BIRTHDAY PARTY by Marj Charlier
“Happy birthday, Mom.” Sofia handed her mother the sauvignon blanc she picked up on the way down to her parents’ house in Indian Wells. “I know it’s not Veuve Clicquot, but I’m on a budget for the next few months.”
“I know, dear.” Her mom gave Sofia a kiss on each cheek and set the bottle in the refrigerator. “Thanks. We’ll open it for dinner.”
“Why wait? How about now?”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Her mom laughed and reached for the corkscrew she kept on the kitchen counter—never far from sight. One thing Cecilia taught Sofia was “a wine a day keeps the whine away.”
“When’s Dad coming home?” Sofia hoisted herself up onto one of the breakfast bar stools and watched her mother hold the bottle by the neck with one hand, quickly twist the corkscrew, and pop the cork out with the other. Her mother could uncork a bottle of wine better than anyone Sofia knew. It was as if she’d been doing it every day of her life—which was closer to the truth than not.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Cecilia pulled a wine glass off the rack above the bar and inspected it against the light with one eye before filling it nearly to the top. “He had a meeting with the De Beers rep. You know how grouchy that makes him, so I’m guessing we’ll be happier if he comes later, not earlier. Drink up!”
“I’ll wait for you.” As Cecilia poured herself a glass and they clinked them together, Sofia looked around the kitchen. Not much had changed, except for a shiny new Breville countertop oven. “Was that your birthday present from Dad?”
“Ha! You know better than that.” Her mother snorted, a little wine escaping her lips. “No. It’s a birthday present to myself. George won’t even notice it. He’ll see it six months from now, and when I tell him how long I’ve had it, he won’t believe me.”
“Right. Sounds like him.” Sofia sipped her wine and watched her mother take a casserole out of the oven and set it on the stove. Steam rose off the top, and her mother deftly tucked a long piece of aluminum foil over it. “Has he started to forgive me yet?”
Cecilia flashed a sour face at her daughter. She didn’t need to say anything more. “Let’s go out to the patio and enjoy this decent weather. It’s finally cooling off a bit in the evenings.”
The sun was just about to slip behind the San Jacinto mountains to the West, reminding Sofia how much later the mountain’s shadow hit the down-valley Coachella towns. In Palm Springs, the sun set a couple of minutes later, but the mountains hugged the edge of town so closely that their shadow crept over the town a half-hour earlier. In the summer, that was a good thing. In the winter, not so much.
Mother and daughter settled into the same lounge chairs they’d sat in since Sofia was five years old, and simultaneous waves of nostalgia and nausea flowed over her. Growing up here in Indian Wells had been comfortable, and she had never wanted for food, clothing, shelter or her mother’s love. But it had also been like living in a pressure cooker, one that might explode at any minute if her father’s ersatz stoicism cracked and his temper erupted.
“What did you do for your birthday today?” Sofia asked.
“The usual. Worked at the store.”
“Did Dad hire anyone to replace me yet?” Sofia preferred to get this news from her mother; her father’s answer would be caustic and punishing.
“Yes. There were about a hundred applications. Lots of retail workers lost their jobs last year in that pandemic. It’s amazing how many had experience with jewelry. Or at least said they did.”
“Man? Woman?”
“A young man,” Cecilia said. “Michael. Of course, he thinks he’s too good to help sweep the floors or shine the jewelry cases.”
“I suppose.” How many hours of Sofia’s life had she done those things. From the time she turned ten, chores at the store ate up afternoons after school and most Saturdays. She shivered in spite of the warm evening, remembering how much she hated her father at the time. She didn’t hate him anymore; she’d gotten over that. But she still didn’t like him.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry I’m not there for you. But I’m not sorry, too. I had to get out.”
Cecilia stared at the mountains in the distance, and Sofia watched her face settle into its usual resignation. “I’m not sorry either,” she said. “I’d have left years ago, if I’d had a choice. But we have to live with our mistakes. Turning your back on them doesn’t make them go away. It’s just another mistake.”
Sofia let those words linger, hoping her mother would say more. Cecilia—née Cecilia Bishop--rarely spoke about her life. She brushed Sofia’s questions away with a flick of her hand. This much Sofia knew: Her mother had been studying design at the Art Institute of Chicago when George Benedetti attended a reception for a student exhibition at the school, and they realized they had this hometown in common. Three months later, she was pregnant, dropped out of school, and came back to work at his store. She had expected to use her talent to design custom jewelry for her new husband, but that had never happened. She was too busy working the counter, sweeping the floor, and keeping the books. And raising Sofia.
As a young child, Sofia spent part of her time in the store with her parents and many days with her grandmother, Lorna. It had been more than twenty-six years since Lorna and Cecilia had spoken to each other—since Sofia was born. What had come between them? Sofia figured it must have something to do with her. After a couple of years with the school counselor, Sofia shed her guilt about it. But she still had no answers.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the day turn dusky and the bats swoop across the cloudless sky. Cecilia seemed disinclined to say anymore, but Sofia tried again.
“About you and Lorna,” she started. She stopped as her mother flashed her a scowl.
“Not now, Sofia. Not on my birthday. Just let it go, will you?”
A door slammed in the house, defusing the awkward moment, and a few seconds later, Sofia’s father pushed open the screen and stepped out onto the patio.
“So, into the wine already, are we?” He looked down at them with a face that radiated pity more than warmth.
“It is happy hour, George,” Cecilia responded coldly. “And it is my birthday.”
“Yes, I know. I brought something home for you. You can open it after Sofia leaves.”
Sofia knew her mother’s birthday present would feature diamonds, and that Cecilia was happy to wait to see what piece he had chosen for her out of their fine jewelry cases this time. Sofia despised diamonds, and her mother had grown weary of them. Several times she watched her mother sneak pieces back into the store cases after receiving them. Her father never noticed.
George stood with his hands in the pockets of his dark gray, three-season wool trousers and rocked back and forth on his tasseled loafers. “How’s Jake?” he asked Sofia.
“Dad,” Sofia said flatly. “You know there is no more Jake.”
“Oh, I’m sure Jake still exists. But I guess that means you haven’t come to your senses yet.”
Sofia looked up at her father, who was avoiding her eyes, focusing instead on the last of the sun’s rays shooting up from behind the mountains. In the waning light, she was surprised to see how his hair had turned entirely to silver. It reminded her how old he was now: sixty-five, a full twenty years older than her mother.
“Can we just leave it tonight, Dad? It’s Mom’s birthday. Let’s try to be civil to each other.”
“Oh, my daughter is now setting the evening’s agenda, is she?” He turned toward her now and shrugged his shoulders. “I guess now that she’s her own businesswoman”—he slathered the word with a thick patina of sarcasm—“she can do that.”
“Dad, I just don’t want to talk about Jake,” Sofia said. “You don’t know him.”
“Really? If I remember right, he’s Jake Weldman, the youngest son of Joshua Weldman, the city councilman and successful furniture store owner. Or did I get that wrong?”
“No, you didn’t get that wrong,” Sofia answered through gritted teeth. “What I meant is you have no idea how interested he was in me because you own the jewelry store.”
“You mean he wanted to get his hands on it?” Her father smirked. “Well, at least someone has sense enough to know a good business when he sees one. By the way, how’s the new trinket store of yours coming.”
“Quit it, George,” Cecilia interrupted. “Can you just stop for one night? Let’s go have dinner. I’m sure Sofia has better things to do with a Friday evening than bicker with her dad.”
George didn’t move, but Sofia followed her mother back inside and set the table for what promised to be a long, long dinner.
