Twelve Fifteen

I leave the kitchen at 12:00 with the cake. The lit candles dance off the walls to the tune which I am not carrying. My steps are measured. I don’t want to catch a heel on the rug. I keep an eye out for Jazz and Juniper who have been known to dart between my legs at the worst possible moments. I should have locked them in the bathroom but then they wouldn’t be there for the cake. They should be there for cake.

I know how slowly I have to sing. I know how slowly I have to walk. I timed it. I timed all of it… the cake baking, cooling, and icing which is why I was up at 8 grinding coffee beans before soak them in boiling water at the bottom of the french press. The recipe calls for one cup of instant coffee. I want it to be fresh. I want everything fresh. Perfect. I move on to start the buttermilk then sift cocoa, flour and sugar. A light cloud of dust rises from the bowl. I cough then slow down my movements. I have time.

I want the candle to be blown out at 12:05.

My phone lays silently on the kitchen counter waiting and not waiting for the messages I simultaneously expect and fear.

“What are you doing for Neel’s Birthday?” is the question I anticipate most. I will answer or not answer depending on who asks.

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Neel was born at 12:15 the last Saturday in July during a heat wave. His mother, Loretta was 19-years-old. During her last month of pregnancy Loretta stayed indoors except for her weekly visit to the health clinic.

After one such visit as she puffed her way up a hill, parted lips trying to fill her oxygen starved lungs with the thick heavy air, her heavy thighs slid past each other under her shapeless dress. Hours will pass before she understands her amniotic fluid has leaked and she is in labour.

She looks at her 20-year-old husband when he comes at her call. Together three years, they had married a year earlier in a backyard ceremony hosted by Loretta’s parents. Both families and most of their friends were in attendance. Some of them had even come to wish the couple well.

“Congratulations! Let me get a good look at you! Turn around and let me see your dress.” Loretta was proud of the way she looked in the yellow dress. It was Kaleb’s favourite colour. The skirt fell straight down to the ground from her small hips. It stopped short of having a train. She loved it and was happy to twirl and spin to show off, until she realized not everyone was looking at the dress. Some were looking at her stomach, searching for a tell tale thickness. There wasn’t any. Still, the loose tongues and raised eyebrows would persist.

Everyone gathered around the modest cake. It was chocolate. A family recipe dusted off and whipped up for every birthday and special occasion.

Labour is fast and hard shocking the young parents with its violence. They are both pale and shaken by the path of destruction the baby left in its wake as it ripped its way through flesh spilling blood. Together they decide that one is enough.

They discuss names until Kaleb says “Neel… because of all the time we have spent in prayer and for all the reasons he is going to give us to spend more time on our knees.” Their eyes meet over their son’s head and they knew it is right.

When they handed the filled paperwork to the nurse she silently studied the block letters. Satisfied that they had written in all the small spaces, she cleared her throat and holding one paper aloft pointed at the space in which the baby’s name had been written.

“I think you mean Neil dear.” She looked at them kindly, her own black pen raised expectantly ready to fix their mistake.

From the chair in the corner where he held his swaddled son Kaleb spoke, “We wrote it the way we want it.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t raise his eyes. He didn’t explain. The nurse isn’t sure if she should believe him so stood a few extra minutes eyeing the paper until Neel whimpered.

Neel’s childhood was unremarkable. He went to school. He went to church. He played little league and soccer. He was loved.

-----

Back in the kitchen the alarm rings and my phone vibrates against the white countertop with the veins of grey. It is 12:05. Because he can’t, I bend down, close my eyes and blow out the candles. I find myself wanting to both freeze and stretch time. To rewind to last year and fast forward through the next few moments. My mind wars with itself until the acrid smoke stings my nostrils forcing me to stand.

I clear my throat. Once, twice.

“Who wants cake?”

I dash back to the kitchen and grab my phone pushing the stop button with my right thumb while my left hand fishes in the cabinet for plates. I am halfway to the dining table when I have to swing back for a knife. From nowhere Juniper is there. He meows, a warning or a thank you for not getting stepped on, I don’t know but he darts back toward the table.

I lose the struggle to keep my balance. The plate flies across the kitchen. It shatters. The plate can neither be replaced nor fixed so I leave it.

“So sorry to keep you waiting!”

I have returned with neither knife nor plate. I take a picture with my phone. I am unaware that I am crying until I see tears splash and roll off the surface of the finished cake. Hastily I wipe my face.

My newly painted red nails are a beautiful contrast to the smooth dark surface. In place of the knife I use the side of my index finger turning it this way then that. I call the cats, place the slice of cake before them. They turn their noses up and skitter off.

I finger cut a slice for myself then eat. It is perfect. Moist. Sweet from the years Neel and I spent together. Salty like the tears I shed.

I lay my head on the table and close my eyes oblivious to the crumbs which cling to my lips and fingers.

At 12:15 my phone lights up.