of the afternoon sipping tea and reminiscing, about the past, questions about my mom and me, all the places we have lived. And about her life with my grandfather, Willaim, and what it was like living here in the city. It felt as though we had known each other for a long time. It was that bond that brought us together after many years.

Her laughter is light and cheery, as I had remembered it all those years ago, she never lost hope of perhaps seeing us again,  

“Grandma, mom passed away a year ago.”

A heavy silence like a cloud hung over us, and I was afraid to mention my mother's death. I knew that the news would be hard for her,

“Thank you, child, for telling me.”

“That’s okay.” 

Her hands gripping my hands tighter as she looked into my eyes and said

“ My only regret is not being able to ask your momma forgiveness,’ she took another sip of tea. Tears glistened from her eyes

“I’m glad that you came, dear child.”

We continue to sit here at the table, water stains embedded where glasses once stood, memories of forgotten dinners, the laughter of children celebrating birthday parties. 

***

The afternoon waxes away as we gather up the dishes from lunch, tomato soup, and grilled cheese sandwiches. I watch my granddaughter washing the dishes, so much like her mother, my dear sweet Milly. I can not help but wonder why she came after all this time, ‘what was it that she said, a letter that I sent her?’ 

I don’t recall writing any letter, then again, I have been forgetful lately and my mind isn’t like it used to be, and maybe I did write a letter to Milly. However, I am glad that Julie decided to answer the letter. And to be here to help celebrate my birthday.  Ah, I remember those special days, the joy and laughter that had once filled this house. And now, with Julie, there will be joy once again in this old house. 

“My child, I have something important to tell you,”

“Yeah, grandma?”

“Earlier this morning, I contacted my attorney, a Mr. Peterson, and had him change my will.”

“Y-your will?”

“Yes, I am giving everything that I have to you."

“But,?

“I know that it’s sudden, I’m not getting any younger, and I want you to have all of this”

“I- I don’t know what to say,” Julie said, “Thanks', grandma, I’m grateful.”

“Now, child, let me show you the rest of the house, your new home.”

****

The doorbell rings a second time, my finger pressing on the buzzer, ‘she has to be home.’ 

“What is taking her so long?’ Shifting my weight from the left foot to the right. I don’t like being here, like this, waiting for some old lady to answer the doorbell. Oh, forget it. What’s the use anyhow? I said as I started turning around on the heels of my leather shoes to leave Ms. Dougherty's home.

“Hi, can I help you?” a young woman’s voice said, with the door partly open.

“Yes, I need to speak with Ms. Dougherty.”

“And you are?”

“Mr. Peterson, her attorney.”

“Wait here”

“Mr. Peterson, you’re early.” Ms. Dougherty said

“Early?”

“Yes, for my birthday party,” She said, “Come back at 4:o’clock.”

I’m completely bewildered by what she said, a birthday party?” I never heard something so ridiculous in my life, ‘birthday party?’ I was just about to ring the doorbell again, trying to make some sense of what she said, then the front door open and that young girl said, “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, I- I didn’t know about the birthday party.”

“Oh? Well, it’s to celebrate my grandma’s ninetieth birthday.”

“Thanks”

“Hope to see you then.”

***

“It’s time, grandma,” I said, finishing up with the decorations, napkins with cute miniature roses, matching paper plates, cups.  The squeaking wheels were announcing her approaching the ‘sitting room,’ as she referred to it. To me, it’s a living room. But then again, who is to argue with a ninety-year-old lady.

“Oh, my goodness, child, when did you do all of this?”

“When you were upstairs resting.”

“Land sakes, child, gifts too?”

“Yep, it would’ve been a birthday party without gifts, now would it?”

“Oh, Julie, I- 'm lost for words.”

“Here, have a seat,” I said, “I’ll be back.”

“Dear, can you please get the door?”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Mr. Peterson, won’t you come in?”

“Thank you, Miss?”

“Name’s Julie. I’m Ms. Dougherty’s granddaughter

“Mr. Peterson, so glad that you came to my party.” Ms. Doughtery said

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I’ll be back,” I said, scurrying out into the kitchen, carrying the cake through the double doors, singing, “ Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to Grammy, happy birthday to you.” with Mr. Peterson’s baritone voice blending in with mine.

“Make a wish,” I said, “ and blow out the candle.”

***

A year has passed since my grandmother’s death, and I still can remember the celebration of her ninetieth birthday party, the joyous moments we spent together. God gave us a second chance to know each other, and that I am grateful for those memories.  I can almost hear her laughter in the early morning, and it gives me hope that everything will be all right. And that I am ‘finally home’ where I belong, carrying on with the tradition of a “Dougherty ” living in this house.