Winning short story of our second contest, held in the month of July in 2023.
Theme: Through a Child’s Eyes: from the perspective of a child,
experiencing a notable event or moment.
Stepping inside, I closed my umbrella and looked around. The aesthetic atmosphere haunted by people with disheveled appearances was all too familiar. My line of work had made it familiar. It was a bad idea, I knew it. Everyone except the Cafe’s employees had bed hair and dressed in pajamas. It was ideally the worst place to hold a meeting. And the idea of me coming here despite it being my daughter’s birthday was, well, unappetizing. But the job paid well, and if not for that, I could not have arranged for half the things that I arranged for today. I had reserved an entire arcade for her and her friends, with plenty of easter eggs and not to mention, the gifts. And knowing that I could for my own daughter was compensation enough.
Sighing, I sat down at a secluded table next to the window. With still half an hour left before the meet-up, I Placed the umbrella next to the chair and reached into the depths of my purse. Searching for something, anything, that might save me from the boredom, disappointment, the anguish slowly building up, and the anxiety of getting caught doing nothing at all. Rummaging blindly, my hand repeatedly brushed against its coarse leather cover. Reminding me how I had been trying to ignore it. So I took out my work journal that is the closest thing to a friend that an art dealer like me can have. And I started revising the schedules, the meetings I had lined up, the budgets for the gallery I work for and my targets for this month. But as I opened it something out of the ordinary caught my eye. A white paper with crumpled edges sticking out from the comparatively drowsy yellow pages of the diary.
I recognized the handwriting immediately. “Dear mum” My Alice had written, “Please be home early.” I choked on the words as I read them. Almost wanting to throw it back inside my purse where all my forgotten things, and things to forget rest. But I fought against it. Under it she had crayoned a girl with a cake in her hands and a bunch of people namely, mum, dad, aunt C (short for Claire), and non-non(my brother John.) As much as it surprised me that she hadn’t drawn any of her friends in there, it also dug up a memory of long ago.
It was mid-September when brisk air started rumbling the streets colored rust-gold by free-willed leaves. They always presented a magical view. But for me, the real Fall did not begin until much later in October. Only when the clock struck midnight, the poppers went off, and everyone acknowledged that I had grown did the real Fall begin. It was a celebration – my birthday. Candles were lit as a substitute for party lights, vibrant balloons lay about the living room, and my Mom stood with a cake in her hands. A 4 was written on it with strawberries that made me cover my mouth mimicking the actresses on T.V. I was at the dinner table, waiting for mom to give the word.
“Make a wish, honey,” mom finally said, smiling.
Eyes shut so tight that they hurt, lungs ready to exhale a hurricane, I poured all my energy into it. The flame stood no chance against the fatal blow and perished before the mighty hero. Amid the claps, Mom took a piece of the creamy delicacy and thrust it in my mouth.
“Cheers!” Alan called out at the perfect moment.
Finishing my share quickly, I rushed to the gifts. On the top was a wish card from John, the pink box with a dress inside was from Mom, and Granny’s gift was painfully obvious under the wrapping. Another doll.
When I realized that one present was short my enthusiasm grew dim, but I stayed silent; I didn’t have the guts.
Soon after, the lights were taken off, the candles were saved (yet again), and the table cleaned. Mom started washing the dishes, and told me to gather the mess the poppers made. They knew how much I was itching to collect all the shiny stripes. So they also knew I would gladly accept it as a part of the gift. And just when I finished, Dad walked in on me. With just the two of us alone in the room, he started his speech. My memory may be rusty, but now that I think of it, it sounded like he had rehearsed it at least a dozen times.
“Mom thinks you’ll look cute in the dress, but I think this suits you better,” he said, slipping a Beetle’s cap( too big for me) onto my head, “and here’s something special for the Lady.” And without waiting he went into the kitchen to mom, leaving a cold freezing Hershey’s XL bar in my hands.
Living among artists, I’ve developed a weird habit of labeling memories and events. And nothing came to mind for this one except Bliss. Though I was tired of not being able to call my friends to my party when I was little. But my parents were there with me when I made the most important memories of my life. And it dawned on me. Don’t know what took it so long.
Throwing a couple bills on the table, I reached for my bag and ran out. Only when a cab finally stopped in front of me and I got in did I realize I’d forgotten my umbrella inside. But I was already drenched, inside the cab, and I had a lot of calls to make. I realized I was so bent on making my birthday fantasy a reality, I never realized what she needed. What I was so lucky to have had.
Then finally, the first call connected. “Hey. It’s Emily. Don’t hang up. Please, for Alice’s sake. It’s her birthday, can I pick you up right now? Yeah. On my way.”
~ Dove Macbeth
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