Started Counting After 14

DISCLAIMER: This text has the reference of death and interpretative meanings.

The counter top was cleared, with dimmed lights dotting the house and only a small circle-plate in the center.

On that plate was a mile-high vanilla cake, with frosted edges swirling like wind and candles standing above the waves with a small orb of fire at the end. Counting down the sides, there were sixteen of them. Sixteen candles, blue and white, meeting at the charcoal tip with that heat, prepared to be blown out for a miracle of a wish.

"Happy Birthday, Ethan," Marge whispered to the opposite end of the counter, able to express her joy in hushed tones and bleach smiles. "I'm sorry I couldn't do much more, with work and all, but I promise next paycheck I'll work on it."

Marge could feel that clog in her throat again. That one that hit every March twenty-third, right at midnight. The clock only ticked at 11:42, but the butterflies were swarming early: soon enough they would hurl from her throat in the form of excuses and vicissitudes.

She tapped a finger on the hard top, before her eyes lit up and she squealed with forgotten excitement. "Oh-I got you something! We'll make sure not to open it until it's actually your birthday here in a minute, but ugh I'm way too excited."

She dipped beneath the counter, and sprung back with a clay-colored box, the red ribbon still tied on the top. Marge made sure it was as presentable as a present could get, but still the ribbon looked uneven. The box looked a little smaller, the edges an inch beaten. It sat on the counter all loopy in her eyes, but of course Ethan would appreciate it. He had a way of doing that.

She laced her fingers across the top of it, sliding it from the roof towards the vanilla cake.

"So! I want to hear all about school. Or even that one blonde girl you had been crushing on-oh! Vanessa? Was that her name?"

Marge seemed tranquil, the formality she reserved for birthdays exclusively. Her body wasn't so stiff while it leaned on the counter top, although the nerve endings throughout her body replaced that tension, and instead gave off this awkward persona of a trying mother that was equally a mirage and reality.

The phone rang, and her palms took years to reach her temple. "Hey, listen, I'm so sorry. I just need like two minutes to take this, it's that Alan from work." She sighed, retreating to her bedroom and sitting on the bed as he picked up.

"Hello? Marge Hollander."

"Hey? You hear me alright? This is Alan."

Marge rolled her eyes, scanning the clock. 11:48. "Yeah, I hear you okay."

"Hey, so sorry to call you this hour." Alan sounded as blank as the voicemail she wished to leave. "But I'm checking in. You know, just because of all the, uh..."

Marge cut him off. "I'm fine, Alan. I appreciate you. I guess. I'm a little busy at the moment."

Alan seemed beaten for a moment. But he pushed on, and Marge was left to compete with his persistence. "I know! Just, I get it. Like, I wasn't sure if you needed some company or something like that-"

"Wow. You are actually disgusting." Marge scoffed.

Alan jumped backwards, his tone as raw and apologetic as it could manage to be. "No, not at all in that way. I just meant, like, even over the phone. It's a tough day, it's gonna get harder, and I'm sorry if that comes off rude. Just give me a couple minutes."

Marge contemplated. Her eyes darted back to the clock, and no matter how fondly it dinged, the time seemed to be slow. Dreadfully slow. It was 11:50 on the dot.

"Fine. But I have to be done talking by 11:55. I'm celebrating my sons birthday tonight."

"I promise I'll be gone by then. How are you?"

"Now is this a personal chat or are you just checking in?" Marge butted again, and this time it wasn't all intentional. She locked her lips for a moment.

"I'm fine, Alan. How was the place? I took off today and tomorrow."

"God, that building doesn't run without you. That one dipshit took over as assistant manager today and it was awful. Raul, I think his name is?"

Marge let the smile hit her lips, but her eyes kept surveying the clock. Every tick made her jump, but she rested assured that she'd be done by 11:55. It was only 11:52.

"Right. I don't think Raul knows what the back of his own hand looks like." She added to his comment. "He's like an ape."

Alan laughed for a couple seconds on the other line. "That's creative."

There was silence, after the laughter died down, and the air began to feel cold. Marge sighed.

"You okay?"

Marge didn't expect Alan to speak from the silence so soon. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Hey, I get it." He muttered, and Marge took his whisper as a respectful way of being available.

"Hey Alan?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you want to celebrate with me and Ethan tonight?"

There was another one of those pauses, as if her request was being processed in a fax machine and getting ready to arrive.

"Of course."

She clicked the Facetime button, rising to her feet as she quickly looked at the clock. 11:57. "Let's hurry, I really can't miss it. He's waiting on me in there."

Alan loaded onto the screen right as Marge entered the kitchen, and she hurriedly looked for a spot to set him upright on. The kitchen was humming with the air conditioner, and the flames on the cake were shaking, but still there to be blown.

"Sorry for making you wait, baby. I really hope it's okay with you, I know it's different, but I wanted Alan to celebrate with us today." She quickly excused herself to Alan, before putting him on mute. She'd turn on the camera right as they began to sing, but she wanted a moment to herself.

"He's not awful, Ethan. He's kind of sweet, and he does try. I hope it doesn't bother you too much, I just think it will be nice, with your dad not being around anymore, and I'm sure you'll - we'll - get used to it. Together."

Ethan was as understanding as it got, Marge knew that. He would understand why an earthquake hit and they would have to move; he was the kind of boy that could make the most out of nothing, and a miracle out of something. That bright smile and funny looking brown hair made him unforgettably unique. Every friend Marge had made sure to mention how stunning he was, and she couldn't help but take in the love and appreciation for her beautiful boy.

He was a hockey player, with great size and talent that was sure to take him places. His favorite team was the Chicago Blackhawks, but his favorite player was Zach Parise, during his spell specifically at the New Jersey Devils. He'd gawk for hours and hours about that sport; about how it was made for him to play and that his stick shook when he shot because of the pure power. He was one funny kid, the funniest Marge had ever seen.

Although he was an only child, he seemed content with it and made sure Marge was taken care of better than any other guy had. They had one-on-one time regardless of the schedule Marge was trapped in, and by the stars Ethan understood that part, too.

Marge looked at the time. 11:59.

She rushed to the phone, and turned on her camera for Alan to see, and unmuted herself with a small wave as she stood across the counter.

The clock hit 12:00, and Marge led the singing.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,"

Alan joined as they closed in unison, before Marge was left in front of the dazzling white cake with candles and shaky flames dotting the outlines of it.

Marge took in the minute, and finally broke.

"You'd be sixteen today, Ethan." She managed to choke out, and Alan was looking down rather than at the moment Marge was having. "My beautiful boy. It isn't fair you don't get to eat this cake, or open this present. It isn't fair you can't make a wish, and it isn't fair that my boy isn't turning sixteen today."

She pulled the clay present towards her, as the sobs finally caught up and she let the words spill faster.

"I got you this with the money from my last couple paychecks," she twiddled her finger beneath the ribbon, pulling it off and delicately removing the brown case paper from the top. "It's a signed pair of skates from Zach Parise, y'know, that hockey star you always told me about." The weight was stacking now, and Alan still awaited on the phone, ready to console her when she was ready.

"I should've gotten it for you sooner."

"Marge," Alan tried to assure her from the marble, but she waved him off.

"Just let me get it out please?"

He silenced.

"I know you can't blow out these candles but I will. And I have the same wish as last year," Marge felt her top half crumple to the support of the counter top as she leaned towards the cake. "I wish that you could see me. That, wherever you are, baby, you see me celebrating with you, so happy for you. Happy birthday Ethan."

She blew out the candles, sixteen shaky flames all smoking out with her breath, and the smoke crawled towards the other end of the table top, where Ethan sat in his small portrait, smiling away in his hockey uniform.

"Happy birthday Ethan," she repeated, prepared for no reply. Until Alan spoke.

"Happy birthday, Ethan," as he began to carefully drive to her apartment with the phone.