Wonder of the Waves

by Jim Lombardo

  Happy Birthday to you,

  Happy Birthday, dear Hannah,

  Happy Birthday to you.

  Hannah glanced around at her family and friends as they sang, but her smile was strained as her mind was aggravating her. She had recently researched this song after her father’s birthday, and the frontal lobe of her cerebral cortex insisted on reviewing the birthday data she had acquired, which was neatly organized within an elaborate, organically designed classification system with cross-referencing capabilities:

  <_57.bb.21) “Happy Birthday to You” - Traditional folk song to celebrate anniversary of person’s birth.

  <_57.bb.22) “Happy Birthday to You” - Most popular song in English language.

  <_57.bb.23) “Happy Birthday to You” - Derived from song entitled “Good Morning to All” composed in 1893 by sisters Patty and Mildred Hill, schoolteachers, as classroom greeting for their young students to sing. Nothing to do with birthdays.

  <_57.bb.24) “Happy Birthday to You” - Consists of 4 lines. Lines 1,2,4 exact same lyrics. Line 3 replaces the words “to you” with “dear” followed by name of person being honored.

  <_57.bb.25) “Happy Birthday to You” - Song has two intrinsic shortcomings. 1) If name of person being honored does not have two syllables, cadence of song disrupted. 2) If individuals in group singing address honoree by different names (Daddy, Brian), then that part of song will not be sung uniformly by all.

  <_57.bb.26-EG) Birthday celebrations thought to have originated in ancient Egypt when believed that Pharaohs were born again as Gods on each anniversary of their physical birth.

  As the assembled group wrapped up the final line of the song, Hannah struggled to stop her brain from considering the facts, dates, and other trivia that consumed it. She wanted to focus on the event itself, and immerse herself in the choir of voices and panorama of cheerful faces, but her brain was stubbornly pulling her in a different direction. Perched in a high chair in her white OshKosh romper and matching bib, she looked like a typical one-year-old, with delicate facial features and oversized eyes that dominated her cherubic face. Her head was still big for her age, but her charming blond curls rendered her appearance more cute than curious. Despite battling the distraction of her hyperactive mind, she managed a cordial grin, displaying four pearly white chiclets that had sprouted.

  “Make a wish and then blow out the candle, Hannah,” Monica urged her one-year-old, who sat before a triple layer cake with a pink “1” candle rising out of the frosting. Hannah considered wishing simply that her brain would stop bothering her, but she couldn’t resist her number one dream. I wish for pet monkey. She took a deep breath, scrunched up her face, and after a few tries was finally able to get the flame to go out by blowing a tiny burst of air through her pursed lips. In the dim dining room, cheers and applause erupted from the crowd. Hannah was initially startled, as her studies and experience with birthdays hadn’t alerted her to that level of crowd response yet. However the smiles taught her this outburst was all part of the fun.

  Two weeks before, the child had begged to plan her party, and her parents had done their best to oblige her. Hannah’s speech and cognitive abilities had continued to progress at a meteoric pace each day, and their conversation was merely the latest indication of her burgeoning intellectual and social development. Her speaking skills were still not perfected, but this was predominantly because she had a habit of talking too fast, without being careful about syntax, word selection, and the fine-tuning of her words.

  Hannah had squealed with delight as she sat in her booster seat, feasting upon row after row of party dresses displayed on the Dell widescreen monitor.

  “Oh, I like them all, Mommy. What do I do?”

  “Tell me which one you like the most. You have to make a decision.”

  “I no like ’cisions. They make you un-cision everything else.”

  “Don’t spend too much you two,” Brian cautioned high atop a step ladder, where he was busy unscrewing a burned-out bulb.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy. I pay you when I get job. Or we make party not free.”

  “Oh, Hannah,” Brian groaned, “both of those ideas are completely….” He paused, searching for a suitable adjective until Monica gently interjected to spare her child a boorish correction.

  “We’ll cover it, honey. People don’t make guests pay when hosting a birthday party. So, who do you want to invite?”

  Hannah’s face contorted. She was troubled by this question because selecting specific people meant excluding anyone who wasn’t invited.

  “Everybody who wants.”

  “Oh, sure, Hannah,” Brian chided her. “We’ll book the Boston Garden.”

  “Brian, please. There’s not enough room for everybody who wants to come, Hannah. But you can invite 25 people.”

  “Do us three count in 25?”

  “Ummm, no.”

  With her mother’s help, Hannah rapidly formulated a list of 25 individuals that included her Nana Doris and Poppa Phil, along with other relatives on her mother’s and father’s sides of the family. She wanted to invite the twins downstairs, even though they had recently refused to share their Laffy Taffy with her, along with Tony, Marie, and Pudge. She also wanted to invite her nanny Amber, her favorite tutor Edward, her psychologist Judy, Dr. Oster, and Andy Pereira. Over the last few months, the reporter had been writing a monthly column chronicling Hannah’s life, and in the process of interviewing her, a friendship had blossomed. The “Hannah Herald” was already syndicated in 42 national and nine international newspapers, as well as many magazines and online outlets. The royalties provided just enough income to fund their Hannah help and to allow Monica to be a stay-at-home mom.

  On Hannah’s landmark day, as slices of her cake were being handed out, she took stock of the pile of presents in front of her. She was fascinated by the different colors, shapes, and dimensions. She wondered which one would have the pet monkey in it that she had wished for. Monica handed her each one and helped her unwrap them, always letting her be the one to pull away the last bit of paper to reveal the present inside.

  Leah and Sophia pushed to the front of the room, begging to have Hannah open their presents first. Together, they handed her an oddly-shaped package, which had a smaller gift crudely taped on top.

  Hannah considered the combination present. Maybe the small package is monkey food, and the big present is my monkey.

  Hannah opened the small present first, finding a plastic bag full of bite-size Laffy Taffy pieces. The twins grinned widely at the child, struggling to contain their giggles. But the laughter was cut short as Hannah examined the candy in obvious disappointment. This not monkey food. They not give me monkey. She half-heartedly opened the doll they had given her. The girls had chosen it because it strikingly resembled Hannah, but she didn’t notice, and carelessly tossed it to the rug.

  “Can I have next gift, Mommy? Make it big one.”

  “Say thank you to your friends first, Hannah,” Monica implored, scooping up the doll. “Those were very thoughtful presents, which I’m sure you’ll love.”

  “Thank you, Sophia and Leah. I do like these,” she muttered impassively, turning away from them to examine the offerings that were to come. “Make next have breathing holes.”

  Monica was confused by that request, but proceeded to place a rectangular, flattish present on the high chair tray.

  “This is from Dr. Oster,” Monica offered after reading the tag.

  “I can read, Mommy,” said Hannah, agitated by her anticipation.

  Definitely not the right shape, Hannah thought, but she decided to open it anyway. It was Ten Shakespeare Stories for Children, a collection of abridged, kid-friendly versions of William Shakespeare’s plays. Again her mother prodded her to offer a thank you.

  Hannah proceeded through the remaining presents in much the same fashion, and with her d
isappointing reactions, a gloom began to take over the gathering. Finally the last gift sat before her. It was from Doris and Phil. So, this is it now. My secret wish, thought Hannah. She vividly pictured all the monkeys she had seen on nature programs. Will it be a mustached emperor tamarin? So adorable. Or a baboon with that funny red bum? I can’t wait to see.

  Her mind was again inundated, this time with an onslaught of information on monkeys, which she had absorbed from her Junior Encyclopedia of Wildlife. The exercise was mental torture, but her thoughts persisted beyond her conscious control.

  #+-An-mo.1.a) Monkeys - Haplorhine primates, possessing tails.

  #+-An-mo.1.b) Currently 264 living species.

  #+-An-mo.1.c) Two lineages - Old World Monkeys (Africa, Asia), New World Monkeys (South America)

  Hannah’s face tightened. Please stop, she whimpered inside.

  #+-AN-mo.fig.9a) Monkeys can use up to 38 distinct sounds to communicate with each other.

  #+-AN-mo.29a) Howler monkey calls can be heard up to three miles away through dense forest.

  #+-AN-mo.29b) Howler - Genus: Alouatta. Monotypic. Subfamily: Alouattinae...

  As the accumulation of facts piled up like an assembly line with a bottleneck, Hannah suddenly shouted, “JUST STOP!”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Brian scolded her. “You’re not acting right.”

  The child whirled her head in his direction, and her eyes converged on her father crossly. Then after a moment, she turned her attention back to unwrapping, tearing away fiercely at Doris and Phil’s present thinking, Why no breathing holes? It isn’t moving. Could it be dead? Why they not give it air holes? Nana and Poppa are stupid.

  Hannah frantically ripped away the last piece of wrap to get at the present, then shrunk back into her high chair in disbelief. A bright blue elephant stuffed animal. What happened? she wondered. I made the wish. I kept it secret. Why it not work? It not fair. My birthday wrecked.

  The party ended soon after. Hannah didn’t speak much to anyone as one by one the guests departed. Monica and Brian began the task of clearing and cleaning, while Hannah pulled herself onto the living room sofa to sulk. The gifts lay in a cluttered pile in front of her.

  Hannah glanced over at the book Dr. Oster had given her. Lying idly, with a cover depicting silhouettes of animals and children playing underneath a starry, moon-filled sky, the book seemed sad to her. She managed to bring it onto one of the cushions and began flipping through it. Coming upon a passage in The Tempest, she read quietly to herself.

  O, wonder!

  How many goodly creatures are there here!

  How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,

  That has such people in’t!

  Hannah gently closed the cover and replayed the entire party in her mind at rapid speed. She found herself recalling the demeanor of certain individuals in the crowd as the event wore on, noticing how smiles became increasingly scarce. Playing the party in reverse she saw that everyone seemed to be getting happier. She then concentrated on the twins’ reactions to their gifts being opened. At first they were smiling, but then their faces changed to dismay. Hannah went back and forth over that precious minute a few times, watching the twins’ smiles appear and vanish based on her own reaction. Returning to real time, Hannah grabbed the laptop that was lying beside her, and pulled it close. She navigated to Dictionary.com and the search box to find the true meaning of some words that she wasn’t exactly sure about.

  Wish: A desire or hope for something to happen.

  Gift: Something given voluntarily without payment in return, as to show favor toward someone, or to honor an occasion.

  Friend: A person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.

  Hannah plopped onto her back, looking at the ceiling as she dissected this information. Her conclusion about her behavior was inescapable. She alone had wrecked the party. She hatched a new secret wish. I wish I find backward time, then I be better friend today.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  To Kiss a Mockingbird

  (2.05 years old)

  Hannah had the front yard staked out from her roost atop a rocking chair, which the now two-year-old child had pushed along the hardwood floor to the front bay window.

  “No,” she observed, marking each car off that drove by over the course of 10 minutes. “No…no…no.…”

  Her patience was eventually rewarded as Andy Pereira’s sleek, silver hatchback appeared, quickly veering into a parking space.

  “Yes. He’s here, Mommy.”

  “Great,” said Monica, scooping her daughter up and resting her on a hip for the ride down the flight of stairs.

  “Can you put me down when he comes in? And I want to be the one to open the door for him.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Once at the door, Hannah reached up and futilely struggled with the handle until her mother took over, allowing the child to finally swing it open.

  “Hi, Andy! Come on in,” Hannah said brightly.

  “Hi, guys. Sorry I’m late. Please don’t can me, I really need this gig,” he joked.

  “Don’t worry, Andy,” Monica said. “Brian and I like the royalties too much. And Hannah likes you too much.”

  Hannah scowled. “Mommy, you’re embarrassing me.”

  The group made their way up to the dining room where the bulk of the interviews for each monthly article usually took place. Monica secured Hannah into a booster seat, while Andy settled in and opened his briefcase.

  “I’m too big for this seat, Mommy,” Hannah grumbled.

  “Almost, baby. I’ll get some coffee going for you, Andy,” said Monica as she made her way to the kitchen. “Hannah made you some blueberry muffins again.”

  “Thanks so much. You always take such good care of me. Oh, Hannah, do you mind if I use a digital voice recorder this go-round? I can’t keep up with you anymore.”

  Hannah let out a silly snort. “Whatever makes you happy, Andy. That’s my goal.”

  The recorder worked by capturing the infinitesimal changes in air pressure from sound waves over time and converting them into a sequence of distinct numbers, which could later be retrieved and converted back into sound waves.

  “Okay, so tell me, how’s my little twosie-going-on-twenty?” he said, starting the recording device and then focusing squarely on his subject. “Hey, do you have makeup on?”

  “Just a touch.”

  “It makes you look so grown up.”

  “Thanks, Andy,” the child said, batting her eyes before changing the subject. “I’m doing well. I just finished To Kill a Mockingbird on this new reading system called The Wordy. I got it free from Hi-Tech. They said every time you mention The Wordy in your next article, we’ll each get five hundred dollars.”

  “Cool. Yeah, I’ve heard about that gadget,” answered Andy. “Maybe I’ll start the article with, ‘Hannah is using her new The Wordy, which is her favorite Wordy of all the Wordys she has ever used.’”

  Hannah giggled, while staring up at Andy with adoring eyes. “That’s good, but don’t you think that sounds a bit wordy?”

  “Ouch, I get it. So, did you enjoy the book?”

  “No, not really. I mean, I loved Scout Finch and her daddy, and the messages were powerful, but I found it troubling. At least it only took an hour out of my life.”

  “Wow, one hour to read the entire thing? That’s smoking fast. I remember back in school having to write an essay on why it was called, To Kill a Mockingbird, and I only got a C. Why do you think it was given that title?”

  “Metaphorical reasons, but primarily to catch a potential reader’s attention, and make them want to read the book,” explained Hannah matter-of-factly. “It’s the word, ‘kill.’ I’m finding that people are obsessed with death, even entertained by it. If it was called, To KISS a Mockingbird, I w
onder if it ever would’ve gotten off the ground. Have you noticed how many fairy tales have the mommy of the princess killed off? Even Bambi’s mommy wasn’t spared. Nicely tailored for a young child’s psyche, huh? I had to stop reading Oliver Twist, where I was being treated to a starving orphan living in a children’s workhouse, and then sold to a cruel undertaker. Thanks, but no thanks. I did enjoy Anne of Green Gables, though...once I got past the obligatory orphan storyline.”

  Andy sat listening and scribbling down notes, though he was already sure none of this would be going in the article.

  “I don’t mean to knock people’s curiosity with death. Everybody loves a good mystery, that’s all. So if I ever write a book,” said Hannah playfully, “I’m going to title it, The Little Girl Dies at the End. That’ll sell.”

  “Hope that isn’t an autobiography,” Andy joked. “By the way, I meant to mention before we got going, I have some good news and some not-so-good news for you. Which do you want first?”

  “Let’s get the not-so-good out of the way.”

  “My mom can’t see you next week like you two planned. She’s...having some health issues, and has to go in for treatment.”

  “It’s cancer, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yeah, but they caught it early, so we’re hopeful. Hopeful that life doesn’t imitate art, like in those fairy tales you were talking about,” he quipped with a mournful grin.

  Hannah sat stoically and quietly. She objected when Andy tried to break the silence.

  “Give me a second, please.”

  “Oh, of course, sure.”

  Hannah sighed and turned back to Andy. “Could you please tell your mommy that I’m thinking of her, and I’d love to see her whenever she wants? And...I’m sorry that you have to deal with this too, Andy, it must be hard on you. What’s the good news?”

  “Well...drum roll please…I’m officially engaged!” Andy said

  exuberantly.

  Hannah’s face went blank, followed by an almost imperceptible quivering of her lower lip. “Oh...I see,” she said weakly.