Happy Birthday Sunshine

The story of a very special birthday party.

(Heads up - this contains spoilers from my memoir, “Lunchladies Bought My Prom Dress”)

I focused on the pink and blue fleck design of my bedroom wall early one Friday morning, trying to blink the sleepiness from my eyes. The existence of such a special day usually would have had me dressed and ready for breakfast in a matter of minutes, but this year was different.

Today was my twelfth birthday, the first one I’d celebrate in our new trailer and the first one I’d celebrate without Daddy.

The weight of grief, briefly forgotten in my first moments awake, dropped heavily once again. The grief greeted me each day with maddening routine, no less regular a visitor even after six months of salutations. I curled my legs closer to my chest and let my gaze soften and go hazy, wanting to lull myself back to sleep. Valentine’s Day, Easter, school Awards Day…I wasn’t sure I had the strength to relaunch another special occasion without my father.

Even the thought of presents didn’t spark my interest. It didn’t really matter what I’d get for my birthday, anyway. Each box I opened would be full of the same thing – Daddy’s absence.

I wanted to lay in bed forever.

After a while, Mama knocked on my door.

“I’m awake,” I told her flatly.

“Happy birthday to you,” she sang softly, “happy birthday dear Heather Pooh, happy birthday to you.”

Mom came in and sat on the edge of my bed. “There’s my Heather Pooh. God gave her to me twelve years ago today.” I kept my face turned towards the wall. She patted my hip gingerly.

“Honey, I know you miss your daddy today. I do, too. But we can still try to have fun. What do you want to do for your birthday?”

A tornado of emotions whipped around inside my heart – anxiety, sadness, sharp anger. Why was Mom just now asking me this? Why hadn’t she and the rest of Daddy’s family not already planned something special? Didn’t they know how much I needed it?

I didn’t say anything at first, trying my best to scatter the firebolts of anger back down into my hardpan of depression, like a human lightning rod. I already knew the reason Mom hadn’t planned anything. She was hunkered down under a wind-whipped tree of her own.

Rage was a useless weapon when aimed at other grieving people.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “Is Mammaw going to throw me a party?”

My birthday was within a week of Independence Day. Often, Mammaw and the rest of our large family gathered for a cookout that celebrated both.

“She’s working today, so we’re all just going to get together on the 4th, instead.”

“Oh.” Celebrating my birthday five days late seemed pointlessly painful. Any relief I’d secure in surviving another milestone would be short-lived if we waited.

“Do you want to go see a movie?” asked Mom. “We could get some popcorn and Milk Duds.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I told her. Nothing sounded good, but I also knew I was too heartsore to be left by myself. I didn’t want to be forgotten.

“Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll make you some pancakes for breakfast? Sissy wants to say happy birthday, too.”

I brightened a little. Sissy was a cool and resilient kid. She was pretty good at helping me cheer up.

“Ok. Tell Sissy maybe we can make a radio show for my birthday.” Sissy and I loved to do impressions and record fake interviews on our cassette player. Our most impressive work to date had been an interview with ‘Alex Winter’ and ‘Keanu Reeves’ that sounded an awful lot like a Bill and Ted press junket conducted deep inside the cornfields of Hee Haw.

“I will.”

I threw on my Bart Simpson t-shirt and a pair of shorts and slid my sockless feet into my smelly canvas shoes. I tied the laces tightly so any foot odor would have a hard time escaping, or so I hoped. Summer in East Tennessee was a humid mess, leaving me hot and sweaty from May until October.

After a breakfast of pancakes smeared with peanut butter and drenched with syrup, I was treated to a birthday rap by Sissy performed under the guise of Richard, Mammaw’s endlessly interesting boyfriend. She also presented me with a Debbie Gibson cassingle she had purchased with her own money. It made me feel better for a while, even though I made my laugh bigger on purpose to seem not sad.

Soon, the grief and disquiet returned. I sat on the couch, flipping through the Knoxville News-Sentinel, trying to find something to do. I checked the Living section for the movie ads. The only ones that looked interesting were Total Recall and Pretty Woman, but I knew Mom would never let me pick between a futuristic shoot-em-up and a Cinderella story about a sex worker. I closed the newspaper and tossed it back onto the coffee table, but not before taking a long sniff of the inky picture printed on the front page.

I turned on the TV. Nothing good was on, but I left the channel tuned to The Price is Right in case they played Plinko, which was my favorite. I slid open the sheers behind me and turned to stare out the window.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Mom from the kitchen. “Why don’t we call Amy to see if she’s home?”

Amy was my one of my favorite cousins, not old enough to be my mom but older than most big sisters. She was educated, polished, pretty, and generous. She was always popping by to drop off a set of pretty postcards or a particular book she had picked out for one of us. Best of all, she lived right up the street. Maybe she could salvage this cruddy afternoon.

“Yeah!” I said with the most enthusiasm I had felt all day. “Let’s call Amy.”

Happily, Amy had just gotten home and invited us to come visit. We hoofed up the hilly road in the trailer park and cut across to her doublewide. I held back from Mom and Sissy as they rounded the last corner in order to catch my breath. I wanted to look as ladylike as possible in my sweaty t-shirt when Amy answered the door.

Amy’s doublewide trailer was much fancier than our singlewide. Her house was covered in real siding, not just printed with a wood-grain pattern, and the holly bushes in her yard were perfectly trimmed. A baby grand piano was positioned in the large front window and framed on the front deck by stylish patio furniture.

Mom rang the doorbell – another feature our trailer lacked – and Amy swept open the door, lovely and fresh-faced in Bermuda shorts and a tank top.

“Well, get in here, girls!” she said loudly, hugging Mom from inside the screen door. Mama, used to taking liberties with the personal space of anyone she loved, patted the sides of Amy’s thick chestnut mane. “Ooh, baby girl,” said Mom, “your hair looks so purty!”

The four of us made our way over to the couch and sat down. “Do y’all want some tea?” asked Amy. “I just brewed some.” We did. Amy’s iced tea was delicious. She used less sugar than Mom and Mammaw and never brewed it too long - a perfect refreshment for such a hot day.

Amy returned to the living room carrying a tray full of tall glasses brimming with crescent-shaped ice cubes, tea, and lemon wedges. She sat the tray on the table.

“That reminds me, honey,” Amy said to me. “I have a card for you around here somewhere. And a little something from Waldenbooks.” Her cheerful warmth felt like an embrace. She had remembered.

“So, what are you girls up to this afternoon? What are you doing for Heather’s birthday?” Amy asked.

Mom didn’t answer and took a long swig of tea. I tried to sound casual, and not like I had wanted to stay in bed with the covers pulled over my head in depression.

“Oh, you know, not too much. I figured it wasn’t such a big deal to skip having a party since we’re having the cookout in a few days.”

I shifted my eyes to avoid looking directly at Amy.

Amy had loved Daddy, too. She said kindly, “I can understand if you don’t want to have a party, but are you going to at least have a birthday cake? Twelve is a special birthday. I don’t want you to miss celebrating it.”

There was no mistaking the gentle concern in her voice. I shrugged my shoulders; afraid I’d cry if I said anything.

“Would you like me to make you a birthday cake?” Amy asked softly.

Mom roared back to full volume. “Oh, Heather! Let Amy make you a cake! I think that’s a wonderful idea!”

I nodded over the lump in my throat, unsure of my decision.

“O.K.” Amy said brightly. “Let’s get started, girls.”

We followed Amy into the kitchen.

“Can I watch you bake my cake?” I asked.

“Yes ma’am,” said Amy. Amy was the most gourmet cook of the family and the best one, too, although wild horses couldn’t have dragged that opinion out of me. Mammaw had been proclaimed Eternal Reigning Champion of everything culinary from biscuits to twenty-pound turkeys, but I wasn’t convinced. An unspoken air of irritation of having to cook at all outweighed Mammaw’s technical perfection, and I could taste it in her food.

I watched Amy crack eggs on top of the fluffy white flour and the other ingredients she had gathered in a big bowl. Before she poured vanilla extract onto the mound - the real kind, not the imitation kind we had at home – she wordlessly held the spoon underneath my nose for a sniff. Heavenly, I thought.

After the cake was in the oven, Amy pulled broccoli and cheese from the fridge to make a dip. “We need something to snack on while we’re waiting,” she said, and tore open a bag of scoopable Fritos.

I adored Fritos scoops. I thought they were the most sophisticated of all snack chips, matching the festive atmosphere of Doritos while omitting the orange fingers.

“Now this is starting to feel like a party.” The words slipped from my mouth. I was surprised to hear them.

Amy heated the dip and sat it on the table. I dove in immediately.

“This is delicious!” I exclaimed. Mom and Sissy agreed.

“Let me write down the recipe for you,” Amy said. “You can make it for yourself sometime.” She took a marker and yellow index card from a nearby box and sat down at the table. This was why Amy was the best cook. She had fed me, included me, and empowered me, all with a simple block of cheddar cheese.

The four of us finished the dip and waited for the cake to cool. Amy said, “What color do you want your icing to be?”

“Um…yellow. No, purple. But I like pink, too. No, wait – can it be peach?” Amy had peach-colored accessories throughout her house, a very sophisticated choice.

“Sure, we can make it peach.” I watched her open tiny jars of gel to mix into the icing.

“Is that food coloring?” I asked in amazement. The only food coloring I had ever seen came in a squeezy-top four pack and was used for dyeing eggs.

“It is. I get it from a special store called Sugarbakers.” She pinched off tiny spoonfuls of red and yellow and folded them into the creamy frosting. She let me watch until a smooth, pale peach began to emerge.

“Do you want to give me ten minutes to finish decorating your cake? Then you can see it all when it’s done.”

“May I go look please at your perfumes?”

“Yes, you may.”

I walked into Amy’s bedroom and made a beeline for the glass vanity tray on top of her oak dresser. A dozen bottles of fragrance were nestled cozily, reflecting themselves on the mirrored surface. I picked them up one at a time, sniffing each atomizer and enjoying the feel of the heavy bottles in my hand. By the time Amy called my name, I had decided I liked the grapey smell of Poison best, but I thought the floral Laura Ashley bottle was the prettiest.

“Heather! Your cake’s ready!”

My cake sat on the kitchen table, ablaze with three candles – one for the past, one for the present, and one for the future. Amy had also arranged glistening mandarin orange petals in a ring on top.

Mom, Sissy, and Amy sang enthusiastically. Making a wish seemed too fragile an undertaking, but I closed my eyes and blew out my candles decisively.

“Happy birthday, Sunshine!” said Amy, catching me up in a perfumed hug.

I cut into the pretty, peachy confection. It was the same color as the edges of an evening summer sky, the same color that kissed the rounded cheeks of the sleepy but still powerful sun when it hung low on the horizon.

This day - this very hard day - won’t last forever, I thought to myself. In time, twinkling stars would come to stand guard, and I could rest. Relief opened a window in my heart and I took a bite of cake, letting our cozy celebration warm me at last.