Most of the table echoes, “To Maggie,” except Jim, who adds, “Don’t forget money.”
Blowing her a kiss, I say, “Thank you, Mom. I love you too.” Unable to resist, I stand up and squeeze her into a tight embrace.
She whispers into my ear, “This is your year. I can feel it.”
The next hour whizzes by while we inhale assorted gourmet pizzas and pastas, and before I know it, coffees and desserts are being ordered. I’ve played musical chairs around the table to spend time with everyone. Even Aunt Helen has been on her best behavior. She hasn’t made a single comment about my father being a no-show or me being a dried-up middle-aged spinster. Yet—the night ain’t over ’til it’s over.
My phone rings, and when I see, “Kenneth Piper would like to FaceTime” on the screen, along with the still image of my father, I allow a breath of relief to escape my lips.
I received his birthday card earlier in the week, but when I didn’t hear from him all day, I came up with a list of the only circumstances under which it would be acceptable for him to forget his only child’s fortieth birthday. I didn’t get far—Alzheimer’s disease, amnesia, and sudden death.
I click “accept” and smile into the phone. “Hi, Dad.”
My dad gives me a wide grin, displaying a set of straight, white teeth that I imagine melted many hearts back in the day. According to him, they still do. “Happy birthday, Freckles.”
I thank him, raising my voice to be heard over the boisterousness of the restaurant.
Mimicking the volume of my speech, my dad practically shouts, “Are you at your party?”
Aunt Helen asks, “Is that your father?”
I turn from the phone to my guests, who have all halted their own conversations and focused their curious attention on me.
I mouth, “One minute” to them and excuse myself to the only quiet spot in the restaurant—the bathroom. Once inside, I say to my dad, “Yes, we’re all here. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it.”
My dad runs a hand through his salt and pepper (mostly salt) hair and gives me an apologetic frown. “I’m sorry, Freckles. I really wanted to be there, but I had an important meeting today. Next year, I promise. Did you get my card?”
I nod. “I did. Thanks.” The card said, “You have a very special place, that no one else can fill…because you mean so much to me and you know you always will! Happy Birthday.”
“I love you, baby.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
“I’ll let you get back to your party, but have a wonderful time.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“Send my best to your mom.” He flashes me a devilish grin. “Aunt Helen too.”
Laughing, I say, “Will do. Bye, Dad.”
“Bye, baby.”
I disconnect the call and return to the table. “That was my dad.” To my mom, I add, “He sends his best.”
My mom smiles softly. “You can send mine back next time you speak to him.”
I consider telling Aunt Helen my dad sent her his regards as well, but decide against it. She’d know he was being facetious, and I want a peaceful evening.
Cheryl clears her throat. “I’d like to say a few words, if you’ll give me your attention.”
This is a surprise. As my likely matron-of-honor, I would expect Cheryl to make a toast at my wedding, but I didn’t expect anything for my birthday. I can’t help but hope the two are not mutually exclusive.
The table quiets, and Cheryl locks eyes with me. “Maggie. Growing up, we shared the same room—I forced you to make my bed. We shared the same toys—I took all of the good ones. We shared the same dinner table—we couldn’t even look at each other without cracking up. We shared secrets—you kept mine, as far as I know. I confess to not always being as loyal. While we didn’t share the same parents, you are my little sister in every other sense of the word. I pushed you around as often as I had your back. You know I never sugarcoat things for you, and so when I tell you how much I admire you—your quirkiness, your big heart, your willingness to try new things, your fun spirit, your sense of humor. Your…” She hesitates as if she’s run out of qualities to admire.
“Her graceful coordination?” Jodie suggests.
Melanie chuckles. “Her talent for getting clothes dirty?”
Holding my hand up, I laugh. “I get the gist.”
“Exactly,” Cheryl says. “Your ability to poke fun at yourself, to admit when you’ve made a mistake, and your determination to learn from your screw-ups.”
“And there have been a lot of those,” Aunt Helen says, snorting.
At this, Jodie meets my eye and winks.
“In summary, I will say this one time and one time only. You, my pesky sister, are my hero, and if you ever repeat this to anyone outside of this table, I will deny, deny, deny. And then I’ll exact revenge.” Pointing her finger at me, she says, “And you know I will.”
I smirk. “Do I ever.”
“I love you, Magpie,” she says with a slight nod of her head.
Rushing to her chair, I pull her into a bear hug.
“Happy Birthday. You give forty a good name,” she whispers.
Still locked in our embrace, I blink back my tears and whisper back, “Thank you.”
When we separate, she glances over at Jim, who is bouncing a giggling Michael on one leg and a dozing Cady on the other. I point at him. “I know it’s not a great time for a long talk, but things are good at home?”
Cheryl’s lips curve upward. “Yeah. They are.”
“I’m so glad. I need to believe people can be happily coupled over the long haul.” Biting my lip, I add, “Not that it’s all about me.”
“Tonight, it’s all about you. If I can say one thing, it’s this—even the healthiest relationships are not easy, but they shouldn’t be hard either.” She cocks her head to one side. “Do you know what I mean?”
I answer with a nod. It took me forty years, but I know exactly what she means.
And then there were four. After Cady almost fell nose-first into a bowl of melted gelato, and Michael’s eyes turned the shade of red velvet from rubbing them so hard, Cheryl and Jim begrudgingly departed for Westchester, taking my mom and Aunt Helen with them. I invited Barry and Charles to dinner, but Melanie and Jodie insisted if I was single on my fortieth birthday, they would be single on my fortieth birthday too.
The four of us are standing at a table in the front bar area of the restaurant, and after we order a bottle of Lambrusco from the sommelier, Jodie says, “I think a round of shots is in order too. Lemon drops?”
Protesting, I say, “I have work tomorrow. And you have to drive home.”
“No, I don’t,” Jodie says.
“Are you taking the train?” I ask.
Jodie grins. “Nope. I’m staying in the city.”
I jerk my head back. “Where?”
“My college roommate’s bachelorette pad.”
Raising an eyebrow, I say, “I’m your college roommate.”
“And I’m staying over. So are they,” she says, pointing at Amanda and Melanie.
I look at Amanda and Melanie. “You are?”
They both beam at me and say, “Yes” at the same time.
“If you’ll have us,” Amanda says.
“Of course I will. I generally tidy up my apartment before having guests over, but as long as you don’t care about the less-than-immaculate living conditions, I’m thrilled for the company.”
Rolling her eyes, Jodie says, “I have experience cohabitating with you under the best and worst of circumstances.”
“Oh, and you’re taking the day off tomorrow. We’re having a spa day. Our treat,” Amanda says.
Before I can argue, Melanie says, “And don’t worry about missing a day of work. Leave a message now with your boss telling him yo
ur friends are kidnapping you for your birthday, and if there’s an emergency, you’ll make yourself available.”
“I suggest mentioning you turned forty. Anyone with blood running through his veins will understand how bad it sucks to turn forty,” Jodie says.
“Honestly, I couldn’t ask for a better birthday. Turning forty has been pretty terrific,” I admit. “Only one thing would have made this birthday better.”
“Let me guess—a boyfriend?” Amanda asks.
I shake my head and look down at the marble table top. “Close. A phone call, text…something from Doug. More than almost anyone, he knew I feared turning forty as some sort of official entrance into middle age.”
Melanie reaches across the table and places her hand on mine. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”
“Me too,” I say. “I didn’t expect to hear from him. But I wanted to. I wonder if he even remembered it was my birthday.”
“I’m sure he did,” Melanie says as Jodie and Amanda nod in agreement.
“I suppose I’ll never know,” I say. “Anyway, I can’t thank you guys enough for throwing me such an amazing birthday party. Single or attached, boyfriend or no boyfriend, I’m incredibly blessed to have friends like you.” It’s true. As grateful as I am for a speedy metabolism and youthful skin as I enter my fifth decade, I am immeasurably more thankful for the unconditional love and support of my girlfriends.
Her eyebrows, raised, Jodie says, “So…shots?”
Caving, I say, “Yes to shots.”
“I have another thing to celebrate,” Amanda says, her voice bubbly.
“Do tell,” I insist, while Jodie summons the bartender.
With a twinkle in her eye, Amanda says, “I’m kind of dating someone.”
I slap a hand against my cheek as Melanie and Jodie yelp.
“Details, now,” Jodie demands.
Amanda’s eyes light up. “His name is Greg. I met him on eHarmony. We’ve been out three times already.” Raising her hand in the air, she adds, “And before you yell at me, I’m sorry I didn’t confide in you earlier. It was killing me, but I was afraid to jinx it. I also wanted to trust my instincts without any advice—solicited or not.”
Blinking, Jodie says, “When have we ever given unsolicited advice?”
I playfully nudge Jodie and then grin at Amanda. “We understand. And I speak for all of us when I say we are so pleased for you.”
Always a loyal friend, Amanda allowed the spotlight to shine on me on my birthday dinner, but if I hadn’t been enjoying holding court, I would have tuned into her secret hours earlier. She is radiating happiness from within, and even though she is always beautiful, her smile is wider, her hazel eyes shine brighter, and even her posture is straighter.
The bartender brings over our shots, and after the girls toast to my birthday (and to Amanda’s new man), we count to three before slamming them.
As we take turns hugging Amanda afterwards, it dawns on me that I’m currently the only one without a boyfriend. If I said the realization didn’t leave me with a twinge of envy, I’d be lying. But I’m happy for my friends, and I am confident my turn will come around again. I just have to keep the faith for as long as it takes, no matter how many disappointments or false starts I encounter along the way.
“So, birthday girl, since I’m not using my vacuum much these days, you’re welcome to it,” Jodie says, bumping me in the shoulder.
“Sharing vacuums is nasty.” I distort my face in disgust and bump her right back. Lowering my voice, I say, “But if you insist on treating me to a new one, I won’t turn it down.”
Much later, my eyelids heavy and ready for sleep after hours discussing sex, bowel movements, reality television, most embarrassing moments, and every other mindless topic conceivable with my besties, one thing is pleasurably clear—my youthful spirit has not deserted me with the cessation of my thirties, and there is not a damn thing wrong with that.
August
I’m devoting the afternoon to cleaning my apartment. This involves scrubbing my bathroom and kitchen counters, using the Swiffer WetJet on my living room, bedroom, and bathroom floors, dusting all of my bookshelves, shredding all of the junk mail I’ve allowed to pile up, and vacuuming the dust balls which have collected on my area rug. Emptying the contents of the shredder machine into several plastic bags had the side effect of disbursing tiny flecks of paper all over my apartment, and I attempt to vacuum those up as well. I turn off the Dyson and wipe some sweat from my brow as my phone rings. I freeze in place when I see who the call is from.
I stare at the phone as it rings, once and then a second time, wondering why Philip would be calling me on a Saturday afternoon, or at all for that matter. We stopped working together over two months ago, and a winter, a spring, and much of a summer has passed since we dated. Considering he ended our relationship to reconcile with his wife, I would hope he’d call someone else if he craved a little afternoon delight. But what if it’s an emergency—like the death of a partner? Maybe someone died, and he is calling on me to find a creative way to spin it. I’m aware this is a preposterous idea and, no doubt, not the reason for his call. And then I worry something might have happened to Melanie, and I quickly pick up the phone before letting it go to voicemail. “Hello?”
“Maggie.”
I’m tempted to respond, “That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” but refrain. Wanting to skip the small talk, I ask, “What happened?” while my heart beats rapidly under my t-shirt.
“Nothing happened. Calm down.”
“Melanie’s okay?”
“Melanie is fine.” After a pause, Philip adds, “As far as I know. Haven’t seen her since yesterday.”
I clear my throat and try to calm the tremors running through my body at his unexpected call. In an attempt to display some semblance of coolness, I respond, “Oh.”
Yeah. Real cool.
“Are you home by any chance?”
“Yeah. I’m cleaning. Why?”
“I was wondering if I could come by. I’d like to talk to you.”
I wonder if he’s going to try to convince me to come back to the firm again. “Sure. What time can you be here?” I glance down at my dust-stained Mickey Mouse t-shirt and gray drawstring sweatpants which should have been thrown out a decade ago and mentally inventory my closet for a change of clothing.
“I’m downstairs.”
“Um, okay.” I race to the bathroom and scrutinize my reflection in the mirror. Crap. “I’ll ring you in.” I kick off the sweatpants and pull a pair of black yoga pants from the top shelf of my closet, bringing down most of the remaining contents with them. I close the closet door and slide on the yoga pants. When the doorman rings, I tell him to let Philip up and I pray for the elevator to stop at every floor between the lobby and mine. Maybe it will even stall on the third floor by someone lugging in several heavy baskets of laundry. With my remaining time, I slick my hair back into a ponytail and apply a layer of mascara and a dab of lip gloss. I keep the Mickey Mouse shirt on. It might be dirty, but it’s cute.
I jump when the bell rings, even though I was expecting it. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself it’s Philip calling on me—not the other way around—and I have nothing to fear. I open the door and flash him a smile. Gesturing for him to come inside, I say, “Well, this is a surprise.”
Stepping into my apartment, Philip says, “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time. I was in the neighborhood.”
I follow him into the living room. “Excuse the appearance of my humble abode.” The vacuum cleaner is in the center of my rug because I didn’t have time to move it. The Swifter WetJet is leaning against one wall with a dirty cloth still attached to it, and bags of shredded paper line another wall. “I was in the middle of cleaning and didn’t quite finish.”
Philip looks around the room and grins. “No worries. It’s not like I gave
you any notice.”
No, you didn’t. “Have a seat. Are you thirsty?”
Sitting on my couch, Philip waves me away. “I’m fine. Please sit.”
I join Philip on the opposite side of the couch but angle my body so I’m facing him. We sit in silence for somewhere between five seconds and eternity. I fight the urge to initiate conversation because I want him to lead the discussion. I raise my eyebrows, hoping he’ll take the hint and say something.
Finally, he says, “How’s the new job?”
“It’s great. Challenging, but I’m enjoying the work so far.” I take a deep breath. “So if you’re here to persuade me to come back, you can skip the hard sell.”
Philip shakes his head. “I wouldn’t dare. I asked once, and you said no. I can take a hint.”
Since I’ve eliminated Melanie and my former job as the reasons for Philip’s visit, my impatience rises. “Why are you here, then?”
Philip throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, Magpie. I’ve missed you.”
His use of my nickname doesn’t sit right, and I clench my jaw. With a slight nod in Philip’s direction, I say, “Well?”
Running a hand through his dark locks, Philip sighs. “Here’s the thing—”
This is the same expression Philip used when he told me he was getting back together with his wife, and I interrupt, “I think I’ve heard that before.”
Philip stares at me, a crease forming in his forehead. “I don’t follow you.”
I raise my hand in dismissal. “Forget it. You were saying?”
“Sheila and I have decided to continue with the divorce proceedings after all.”
How Do You Know? Page 22