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Authors: Jillian Cantor
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was yesterday.” He tried to change the subject.
I nodded. He says this every year. Then he recounts thestory of my mother going into labor, of how the first time he held me, he thought I was boy because the umbilical cord was still attached. He did the same thing to Becky on her birthday, only then he talked about her small, weak lungs, and she’d use this to her advantage. She’d crawl on his lap and hug him until he’d start to tear up, just thinking about how she been so blue, helplessly unable to breathe for the first seconds of her life.
By the end of dinner my mother was a wreck. She paced through the front hallway. While my father and I cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink, we could hear the clicking of her feet, back and forth and back and forth. It was all very odd, really—not that it wasn’t odd anyway—but it was still my birthday. When I looked at this with my mother’s logic, I wondered why she thought Becky would come home today, not tomorrow. I wondered if my mother might be confused, if somehow she’d collapsed the two of us into one person in her mind, one little girl. I wondered if I’d become invisible.
“Dessert,” my father called to her. “Time for cake.” He’d picked up cupcakes on the way home from work—chocolate with vanilla icing, my favorite. At least he’d remembered that.
My mother came back in. Her hair was messy, falling out of the neat, tight ponytail it had been in earlier. She looked oddly disheveled. “I don’t understand it,” she said to my father. “I just don’t understand it.”
He went to her and gave her a hug, and I could see he was solid but defeated. This was quite possibly the nicest exchange I’d ever seen my parents have. There was something so sweet, so desperate in their hug that I knew instantly how much they loved each other. “People don’t just disappear,” she said. “Little girls. Little girls don’t just disappear.”
My father stroked her hair back into her ponytail. “It’s time for cake. Let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday.’” I knew my father was trying to do this all for me, and I felt ashamed that I would even want him to. I wasn’t even sure if I should have a birthday anymore.
I heard the grandfather clock in the hall chime, so I knew it was six o’clock. If Becky were here, she’d be hopping around the kitchen saying, “Six hours until my birthday!” “Be nice, Becky. It’s Abby’s day,” my mother would say, but she would smile, so I’d know she thought Becky was adorable, that she didn’t really mean it. It was strange that I missed that, that it didn’t quite feel like my birthday without it.
“I’m not really hungry,” I said. “It’s okay. We can have the cupcakes later.”
My father shook his head and let go of my mother. “Ab, sit down. We’ll have them.”
I didn’t want it to become an argument, so I did what he said. I wasn’t sure what he whispered to my mother, but then she sat down too. He put a candle in my cupcake and carried it to the table singing “Happy Birthday” in that funny off-key way he has of singing things. He put it down in front of me. “Make a wish.”
He looked me solidly in the eye when he said this, so I knew what he wanted me to wish for. I was surprised. I didn’t think my father believed in wishes.
Chapter 7
BY THE END of September, work on Becky’s case had slowed down considerably. My father complained that the police weren’t doing enough, weren’t looking hard enough for her. He told me that he blamed the lack of progress in Becky’s case on the fact that we lived in such a small, clean suburban county. “The police aren’t used to crime here,” he said. “What do we have? A burglary every once in a while, some minor vandalism?” He waved his hand in the air, as if all that were nothing, that compared with Becky, it meant nothing.
But the police did finally manage to find the man in the blue van, something that my father did not
I nodded. He says this every year. Then he recounts thestory of my mother going into labor, of how the first time he held me, he thought I was boy because the umbilical cord was still attached. He did the same thing to Becky on her birthday, only then he talked about her small, weak lungs, and she’d use this to her advantage. She’d crawl on his lap and hug him until he’d start to tear up, just thinking about how she been so blue, helplessly unable to breathe for the first seconds of her life.
By the end of dinner my mother was a wreck. She paced through the front hallway. While my father and I cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink, we could hear the clicking of her feet, back and forth and back and forth. It was all very odd, really—not that it wasn’t odd anyway—but it was still my birthday. When I looked at this with my mother’s logic, I wondered why she thought Becky would come home today, not tomorrow. I wondered if my mother might be confused, if somehow she’d collapsed the two of us into one person in her mind, one little girl. I wondered if I’d become invisible.
“Dessert,” my father called to her. “Time for cake.” He’d picked up cupcakes on the way home from work—chocolate with vanilla icing, my favorite. At least he’d remembered that.
My mother came back in. Her hair was messy, falling out of the neat, tight ponytail it had been in earlier. She looked oddly disheveled. “I don’t understand it,” she said to my father. “I just don’t understand it.”
He went to her and gave her a hug, and I could see he was solid but defeated. This was quite possibly the nicest exchange I’d ever seen my parents have. There was something so sweet, so desperate in their hug that I knew instantly how much they loved each other. “People don’t just disappear,” she said. “Little girls. Little girls don’t just disappear.”
My father stroked her hair back into her ponytail. “It’s time for cake. Let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday.’” I knew my father was trying to do this all for me, and I felt ashamed that I would even want him to. I wasn’t even sure if I should have a birthday anymore.
I heard the grandfather clock in the hall chime, so I knew it was six o’clock. If Becky were here, she’d be hopping around the kitchen saying, “Six hours until my birthday!” “Be nice, Becky. It’s Abby’s day,” my mother would say, but she would smile, so I’d know she thought Becky was adorable, that she didn’t really mean it. It was strange that I missed that, that it didn’t quite feel like my birthday without it.
“I’m not really hungry,” I said. “It’s okay. We can have the cupcakes later.”
My father shook his head and let go of my mother. “Ab, sit down. We’ll have them.”
I didn’t want it to become an argument, so I did what he said. I wasn’t sure what he whispered to my mother, but then she sat down too. He put a candle in my cupcake and carried it to the table singing “Happy Birthday” in that funny off-key way he has of singing things. He put it down in front of me. “Make a wish.”
He looked me solidly in the eye when he said this, so I knew what he wanted me to wish for. I was surprised. I didn’t think my father believed in wishes.
Chapter 7
BY THE END of September, work on Becky’s case had slowed down considerably. My father complained that the police weren’t doing enough, weren’t looking hard enough for her. He told me that he blamed the lack of progress in Becky’s case on the fact that we lived in such a small, clean suburban county. “The police aren’t used to crime here,” he said. “What do we have? A burglary every once in a while, some minor vandalism?” He waved his hand in the air, as if all that were nothing, that compared with Becky, it meant nothing.
But the police did finally manage to find the man in the blue van, something that my father did not
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