Families and Other Nonreturnable Gifts (11 page)

There is, admittedly, a less than ideal height difference—she’d probably tower over him—but I know couples like that and it’s no big deal. It’s kind of endearing actually. I do wish Cathy had a little more…spirit I guess is the best word—she’s so self-effacing sometimes—but it’s not like Jacob is Mr. Dynamism. He’s funnier than she is and maybe a little quicker and more interesting to talk to…but overall, it’s a good fit.

The only thing is, I feel funny telling Jacob I’m fixing him up with someone. He’s never mentioned his love life to me or to anyone else in my hearing, so it feels weird to suddenly just say, “Here’s the number of a girl I think you’d like.” But it seems even more awkward to have Cathy cold-call him and say, “Hey, there! I’m a friend of Keats!”

I’m parking in our building’s large, well-lit garage when the solution hits me: I’ll have them both over for dinner and invite a couple of other people so that the fix-up will feel a little less obvious.

I like this idea and not just because it gets those two together. Making dinner sounds like fun. Tom and I don’t entertain that often: it always feels easier to just go out with friends than to have them over. And neither of us is a particularly good cook. But I’ve always wanted to be the kind of person who throws casual dinner parties, and this is a good excuse for one.

I’m walking toward the elevator, thinking about what I’ll serve my guests, when I hear someone calling my name. I turn. Tom waves at me as he pulls his car into the space next to mine. He joins me just as the elevator arrives. “Where were you?” he asks as we step inside. “I assumed you were home hours ago.”

“I grabbed a bite to eat with one of the grad students from school—Cathy Miller.”

He leans over and sniffs at my mouth. “You smell like alcohol.”

“We had a couple of glasses of wine.”

He frowns. “You’re too small to drink that much and then drive.”

“I’m fine. They were spread out. Hey, I just had a really fun thought.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to fix up Cathy and Jacob.”

“Your father’s Jacob?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? Is Cathy short?”

I laugh as the elevator doors open and we head down the hallway to our apartment. “Not at all. She’s kind of huge actually. Tall, I mean—she’s thin. Well, pretty thin.” I shake my head to get myself back on track. “It’s just that they’re really similar—their interests and all that. I was thinking we could invite them both over for dinner. And some other people, too, just to make it more fun. Maybe Lou and Izzy?” I reach the door first but wait for him to get out his key.

He unlocks it, then gestures for me to go inside first. He’s gentlemanly that way. “Sounds like a lot of work. Why not just tell them to call each other?”

“They’re both really shy. I don’t think they’d ever do it.”

He lets the door swing shut behind us. “Will we also have to help them have sex if they hit it off? I’m not sure I’m prepared to go that far. Although it could be interesting. . . .”

“Oh, oh!” I interrupt him as another idea comes to me. “We can do it this weekend and say it’s for my birthday!”

“But you and I will still celebrate it tomorrow, right? I made a reservation.”

“Of course. That’ll be my real celebration. This will just be an excuse to invite them over. But it means they’ll say yes, because you have to when it’s for someone’s birthday!”

“Does that mean I have to do whatever you say tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” I move right up close to him. “You’ll basically be my slave.”

“Interesting.” He grins down at me, but when I start to put my arms around him, he pulls back. “Oops, watch out for my arm.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—I just pulled a muscle at work.”

“Poor baby. Want me to rub it?” I reach up, but he holds me off.

“Nah. That sounds painful. I may try putting some ice on it later.”

“Okay.” I head over toward my computer. “I’m going to go send out an e-mail about dinner before I forget.”

* * *

This is what I write in the e-mail, which I send to Jacob, Cathy, and Izzy:

I totally forgot about my birthday up until right now, so I know it’s kind of late notice, but can you come over on Sunday for dinner and cake?

I blind copy them all. I don’t want either Cathy or Jacob wondering why they’re on such a short list when we’re not birthday dinner close.

Izzy e-mails me back immediately to say they’re going to the Sox game that night and can’t come. I’m bummed they can’t make it. I can’t think of anyone else to invite: Lou and Izzy are kind of our go-to friends for last-minute stuff.

“Would it be weird if it’s just the four of us?” I ask Tom a little while later. He’s watching TV in the bedroom. “You and me and Jacob and Cathy?”

“They left,” he says, staring at the screen.

“Who?”

“The people who care about this conversation.”

“Very funny.”

“I get you with that every time,” he gloats.

I stick my tongue out at him, but he doesn’t notice.

I decide to hold off on a decision until Jacob and Cathy respond. Later that night, I get back a
Sounds great
from the former and a
Thanks for thinking of me! I’d love to. What can I bring?
from the latter.

I decide not to invite anyone else. The worst that could happen is that they’ll sense they’re being fixed up. They’ll be fine with that if they like each other and maybe resent it if they don’t.

But I think they will.

* * *

The next morning, Tom gets up early and runs out to Dunkin’ Donuts to bring me back breakfast in bed. It’s not much of a surprise since he always does that on my birthday, but it’s a tradition I love.

He snuggles up to me in bed—carefully because he says his arm still hurts—and asks me if I’m happy, and I am, blissfully happy, lying there lazily popping little bits of crunchy-soft doughnut into my mouth in between sips of hot, milky coffee.

Mom calls me at work and tells me she remembers every detail of That Day twenty-five years ago, and assures me that even though I tore out of her too quickly for her to get an epidural so it was her most painful delivery, she forgave me the second she looked into my big blue eyes. “And saw that crazy red fluff on top of your head,” she adds. “That was a shock. But a good one.” She tells me the same thing pretty much every year.

 Around noon I get a big vase of flowers delivered to my desk. They’re ostensibly from Dad, although I suspect that Jacob was the one who actually ordered them, especially because the card says, “Happy birthday, Kesha. I love you. Dad.” My father has never said the words “I love you” to me in his life. I picture Jacob dictating the note to the florist over the phone and it makes me laugh: he probably made sure he was out of Dad’s hearing. And probably also spelled my name letter by letter in the vain hope that the florist might actually get it right.

No one gets my name right.

Hopkins e-mails me and Milton IM’s me, both to say happy birthday.

I’m hoping to get there soon,
Hopkins writes.
We’ll celebrate your birthday and say good-bye to the house all at once.
Given how long it’s taken her to actually make it to Boston, I figure we’ll probably be able to squeeze a Fourth of July celebration into the mix. Maybe even Labor Day.

Milton’s IM starts with:

—
Hey, happy bday and all that stuff.

—Tanks,
I write back.

—What are u doing to celebrate?

—T’s taking me out tonight.

—Cool. Have a good one. Bye.

At least he remembered.

At four in the afternoon, I hear the first wobbly strains of “Happy Birthday to You.” My boss Rochelle, chairman of the English department, enters holding a cake with seven lit candles, followed by whoever’s in the office that afternoon. I ask Rochelle what the significance of the number seven is, and she says, “That’s how many candles were left in the box. You need to buy more, sweetie.” I’m touched she remembered my birthday: I’m in charge of every other celebration around here, so she had to make a real effort to organize all this.

When Rochelle finds out that Tom’s taking me out to dinner that night, she insists that I leave early and go home and make myself pretty for him.

So by the time Tom comes home at six thirty, I’ve showered and pinned my hair up and am wearing a dress I’ve never worn before, very ’50s looking with a tight bodice and a full skirt. When he walks in, I arrange myself on the sofa like some kind of odalisque, lying on my side with my arm stretched languorously along my torso and my back arched. “Just let me jump in the shower,” he says, walking past me without noticing. “I’ll be right out.”

I’m slightly annoyed, but all is forgiven when he comes back out fifteen minutes later freshly showered and breathtakingly handsome in a tie and jacket. He gathers me up in his arms, tells me I look beautiful, and gives me a deep, long kiss. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he says. “About this moment. When I have you all to myself for the rest of the night.” I kiss him back and wonder if he’ll be inspired to just carry me into the bedroom, but when he releases me, he checks his watch, says that our reservation is at eight and we’d better get going or we’ll lose it.

He won’t tell me where we’re going, but I recognize the restaurant and squeal as we pull up in front: it’s one that I’ve been wanting to go to forever and have clipped reviews and articles about. I hadn’t even thought he was paying attention.

Inside we’re led to a really nice corner table near a window, and Tom informs me proudly that when he made the reservation, he let them know that it was both my birthday and our anniversary and that tonight needed to be extra special.

“Let’s take our time,” he says. “No rushing through the meal, no talking about work, or complaining about our families. Let’s just enjoy being here together.”

We sit there grinning at each other happily, but it does occur to me to wonder what we’ll talk about if we can’t discuss work or families.

Food, as it turns out. The waiter brings our menus, and after Tom orders a bottle of wine, we spend some time discussing the various options and agree that I should get the lobster and he should get the steak, both of which are wildly expensive, but Tom says that it’s our night to splurge.

He’s in a funny mood, kind of overexcited, which is sweet but weird. He startles when the waiter shows up at his elbow to pour the wine, which Tom tastes and—to my embarrassment—proclaims “delightful.” He gets nervous around waiters in fancy restaurants, tries too hard to impress them, and ends up sounding pretentious.

He gets up at some point “to use the restroom,” but I know he’s arranging some kind of birthday/anniversary surprise, and sure enough, after we’ve finished our entrees but before we’ve ordered any dessert, the waiter brings over a slice of chocolate cake with “Happy Birthday and Anniversary!” squeezed in around the edge of the plate in raspberry sauce letters.

“You like chocolate cake, right?” Tom says. “I picked it for you because you usually get something chocolatey. But if you’d rather have something else—”

“It’s perfect. Share it with me.”

“I will. But first I want to give you your presents.”

“Yay!” I put down my fork and push the plate away.

He slips his hand inside his jacket and pulls a box out of the inside chest pocket. He hands it to me and watches eagerly as I open it.

There’s a necklace inside. I scoop it up to examine it. An extremely large oval purple stone dangles from a thick gold chain. “That’s so pretty,” I say.

“Do you like it? My mom helped pick it out.”

I’m not surprised. It looks like something his mom would pick out. She doesn’t have bad taste—she’s an attractive woman who dresses well—but she’s over fifty and likes the kinds of things you’d expect a woman her age to like. Which aren’t necessarily the kinds of things a twenty-five-year-old would like.

“If you’re not crazy about it, we can exchange it for another color or something completely different,” Tom says.

I once returned a gift he gave me. He had told me I could, but when he found out, he looked so hurt I resolved never to do it again. Not unless it was something so awful and so expensive it would be crazy not to. This necklace doesn’t qualify as either, so I say firmly, “It’s great. I love it. Tell your mom I say thanks.”

His face lights up, and I’m glad I went with the pretend-you-like-it approach. It’s a perfectly nice necklace, and I’ll find times I can wear it—mostly to his parents’ house, I’m guessing. Anyway, the point is he took the time to go shopping with his mom to find me a gift. I’m lucky I have a boyfriend who cares enough to do that, who doesn’t just grab something at the drugstore or hand me a twenty and tell me I should go buy myself a nice present. He cares.

I put it back in the box, then reach for my fork.

“Hold on,” Tom says. “That was just your birthday present. I still have to give you your anniversary present.” He starts to slip his arms out of the jacket.

“Um, Tom?” I say as the jacket comes off. “If this present involves your going full monty, maybe it should wait until we get back to the apartment. Not that I don’t love the idea—”

“No, that’s your
third
present,” he says with a laugh. The jacket’s off, and he’s unbuttoning his left sleeve at the wrist and rolling it up.

“Then why are you getting undressed?”

“Hold on. You’ll see.” He keeps rolling up his shirtsleeve.

“You got a flu shot? For me? Aw, honey!”

He shakes his head, preoccupied: he’s rolled the fabric so tight it won’t budge, and he swears and struggles with it and has to pull the shirtsleeve down again. He’s more careful this time to keep the folds smooth, and he’s able to pull it up almost to his shoulder. He extends his arm out to me, twisting it a little from the shoulder so I can see the exposed area above his elbow.

It’s a little pink and a little inflamed, but even so, I can clearly make out the letters of my name written in dark black ink.

No, not written.

Tattooed.