“You can keep the phone and we’ll pay the bills. The only condition is that you call and talk to us on it at least once a week.”
I smile. I can’t help it. Up until two and a half minutes ago, I was genuinely enjoying this day. I had actually chastised myself for being upset that they had come and let myself think that maybe this would be a turning point. But it’s not a turning point. It’s an ambush.
My family has taken my birthday and turned it into an intervention. They all trade off explaining to me how my behavior is hurting them. I find out, in great detail, how my failure to speak affects each and every member of my family. I listen to all of it. They haven’t tied me to the chair so I can’t escape or enlisted the help of an objective third party to impart the proper amount of guilt while keeping us all focused on the problem at hand. Me. There’s no reason I have to stay here and listen to this, but I do, until every one of them has spoken.
Except Addison. She just looks uncomfortable. I think they pulled a bait and switch on her, too, with the whole birthday party idea. She looks like she wants to bolt as much as I do, and I feel kind of sorry for her. I wonder if we could make a run for it together.
When they’ve all finished. I smile. I love them and they love me and we all know this. I hug my brother. I nod to Addison and Margot. I kiss my mother and father on the cheek. I leave my awesome iPhone on the table and I walk out the door.
My mother’s camera is still sitting on the counter, untouched. She didn’t take one picture.
***
I walk into Josh’s garage and climb up onto the workbench, crossing my ankles. Josh wanted to put another coat of finish on my chair, so it’s out of commission right now. I thought it looked fine, but he kept pointing out why it didn’t until I gave up and let him do it.
“My mother turned my birthday party into an intervention,” I say. As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I cringe, realizing that it’s probably pretty crappy to complain about your parents to someone who doesn’t have any. It’s like bitching that your shoes are too tight to someone who’s walking across broken glass barefoot.
That’s the irony of Josh and I, and it shames me every time I think about it. He has no family. No one to love him. I’m surrounded by love and I don’t want any of it. I piss all over what he would thank God for, and if I needed more proof that I have no soul, then there it is.
“When was your birthday?” He looks up at me.
“Today.”
“Happy birthday.” He smiles, but it’s sad.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t tell me,” he says, walking over to put his drill on the charger before turning back around.
“People who go around advertising their birthday are douchebags. It’s a fact. You can look it up on Wikipedia.”
“So, intervention?” He tilts his head.
“Yep.”
“I wasn’t aware of your drug problem. Should I hide the silver?”
“I think it’s safe.”
“Heavy drinking?”
“No. But you might beg to differ.”
“True. I’ve seen the ugly side of your drinking and I hope never to go there again.” He comes around and climbs up on the workbench next to me. Close enough that his leg touches mine, and it’s grounding. “So what are we intervening?”
“Silence.” He looks at me skeptically when I answer. “They want me to talk.”
“If you spent every night in their garage they might rethink that.”
“Jackass.”
“There’s my Sunshine,” he says, kicking my foot.
“They gave me an iPhone with the condition that I call and speak to them on it once a week.” I brush the sawdust into a pile next to my leg and poke a hole in it so it looks like a volcano.
“Not what you wanted, huh?”
“I was hoping for implants.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Always helpful with the job search after college.”
We sit for a minute without talking. My legs start swinging out of instinct and he reaches over and stills them with his hand, but he doesn’t say anything and then finally—
“Was the cake at least good?” He knows where my heart lies.
“Didn’t even get to it.”
“That’s the real tragedy. Forget the intervention.”
“I’m not hungry anyway.”
“I’m not talking about the cake,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me down from the counter before I can protest. “I’m talking about the wish.”
He makes me wait while he goes back into the house, and a few minutes later we are driving away in his truck with a red plastic beach pail full of pennies on the seat between us.
It’s not even dark yet when he pulls into the parking garage of an outdoor shopping center. The bucket of pennies is so full that he has to struggle to get it out of the truck without spilling it. He picks up the handle with one hand and slides the other underneath for support so it won’t snap off and then kicks the door shut with his foot. The sun is just starting to set and the plaza lights have kicked on. It’s one of those high class places with stores no real person ever shops at and restaurants with overpriced food you’d never want to eat anyway. But the fountain is amazing. Right in the middle of all of the pretense, it’s an even more pretentious spectacle. Every few minutes, the spray pattern shifts and the lights change color from below. There’s a walkway that forms a bridge across it and the fountain spray arcs overhead, splitting in two on either side so you can pass underneath it without getting wet. It feels like magic and I’m a little girl. I wish I had my mother’s camera.
I follow Josh halfway through the walkway where he stops and curses under his breath at the pennies when he sets them down at his feet. The fountain obscures us and I don’t think anyone from school would be out here anyway, but I still worry about being seen, or more problematically, heard in public. It’s one of the reasons I never go anywhere, but it’s not the only one.
“Have at it,” he says.
“What?”
“Wishes. You only get one with a cake and even that you only get if you blow out all the candles, which is kind of shitty because it’s your birthday and there shouldn’t be a contingency on a wish. Pennies are a sure thing and you can have as many as you want.”
I stare down at the pail. “I don’t think I can think of that many things to wish for.” There’s only one thing I really want.