Happy Birthday to Me

I used to believe understanding the function of a noun was the hardest curveball life would throw at me. When you’re younger you don’t know how much more there is to learn. How much more there is to fail. Nothing is quite real yet and you sit on a cloud of make believe and playtime. 

You believe that if you swallow watermelon seeds, a watermelon will grow inside you like a child. That your parents are soulmates. It usually doesn’t actually go that way. What you perceive is a dream and growing up is like waking up for the first time. A dream you’ll likely forget. 

And then you find yourself at 16 wondering what you’ll be for the rest of your life. And things that you can’t explain, and can’t fix are going south. Everything is going south. And you thought your parents were always right, and you thought that they would live forever. And you sit and wonder and cry because not everything is as easy as you had wished it to be and you want to go back to the time when a noun was the hardest curveball life threw at you. Because at least then you knew there would be a solution. 

But you keep at it because those medical bills won’t pay for themselves. 

Birthdays are to celebrate life, not to remember death. I forget that sometimes. I wish I could celebrate life. I wish a lot of things.

**

[10 years later]

“Jane,” my sister calls from across the escalator. Eliza. 34. You always knew when my sister Eliza was on her way, she was the loudest woman you would ever meet. It’s both a blessing and a curse. I mean heck I never got lost, Eliza would always sound the path. 

“Hi-oh,” I try to get out before she swallows me whole in a bear hug. She was smaller, and yet much mightier than I could ever be. 

“How was the flight?” 

“I slept through it all.”

“How you can sleep through a flight will always amuse me,” she says before helping me with my bags. Some would call her tacky, obnoxious. But I never thought so. She was loud, yes. She was very flamboyant, yes. But she meant well, a very selfless extrovert, which you don’t find very often.

“Practice I guess. You don’t have to take those,” I said reaching for my bags. 

“Don’t worry about it, you’ve had to lug these around for some time now I bet.”

“Douglas in yet?”

“Yeah he actually got to my house yesterday!”

“Haven’t seen him for a while,” I say. Douglas. 38. Our brother. 

“Well you’ll see him today!” she says in an excited tone. She was always excited for everything. 

My 26th birthday. 

My sister insisted I fly out to see her for my birthday. She couldn’t afford tickets with the wedding planning she has been doing. Her girlfriend of 3 years proposed almost 2 months ago now. 

We find her car pretty quickly, and I help her get my luggage in the trunk. Her car is green, reminds me of the one our mother used to have. I run my hands on the side of the doors before stepping inside. It smells like Eliza. Lavender. If you couldn’t hear her you could smell her. 

*ring-ring-ring*

“Sorry,” I say before looking at my phone. Unknown Caller. 

“Who is it?”

“No one-” I say before declining. I never answer random phone numbers, a lesson my mother taught me as a child. I never need to. All my clients, old and new, business partners and coworkers email me. No need for a random number to call. Must have been a mistake I kept telling myself. 

I run a fashion magazine in New york. I take photos, organize structure and such. 

“Strange..”

“What?”

“Random number-”

“DON’T answer those or else it-”

“Could be someone trying to scam you or hack your phone. I know Eliza, I heard the same speech every time too.” We laughed. Our mother would lecture constantly when we were children. We hated it then, but as we grew up we started to understand the meaning behind her words. 

As you grow up and learn that your parents don’t know everything, you begin to understand why they do certain things. Why don't they let you eat candy before bed, why you gotta have your vegetables at dinner. 

As we drove I was reminded of a place I once knew. Los Angeles, born and raised. 

My whole life was raised in a city, just to move to another city. I felt trapped so I had to go find another box to confine myself in.

“You’re still here,” I say as we pull into the driveway I was all too familiar with. “Thought you would have sold the house by now.”

“Why would I?” 

“I don’t know?” I said, although I did know. It was a house full of love and childhood memories that secretly haunted my nightmares. Foggy days and empty nights. 

A mother that was once there, and a mother gone. 

*ring ring ring*

“Is it the same number?” 

“Yes,” I said frustratedly on my phone. Stop calling me! I declined the number. 

“If it isn’t little ole Janey.” Douglas grabbed me tight and hugged me the same way my sister had. They loved bear hugs. They loved hugs. 

I did not. I was like Greg.

They were both so much like my mother, warm and open. I was not- although I tried to learn I never picked up on those habits. 

*ring ring ring*

“Stop calling-” But the phone was not ringing. It was coming from someone else. 

“The landline”

“You still have one of those?”

“Hello,” she said in her cheery voice. “

She listened to the voice talking and her face went white. She looked in my direction. She looked towards Douglas and then both were staring at me. 

I felt such strange fear, why was I to be stared at. 

“It’s for you…” she pushed her hand towards me. 

“What?”

“He’s asking for you?”

“Who?”

There was silence. 

I knew who it was, they didn’t even have to say it. A fear turned reality. 

But how come she knew his voice, knew him. 

“You’ve been talking to him haven’t you-”

“Jane-”

“Oh my god-” my chest suddenly felt so tight. 

A nightmare turned reality, my father. Greg. A man so distant I couldn’t even count him as a memory. Our mother was gone by the time I was 14. He turned into a monster. A monster unimaginable. It changed him, changed us all. 

At 18 my brother took ownership of us legally. 

“Jane-”

“I won’t talk to him.”

“I’ll leave you two,” Douglas said making his way to the kitchen. 

“Why now Eliza!”

“You’re 36.”

She was 36 when she passed. 

I quickly took the phone and held it to my ear. 

“Jane…” his voice was raspy. And as if pushed out of me I began sobbing. Silently as I had as a child. 

“Jane..I am so sorry-”

“No. You do not get to-”

“Jane!”

“Was that you calling me earlier?”

“Yes..”

“How did you...I…” I stopped. I could barely breathe. 

“I’m sorry that-”

And I didn’t even let him finish before slamming the phone into the wall. I slammed it over and over, until blood ran down my hands. 

“Jane!”

“I’m sorry.” The phone was broken. I was broken. 

Happy Birthday to me.