“. . . eight . . . seventeen . . . thirty-three . . . six . . . ,” listlessly spitting out a seemingly endless litany of digits. “. . . nine . . . twenty-two . . . eleven . . .”
I walked to the back where the greeting cards were. Of course, there weren’t just greeting cards; there were anniversary cards, get well cards, condolence cards, Valentine’s Day cards, thank-you cards, graduation cards, and birthday cards. I planted myself in front of the birthday section, momentarily dazzled by all the subcategories: Happy Birthday, Mom, Son, Wife, Mom-in-law, Grandmother, Best Friend, Cousin. And Daughter—it was there somewhere. Of course, once I found the category, I had to decide on the tone. Funny? Respectful? Sentimental? I was inclined to go sentimental here, since that’s how I felt these days. There were a lot of sentimental cards, too, most of them with flowers on the cover and little poems on the inside. Only the poems weren’t sentimental as much as trite—the roses are red, violets are blue genre of poem writing.
For instance:
To my daughter on her birthday
I have this to say
I love you very much
Your smile, your spirit and such
Even though we may be apart
You have your daddy’s heart.
The end.
I was worried Anna might throw up if I brought that one home for her. On the other hand, if I wanted to be sentimental and halfway intelligent, the pickings were slim. There were cards with nothing on the inside, for instance, allowing you to be as intelligent or sentimental as you’d like. These cards tended to have moody black-and-white photographs on the cover — of a snowfield in Maine, say, or a lonely mountain stream. They basically said stupid poems are for the unenlightened masses — these are for the more soulful of you. I couldn’t decide if I was up to soulfulness today, though. So what was it to be?
Just past the card racks there were more elaborate gifts. Ceramic hearts saying “World’s Best Mom.” A golf ball “Fore a Great Dad.” Fake flowers. A bell that said “Ring A Ding Ding.” And some picture frames.
I didn’t notice it immediately.
I looked here and there, sifted through the ceramic and cheap plastic, picked up the golf ball, gently rang the bell. I even turned back to the card rack, intent on finally making a decision. Only I had what you might call an episode of peripheral vision—you might, except it wouldn’t be strictly true. It wasn’t that I saw anything out of the corner of my eye, just that I remembered seeing it.
The bell, yes. And the silly golf ball. And the ceramic hearts. Keep going. There.
It was in the second picture frame.
And the third one, too.
And three miniature ones set behind it. And the large frame decorated with a metal trellis of flowers.
“Can I help you with anything?” The voice seemed to be coming from far away.
The picture in the picture frames.
They put them there to show you how nice they’ll look once you get them home and put your pictures inside them. You and your wife at that wedding in Nantucket. The twins as Hansel and Gretel from a long-ago Halloween. Curry, the sweet-faced pup. Because people lack the necessary imagination otherwise. They need surrogate faces in there so they’ll know what to expect when it’s sitting back home on the mantelplace.
“Can I help you with anything, sir?” The voice more insistent now — but it was as if it were speaking through glass.
Behind the glass of the picture frames was the picture of a little girl. She was on a swing somewhere in the country, with her tawny blond hair caught in midswirl. Freckle faced and knobby kneed and sweet smiled. The very model of carefree youth. Because she was a model. Behind the swing were makeup artists and hairstylists and wardrobe people — only you couldn’t see them.
“Sir, are you all right?”
I’d seen this picture before.
I showed you mine, now you show me yours.
Remember?
She’d seen Anna peeking out from the inside of my wallet, so I’d asked to see hers.
I showed you mine, now you show me yours.
And she’d laughed. I’d made lovely Lucinda laugh out loud, and she’d reached into her leather bag and shown me.
The little girl on the swing. Out in the country somewhere.
She’s adorable. That's what I’d said.
And she’d said thanks. I forget sometimes. Two parents complimenting each other on their respective progeny, commuter small talk, nothing to it.
Nothing at all.
I forget sometimes. Because maybe that was an easy thing to do, to forget something that you didn’t actually have.
She’d shown me a picture of her child, only it wasn't her child. It was someone else’s child.
“Sir? Is something wrong?" The clerk again, wondering just what had come over me.
Well, I would tell him. Amazing grace, that’s what.
Was blind but now I see.
THIRTY-THREE
I was helping Deanna clean up the plates smeared with half-eaten cake and dollops of melting ice cream.
I was asking myself how it was possible.
The birthday celebration had been strained and awkward. Anna had invited just one friend, possibly her only friend these days. It felt more like a wake than a birthday celebration, but then I was kind of preoccupied.
I was thinking about that resident in the ER who’d asked me about Anna’s eyes. I was thinking he should’ve asked me about my own. Are you having problems seeing? And I would’ve said, Yes, Doctor, I’m blind. I can’t see.
But not anymore.
My life had turned into a train wreck. I could hear the screams of the dead and dying. But all that time it had been Lucinda at the wheel. I knew that now. Lucinda. And him.
How was it possible?
A lie. A farce. A con — trying to stick a label on something that was clearly out of my experience. As Anna waited patiently for us to stop singing “Happy Birthday.”
A setup. A hoax. As she opened her presents and read her cards. My card said: “Can’t you stay thirteen forever?”
An out-and-out robbery. As Anna thanked each of us for her presents and even gave me a hug.
And this, too: That man at Penn Station.
He wasn’t her brother, her neighbor, or her favorite uncle.
He was next.
Deanna and I had managed to put up a decent front. We’d smiled, we’d talked, we’d clapped our hands when Anna blew out her candles.
But now that Anna and her friend had been dropped at a movie and we were alone, it had grown deathly quiet again. Just the steady splash of the faucet and the sour clinks of plates and glasses being laid to rest in the dishwasher tub. And the awful shouting going on in my own head.
“Well,” I said, trying desperately to tug my thoughts in another direction, any direction, and at the same time cleave the silence, “one year older.”
“Yes,” Deanna said without much enthusiasm. Then she placed the last plate into the dishwasher, walked to the kitchen table, and sat down. And, for the first time in God knows how long, really began talking to me.
“How have you been, Charles?”
“Okay. Fine." Liar, I thought.
“Really?”
“Yes. I’m okay, Deanna.”
“I was thinking,” she said.
“About?”
“I was thinking as we sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to her. To our Anna.”