done.
Still, Benjamin Riddell had entirely different feelings on the matter.
– 11 –
BIRTHDAY DINNER
I anxiously awaited my father’s return. I hadn’t seen him all day and I wanted to tell him of my mother’s phone call—that she had asked after him and cared about him and wanted to talk to him. I went downstairs at dinnertime, figuring the time change in my head. He couldn’t call her back now—it was the middle of the night in England—but he could call her first thing in the morning.
“Is my dad here?” I asked Serena.
She was busily making dinner, still dressed for work, though with bare feet.
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “And I don’t know when to expect him, so I hope you don’t mind if we start without him.”
I shrugged and took my seat, relying on an air of indifference to mask my disappointment. Grandpa Samuel was already sitting docilely at the table. Serena took the medicine bottle and put three tablets in front ofhim. When she saw that I had noticed the transaction, she said: “His Alzheimer’s medication.”
She shuttled plates of food to the table.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“You sit, Birthday Boy,” she said with deliberate cheer. “I have it under control.”
She presented the last of the food, a wooden bowl of salad, and took her seat.
“Do you have a car?” I asked as we served ourselves.
“We do have a car,” she replied. “It’s behind the barn. Why do you ask?”
“I never see you drive it. How do you get to work?”
“I ride my bicycle to the bus stop and then take the bus. Aren’t you the curious one?”
“Even in the winter?”
“Winters are quite mild in Seattle, and no one minds a little rain. That’s why God invented fenders for bicycles, to keep ladies like me dry.”
We ate deliberately and silently. I felt that everything was slipping apart. My parents were no closer to reconciling, and my father was more remote than ever. I was trapped in the world of Serena and Grandpa Samuel. And nobody cared. Even on my birthday.
“It is not my place to apologize for your father,” Serena began, “but I understand that you must be disappointed that he’s missing your birthday dinner.”
“Whatever,” I said. Which was a lie. It really did bother me. It bothered me a lot. I thought my father was a jerk for being absent on my birthday. But I didn’t think it would help to tell Serena that.
“Really? Surely it’s incumbent upon a parent to recognize the birthday of his or her child.”
“My mom called me this morning,” I said quickly, and I immediately regretted saying it. I had wanted to keep that information from Serena as a secret I shared with my mother. And here I was, pandering for my aunt’s approval.
“Did she?” Serena asked, looking impressed. “You and your mother must have a very special relationship. I’m sure you love her very much.”
“Sure,” I said.
“ ‘Sure.’ ‘Whatever,’ ” Serena mocked. “It’s cute when you speak like a teenager, but I know better, Trevor. I know you have many more feelings and emotions tucked away in that heart of yours, and you have abundant words to describe them. Tell me, how do you feel about this separation of theirs, be it temporary or not?”
“Why do you keep calling it a separation?” I asked, bristling. “They’re getting back together.”
“Are they? Perhaps they will, but perhaps not altogether happily. Would you prefer they be together and unhappy, or apart and happy?”
“Neither.”
“Umm. You’re holding out for door number three. An idealist!”
“What’s wrong with being an idealist?” I asked.
“Nothing at all,” Serena replied. “I suppose my interest in hearing your thoughts is more selfishly motivated than I have revealed. I was eleven when my mother died, and so I know what it’s like to feel lost and confused by the unraveling of a family. I thought perhaps in you I had found a comrade with whom I could commiserate. We are
Still, Benjamin Riddell had entirely different feelings on the matter.
– 11 –
BIRTHDAY DINNER
I anxiously awaited my father’s return. I hadn’t seen him all day and I wanted to tell him of my mother’s phone call—that she had asked after him and cared about him and wanted to talk to him. I went downstairs at dinnertime, figuring the time change in my head. He couldn’t call her back now—it was the middle of the night in England—but he could call her first thing in the morning.
“Is my dad here?” I asked Serena.
She was busily making dinner, still dressed for work, though with bare feet.
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “And I don’t know when to expect him, so I hope you don’t mind if we start without him.”
I shrugged and took my seat, relying on an air of indifference to mask my disappointment. Grandpa Samuel was already sitting docilely at the table. Serena took the medicine bottle and put three tablets in front ofhim. When she saw that I had noticed the transaction, she said: “His Alzheimer’s medication.”
She shuttled plates of food to the table.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“You sit, Birthday Boy,” she said with deliberate cheer. “I have it under control.”
She presented the last of the food, a wooden bowl of salad, and took her seat.
“Do you have a car?” I asked as we served ourselves.
“We do have a car,” she replied. “It’s behind the barn. Why do you ask?”
“I never see you drive it. How do you get to work?”
“I ride my bicycle to the bus stop and then take the bus. Aren’t you the curious one?”
“Even in the winter?”
“Winters are quite mild in Seattle, and no one minds a little rain. That’s why God invented fenders for bicycles, to keep ladies like me dry.”
We ate deliberately and silently. I felt that everything was slipping apart. My parents were no closer to reconciling, and my father was more remote than ever. I was trapped in the world of Serena and Grandpa Samuel. And nobody cared. Even on my birthday.
“It is not my place to apologize for your father,” Serena began, “but I understand that you must be disappointed that he’s missing your birthday dinner.”
“Whatever,” I said. Which was a lie. It really did bother me. It bothered me a lot. I thought my father was a jerk for being absent on my birthday. But I didn’t think it would help to tell Serena that.
“Really? Surely it’s incumbent upon a parent to recognize the birthday of his or her child.”
“My mom called me this morning,” I said quickly, and I immediately regretted saying it. I had wanted to keep that information from Serena as a secret I shared with my mother. And here I was, pandering for my aunt’s approval.
“Did she?” Serena asked, looking impressed. “You and your mother must have a very special relationship. I’m sure you love her very much.”
“Sure,” I said.
“ ‘Sure.’ ‘Whatever,’ ” Serena mocked. “It’s cute when you speak like a teenager, but I know better, Trevor. I know you have many more feelings and emotions tucked away in that heart of yours, and you have abundant words to describe them. Tell me, how do you feel about this separation of theirs, be it temporary or not?”
“Why do you keep calling it a separation?” I asked, bristling. “They’re getting back together.”
“Are they? Perhaps they will, but perhaps not altogether happily. Would you prefer they be together and unhappy, or apart and happy?”
“Neither.”
“Umm. You’re holding out for door number three. An idealist!”
“What’s wrong with being an idealist?” I asked.
“Nothing at all,” Serena replied. “I suppose my interest in hearing your thoughts is more selfishly motivated than I have revealed. I was eleven when my mother died, and so I know what it’s like to feel lost and confused by the unraveling of a family. I thought perhaps in you I had found a comrade with whom I could commiserate. We are
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