Mimmy is being wise, though. Because other than the cake, we haven’t eaten since a few blueberry waffles for breakfast. My birthday requests other than the usual lunch cake—Mimmy’s waffles for breakfast, Mama’s grilled pizzas for dinner.
They kept insisting on some fancy restaurant in Philly, or a night away at a bed-and-breakfast in the Hudson Valley, and I had to refuse no less than ten times before they believed me. That there’s nowhere I’d rather be than here.
The afternoon is warm and fuzzy. Time seems to pass like a slow, lazy leak, a trickle of drops in a bucket, but every time I look at the clock the hands have sped ahead. We spend most of the hours laughing. Mama and Max in particular, as she tells him story after story about my childhood and he soaks it all up. It’s good to see them bonding, even over the more embarrassing details. Mama approves, I can tell. She and Mimmy both took the dating news quite calmly when I told them about the birthyear celebration over waffles this morning—“I was wondering when you’d be honest with yourself,” Mama had said, rolling her eyes. Mimmy chimed in with, “We’re happy if you’re happy!” And that was that.
Mimmy passes around fresh glasses of water between sips of bubbles. I notice she’s drinking less, a mother hen making sure the rest of us are okay.
Eventually Mama stands up to roll out the pizza dough, wobbling just slightly on her way to the fridge. I want to help with dinner, but I’m not sure my body is in sync with my mind. Instead I watch Max grate mountains of cheese, miraculously with no cuts, while Mama spreads circles of sauce on amorphous blobs of dough. Mimmy chops vegetables, the task that requires the nimblest of fingers.
Ginger sits with me, chattering in a steady stream. I maybe catch one of every few words. Senior year, Penelope, taking a gap year together after graduation to travel the world. Thailand, she says. We could do Thailand and China and Vietnam…
We follow along when the pizzas go out to the grill. I wonder suddenly why we spent the whole blue-skied afternoon inside the stuffy kitchen, under a blank white ceiling. It’s cooler out here, easier to breathe.
I splash in the warm dregs of water in the turtle pool. Ginger jumps in, too, dragging the hose behind her. She sprays icy water at my shins and I yelp, slipping and falling on my bottom. I pull her down with me, making a grab for the hose. It’s a brutal tug-of-war, water blasting our faces, our open mouths as we laugh hysterically. Max comes over and easily overtakes the hose, squirts us both before turning the stream on Mama. She screams and drops her spatula on the grass, then takes off in Max’s direction. They run in circles around the pool, so fast it makes me dizzy.
“I’ve never seen Stella like someone so easily,” Ginger muses, only slightly slurring on the s’s. “Though champagne probably helps. But I’ve seen her tipsy and even tougher than usual before, so it’s still a big deal.”
“Definitely a big deal,” I say as Mama overtakes Max and body slams him to the ground. He throws his wet, grass-stained hands up in surrender. Mama stands, brushes herself off, and tucks the nozzle in her belt loop on her way back to the grill.
“I hope you’ve learned the hierarchy of this house,” she says smugly, giving Max a pitying look.
“This isn’t over.” He rolls onto his side to face me, propping his head on his hand. “I’m sorry you saw that. My ego is way more bruised than my knees right now.”
“Nah. You were the bravest of all of us to even consider taking Mama on. Masculinity never wins around here.”
“That’s okay. I think I’d rather live in a world where masculinity never wins.”
He’s frowning as he says it, and I can tell he’s thinking about his dad.
“I knew I liked this one,” Mama says, sliding the first cooked pizza from the grill.
The pizzas make us all a little steadier. The world gets some focus back, just in time for us to admire the perfect summer sunset above, a blending of deep pink and orange smudges along the treetops. Like blazing fingers reaching out along the horizon, pulling in the last slivers of sunlight until tomorrow. There are second helpings of cake then, too, and between us all we finish every bite.
There is no second round of birthday candles to blow out.
No second wish.
The gifts come next: a hotel reservation for a trip to the Shenandoah Valley this fall and a gold necklace with an oval ruby pendant from Mama and Mimmy; a pair of slip-on Vans that Ginger decorated by hand with metallic glitter; and from Max, a card with a painting of the Philly skyline on the front and a ticket design on the back: Admission for a day of all the best Philly sights and foods led by the best (formerly) local tour guide.
My thank-yous are profuse and sloppy. Mimmy pops a bottle of sparkling water for me.
Ginger slips away for a moment, for what I assume is a trip to the bathroom. But she comes back a few minutes later with another package in her hands, a small bag covered in silver and gold smiley-face balloons.
“The sweet shoes were more than enough,” I say. “You didn’t have to get me anything else.”
She bites her lip, shakes her head. “This one’s not from me.”
“Not from you?”
“Noah. He texted me that he dropped something off. It was at the top of the driveway.”
Noah. He was here. “I thought he was too busy with his Wawa shift?”
“Guess not.”
My gut feels sour, all that champagne and pizza and cake curdling into a toxic, swirling lump. The unavoidable Wawa shift had felt like a weak excuse. He couldn’t see me, not even for my birthday. If it was up to me, I’d choose his friendship over whatever was in that ugly smiley-face bag.
“Are you going to open it?” I can tell Max is trying hard to sound cool and disinterested.
Ginger dangles the bag out, waiting for me to take it from her.
I keep my hands at my side. “I don’t have to. I can look later.”
“No. Open it,” Mama says. “It’ll determine how mad I am at him for skipping out on my only daughter’s eighteenth birthday. I love that boy, but really—time to suck it up. Life needs to go on. He’d be a complete ass to throw away so many years of friendship over a silly little puppy-love broken heart.”
“Mama! Please. Stop.” My whole body flames with heat. I want to peel my skin back.
I can’t look at Max. I can’t look at any of them.
Mama shrugs her shoulders. “What? It’s true, isn’t it?”
I rip the bag from Ginger’s hand and stomp over to the hammock. The bag is light, like it’s nothing more than the white tissue paper inside. I reach my hand in, feel around. My fingers touch metal strands, and I tug.
It’s a necklace set we saw online a few months back—peanut butter and jelly jar best friends charms, something second graders are supposed to wear. I’d adored it immediately, but I’d said I would only want it if it were split three ways. It wouldn’t work with just two halves. I was only partly serious, and I’d forgotten all about it. But Noah clearly hadn’t. And now he’s saying that two halves will be just fine.
We’re not three anymore.
It’s the cruelest gift he could have given me.
A sob rises up my throat. I put my hand over my mouth to hold it back, but it’s too late.
Everyone is pretending not to stare at me.
The bag falls from my hand and a note slips out. I don’t want to look. But I do.
Happy birthday, Calliope.
I bought this necklace months ago, back when you first saw it. I know it wasn’t thirds like you wanted, but I’d found another necklace with a loaf of bread. After all, you need bread to make a PB&J sandwich. It’s corny, I know. But you like corny. And apparently you also like jewelry made for kids. (No judgment.)
Anyway, I hope you and G wear the PB&J proudly. Don’t fight too hard about who gets to be the PB. Even if it is the best part of the sandwich. Obviously.
Sorry I’m not there today. I thought we’d all be better off if I stayed home.
But I hope it’s
a great day. The best. You deserve it. Happy 18.
—Noah
I hate that I’m crying. But I’m laughing, too. Noah found a loaf of bread to match. He doesn’t say that he’ll ever wear it—or even that he’ll keep it—but that had been his intention at least. It wasn’t just a spiteful jab.
Maybe there’s still hope for us. Someday at least.
“Everything okay?” Ginger asks. I can tell she wants to ask much more than that, but she refrains. She glances sideways at Max.
“Yep. It’s just the peanut butter and jelly best friends necklaces I saw a while back. Remember? Delightfully kitschy?” I dangle the necklaces in the air to jog her memory.
“Ugh. You expect me to wear that? It’s so tacky. Are we back in elementary school?” But she’s smiling. Maybe a little hopefully. This summer has been hard on Ginger, too. She walks up to me and plucks both necklaces from my hand. “I’m assuming you’re going to make me take the jelly jar, aren’t you? It’s red at least. Strawberry. Maybe raspberry. Not grape. I would draw the line at wearing a grape jelly jar around my neck. Disgusting.” She reaches up to clasp the necklace around her neck, then tosses me the peanut butter jar.
I wear it proudly on top of my new ruby necklace.
I can’t pick a favorite.
Mama and Mimmy don’t say anything, but they both look as hopeful as Ginger. The sun has dipped completely out of sight by now, and Mama lights the firepit next to us while Mimmy brings out a few citronella candles. They clear away the plates and scraps from the table and then announce they’re heading to bed. Time for old biddies to sleep, and young hellcats to keep the party going, Mama says. I don’t miss her parting wink.
“What now?” Max asks when it’s just the three of us. He sits next to me on the hammock, kicking back to swing. His eyes flick to my necklaces. Away, and then back again. “You still have a few hours of birthday left.”
“Don’t ask me. The birthday girl can’t make her own plans.”
“Is it a bad time to say that before I knew Stella was going to get us nice and toasty today, I might have packed a special birthday bottle of my own?” Ginger walks over to her canvas tote she’s left by the picnic bench. “And mine might be a tad harder. Just a tad.” There’s an amber-filled bottle in her hand, glowing in the candlelight. Peach whiskey.
“That’s probably a terrible idea.” Just looking at it makes me feel woozy.
“One swig. Just us. A toast to all the wild adult times ahead.”
“One,” I say, already regretting it. “Only one. Don’t you have an early shift tomorrow?”
“Nope. Already called in sick. Always thinking ahead.” She’s dragging a picnic bench to sit directly in front of the firepit. Close enough that stray flames will lick our shins. Max is already scavenging in the brush for additional pieces of wood.
We sit in a row, me in the middle, whiskey in Ginger’s hand.
The first few drops go into the fire. The flames flare bigger and brighter, a whoosh of intense white light. “To eighteen being as luminous and warm as this fire,” Ginger says, raising the bottle in the air. It looks like she’s toasting the silhouetted trees beyond the firepit.
“You go next,” she directs, handing it to me. I take a small sip, but it still burns hot the whole way down. Max takes a longer swig, and Ginger takes the longest of the three of us. She drops a small splash on the ground when she’s finished. “For Noah,” she says. “Though he only deserves a half swig.”
We’re quiet for a while, our eyes lost in the flames. Our minds lost on different thoughts. I mostly wonder about their thoughts. I’m actively trying not to have too many of my own.
“Why is it,” Ginger starts, threading us back together, “that sitting around a fire at night with whiskey makes you want to talk about deep, dark secrets?”
“I would guess that’s the whiskey magic at work.” I feel warmer, looser, but fully here.
“Feel free to share any secrets you might have, though,” Max says. “You and I still have some bonding to do. Nothing like embarrassing secrets to seal the friendship deal.”
I glance at Max from the corner of my eye. He looks calm, happy, far from the Max who sat around the fire with me last night. Divulging his own deep, dark secrets. Maybe Ginger is right, sitting around a fire at night does bring out something confessional in all of us. Even without whiskey.
“Sadly, neighbor boy, I haven’t lived enough yet to have anything that exciting or embarrassing to share. Unless you count the time I shit my pants on a haunted hayride. In eighth grade. That was a low point. Poor Calliope was a witness.” Ginger laughs, poking at the fire with a long, forked branch. She pauses for a minute before she says, “My secrets are mostly fears. I hate that I’m eighteen in a few weeks and I’ve never kissed anyone. Unless you count kissing myself in the mirror. Never gone on a date. Never been asked on one. I talk such a big game and carry myself like I’ve got more confidence than a wild cougar, but news flash: a lot of it’s an act. I guess I hope that if you make believe you’re a certain kind of person, that’s the kind of person you’ll end up being. So far, no positive results in testing that particular theory.”
I’ve never heard Ginger say that before, never heard her voice sound so slight and uncertain. I hate that she couldn’t tell me that, at least not without whiskey. Or flames. Or both. “You’ve never dated,” I say, “because Green Woods is a very tiny, very pathetic pool and no one is nearly good enough to deserve you.”
“Easy to say. I know that your dream boy appeared out of thin air next door to you like some fairy-tale prince, so your view is skewed. But maybe I’ll always be the odd one out. Maybe there’s no fairy-tale princess waiting for me.”
“Dream boy, huh?” Max asks, puffing out his chest. “Fairy-tale prince?”
Ginger leans around me to slap him on the wrist. “Don’t ruin my serious confessional. The spotlight was on me.”
“Ginger, please.” He grabs her hand, holds on. “Here’s what I already know about you: You’re going to have to majorly rest up this next year, because once college hits, you’ll be on a date with a different girl every night. You’ll have too many options. You won’t know what to do with yourself. Trust that.”
“He’s right.” I put my hand on top of his, a stack of three.
“Whatever you say, Mommy and Daddy.” I don’t need to look over to catch the eye roll. But her voice is lighter. More Ginger-like. “Okay. Done baring my soul. Who’s next?”
“Me,” Max says without missing a beat. I turn to him, wildly curious. Our hands all stay together. It feels like a key part of whatever is about to come next.
“My grandmother died in our house. Because of my grandfather.”
Just like that, he says it. No lead-in. No softening.
My jaw feels unhinged it drops so low. Ginger gasps next to me.
I don’t think either of us breathes as we wait for more.
Surely there will be more.
But then after an unbearable pause Max says, “That’s it. Sorry. I don’t really want to talk about it more. Not tonight. Not on your birthday.”
Max drops his hand, and Ginger and I pull ours back, too. A moment has ended.
Maybe it’s all true, what they say about the Jackson house. But it’s not some local horror story. It’s Max’s family. Flesh and blood. Real people, real lives.
“Okay, somebody besides me needs to say something.” Max reaches over, presses on my chin to close my mouth. “Calliope. Your turn. Even the birthday girl has to reveal something.”
There is no possible follow-up.
“I… err…” I try to think of words, any words.
What is my secret? Do I have any secrets from these two people?
There is one. My birthday wish.
I open my mouth, and this time words successfully come:
“I want to know who Frank really is.”
Chapter Eleven
I wait for Ginger to leave the next morning, after
we’ve successfully nursed our mild hangovers with pancakes and eggs and coffee. Mama, too—she called in a sub for her first class. But breakfast heals her enough that she can take on her second class, thankfully.
When I’m alone in the house, I walk upstairs and slip into my moms’ bedroom. I crouch next to their bed and pull out the locked firesafe chest they keep under it. My birthday is the winning combination. It only takes a few minutes of riffling through our official family documents, social security cards and passports and deeds, to find what I knew would be inside: a neat file folder containing the details of the sperm donation.
I take the folder and close the safe, shove it back under the bed where I found it, and then head to my room. I sit down at my desk and flip open my laptop.
My fingers shake as I type in the name of the cryobank and click through to their website.
Cryobank. It’s such a sterile word. A sterile place, too, no doubt.
Cryobank. Cryo-: involving or producing icy cold, frost.
Cryobank. I wouldn’t be here without one. I wouldn’t exist.
I find the tab I’m looking for: Request Donor Contact. Because once upon a time, on one particular day in history more than eighteen years and nine months ago, Frank chose to become an open donor, he’s obligated to a minimum of one communication with me, upon my request. Unless he’s dead. I suppose no one can obligate him in that case. I’m out of luck then. I won’t ask if they’ll release the name if he is dead, so I can at least read a scrappy obituary summary of his life. I’d rather not consider that possibility yet.
I have to submit my official request in writing. My parents’ names, the donor number, some other vital information that is all clearly laid out in my moms’ files. I note that I’m open to any kind of contact: e-mail, hard-copy letter, phone call, an exchange of information. Whatever Frank prefers.
I read through it all twice, make sure all the correct information is there. And then before I can stop myself, I click Submit Request.
Just like that, I’ve set it all in motion. It was so fast. So easy.
The People We Choose Page 11