Again on my birthday, I sat alone at a candlelit dining table for two. Three years, three no-party, and one late husband that always had jutified. This time, however, I was sick of it. I said to him it would turn out… and I believe I did say it-until I was sh0cked with the truth that I had been concealing.
The booth in the corner was set apart as I preferred it. Close enough to the noise to hear it, and yet in such a position as to see the world go by outside the window.
There was a sort of hushed inwardness about the brick walls, as though they had secrets to keep.
Overhead old jazz played softly and slow and I once loved that place.
The waiter had been by two times already. He would inquire, sweetly smiling, every time, whether I was ready to order. And every time, I had said, a minute or two more.
But when on a third occasion he appeared his face was altered.
What are you going to order, maam? he queried.
I simply looked at the vacant chair.
Then I prettily got surprized, and gave a forced smile that did not reach my eyes, and said, I will be off soon.
he nodded, moved back with understated professionalism, but I could sense it the pity that hung in the air where there should have been a celebration.
Like it made a difference, I folded a napkin.
I wielded tables where there are couples clinking glasses, laughing softly, lost to one another.
“Sarah!”
I froze.
I knew. And, behold! Mark. My husband. gasping, bow tie askew, hair blown.
Oh, I am sorry, he said.
Traffic and I–”
No, said I.
You are not allowed to do this again.
“I tried—”
Mark, you have given three years. Three birthdays. Whenever you were busy, or lat, or forgot. I’m done.”
I did not mean that–”
I do not care. My voice broke
I am your wife. I am worth more.”
His eyes turned aside.
Tomorrow you will have divorce papers, I told him.
And I fled away, heeling it on the pavement. That was not visible to him. Just stood–lonesome in the streetlight.
It was a new world and it had started being quiet once again, two weeks after signing and sealing the divorce papers.
I was lazily sipping lukewarm coffee with folded towels when I heard a knock reverberating in the house.
There was Evelyn, the mother of Mark, standing at the opened door.
She appeared differently.
The wind had crimped her hair, and her face, which is usually hard with pride, was drawn and soft, as though carrying something heavy.
She said, I know you do not like me best.
And I bet you do not want to see me. Yet I must tell something.”
We sat at the kitchen table as strangers at a bus stop. The clock was too noisy. I waited.
She Throated.
Instead, she said, you always were so self-willed. “Not easy. But I never thought you loved my son.”
I answered, in a flat tone, I did.
She saw, Well, he damn well loved you. However odd ways he had of showing it.”
I gazed at my mug with the chip. He had many opportunities.
She made no case. Just put her hand into her purse, and deliberately pushed a little piece of folded paper across the table.
You did not know something. I did not feel that it was my right, use it as I have now. Now I think it is more evil to conceal it”
I opened it up. It was a speech. Handwritten.
What is this?
Come and see it. You need not speak to him. No need even to leave the car. However, when you ever cared, even in a little, you at least ought to know.”
The graveyard was quietness–quietness too great, as though the ground itself caught its breath.
The oaks which flanked the road were stately, with swinging arms, with dripping leaves whose murmurs were a secret I did not wish to know.
I passed between the rows reading of names of strangers who had lost young and old alike. Both are sad memories.
The pain was restricting my chest as something was pressing through my ribs. Then I saw it with my eyes.
Lily Harper Born October 12 th 2010 Died October 12 th 2020
I stopped. My hands became icy. My birthday. He did not leave a long message.
I stood rudely still, and, if I but closed both my eyes, read the milling over and over, as 1h. It did not alter, however. It never could.
Then I heard him.
What are you doing out here?
I looked over my shoulder. Mark.
His jacket was covered in dust and his eyes those gentle brown eyes, they were sunken also as though he had been forgotten by sleep.
Said he, I did not expect to see you.
I had not expected this, I muttered. Who was she?
He looked upon the grave.
“My daughter. Of my first marriage.”
The words hurt as though you had been punched in the chest.
After a pause he said, with a sigh, she was ten.
“Car acci:dent. Mother and I… we could not make it. Shortly after the funeral we were divorced.”
I was unable to talk. I did not know how to answer.
Whom–he, had left fresh flowers in a mason jar, I recommened to her.
They were fading somewhat while still beautiful. And there on a bench sat a little, plastic tiara.
The cute little girls dress in when they want to be a princess.
You were here annually? I asked.
He bobbed.
“Every year. And in her birthday.”
I replied, I said, on my birthday.
I was willing to be with you. I tried. I was unable to do both. And yet I did not know how to serve you, and endure her. This was the sense of betrayal. Of you two.”
It was a moist air, with the smells of a wet earth, and the sweet, evaporating smell of fallen leaves.
I stared at the ground a long time. I had too many things in my heart to name. At last I spoke out.
Thought you wouldn t care, said I.
Mark surveyed me sideways with a weary honest face.
He said, he never forgot you.
“Not once. I used to love you, Sarah. I still do.”
I saw his hands placed in his lap. I knew those hands. They had carried mine over so many dinners.
When we were dancing in the living room they would turn up the volume.
They had rested on my back in the car journeys and then reached out to me when we watched sad films.
You ought to have made it known to me, I said.
He turned aside, then turned. He feared it, he said.
You were scared that I would run away. I feared that should I open that door, everything would broke up.”
Nodded slow.
You had better have trusted me.
And he said, I know.
“You’re right.”
I sighed deeply, and looked into the trees.
I have no control over what I have done. And then you can neither. But maybe…” I paused.
He glanced at me, and I saw as something changed in his eyes. Something soft. Hope, maybe.
I said: “I do not mean that we should go back to the way things were.”
But perhaps we attempt it again. At the beginning. No lies. No silence. No secrets.”
Mark blinked and smiled a little carefully a few times. That I would like, he said, in a breathless tone.
I nodded. So we attempt.
Mark and I stood at the grave of Lily, side by side and coats bundled, our breath coming off in little clouds.
The trees rustled idling around us and leaves of gold and red and brown danced smoke over the grass.
I crouched, and placed a small cake of chocolate on the ground, small enough to hold one large candle. Mark kneeled down by my side and laid a picture of Lily.
She was smiling so bright, and the same plastic tiara was on her.
I felt my chest tighten but not painfully, but in love. To a girl I never saw Or held, But bore within my breast.
We remained some time in silence, and then drove to a lonely restaurant on the outskirts of town. The location was examined floors and warm coffee.
At that corner table we made an apple pie slice. The very same one, where people came to start all over again.
Mark took something out of his coat pocket, a small well-packed box, and gave it to me.
A present, it is on your birthday, he replied.
I opened it gradually. within was a necklace of gold, and a small pendant in the form of a lily.
I broke down and cried. It is beauty, I said.
I never shall skip another one, he said.
I know, I said, and took his hand.
We did not h Highway one life anymore. We commemorated two.
And the most wonderful thing was we did it together.
