Craving Resurrection
Page 22
“In here, darlin’ girl!” she called from the kitchen. The breath I’d been holding immediately left me in a relieved whoosh.
As soon as I got to the kitchen, I was greeted with the sight of a small cake complete with birthday candles. “Happy Birthday!” she yelled so loud I was sure the neighbors across the street heard her.
My mouth lifted in a huge smile as I looked around the kitchen. She’d hung up a homemade banner and streamers, and I could have cried at the trouble I knew she’d gone to.
“I can’t believe you did all this.” My heart felt light as I met her eyes.
“Of course I did! My girl is eighteen years today. It’s cause for celebration!” She carried the cake to the table and set it down, careful not to let the candles burn out. “I’m sorry I didn’t meet ye at the door. I wanted to have the candles burnin’ when ye stepped in! Well, blow them out then.”
I dropped my bag to the floor as I stepped closer to her, but I was in no hurry to blow out the candles. I hadn’t had birthday candles in years. I wanted to savor the moment, to take it all in for just a second so I could remember every detail later. When I finally leaned down to blow them out, she started clapping delightedly, a wide smile on her face.
“I love you,” I told her, my voice full of wonder.
“Sweet girl,” she murmured with a soft look, “I love ye, too.”
We sat down and ate the yellow cake she’d made, and as soon as I’d finished, she popped up from her chair to grab a small wrapped package from the couch.
“You didn’t have to—” I started uncomfortably.
“Ach, I wanted to. It’s the day of yer birth, the day God saw fit to put ye on this earth so seventeen years later ye could make yer way to me. It’s worth celebratin’, and it’s worth a gift.” She handed me the squishy parcel and stood, expectantly waiting for me to open it.
I couldn’t help the look of confusion or the emergence of a grin that hit my face.
“An apron. Did you make this? It’s beautiful!”
“Aye, I did. It’s time for ye to start learnin’ a little more in the kitchen. We’ll start lessons after school tomorrow. Yer an adult, ye need to be able to feed yer family more than spaghetti and stew… not that those are anythin’ to be ashamed of.”
“I love it.”
“Really? Yer sure?” she asked nervously.
“I’m sure.”
“Right. Well, then, one more gift for ye.”
“Peg, you shouldn’t have got me—”
“Oh, this one’s not from me,” she replied with a sneaky smile, handing me a thin envelope. “Ye go on into the livin’ room while I clean this up. Have a bit of privacy, eh?”
For Amy on her Birthday was written on the front of the envelope in familiar messy cursive. I barely made it to the couch before I carefully opened it, loathe to ruin even the envelope.
Amy,
How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss...
I’d like to credit those words to myself, but I’ll be honest and tell you they come from W.B. Yates. Don’t try to find the rest of the poem, it’s a bit of a depressing thing. Only these few words seem to remind me of you.
I hope you’re doing well. Mum says you’re spending a lot of time with her. That’s good. Spend as much time with her as you can, it’s good for her and it keeps you away from those parents of yours.
I hope you have a wonderful birthday, sweetheart.
I wish I could write you pages and pages, but if I begin to do that I know that I will not be able to stop. I’d never get any work done that way.
Know that I am thinking of you constantly, especially on your special day. I wish I could be with you to celebrate.
Stay safe, darling.
Patrick
I read his letter over and over again, letting it seep into my brain until I could recite it word for word. He called me sweetheart again, and darling. My heart raced as I imagined him sitting at a small desk somewhere, finding just the right poem to quote and words to write. He hadn’t crossed out one letter, as if he’d painstakingly chosen every word before he wrote it down.
“Amy, it’s almost five,” Peg warned me as she laid her hand on the top of my head. “Best put that away for now and head home.”
“I wish I didn’t have to,” I mumbled, folding the paper back up and slipping it into its envelope.
“I know ye do. Do ye have special plans tonight?”
“My parents are taking me to dinner,” I answered as I grabbed my bag and stuffed the letter inside.
“Well, I’m sure it will be lovely.” It sounded as if she was trying to convince both of us.
“Probably not. I doubt I’ll be over tonight, though. Even they wouldn’t have people over on my birthday.” I leaned down to hug her slight frame and inhaled deeply. “Thank you so much for my cake and my present.”
“Yer welcome.” She patted my back twice and then shoved me away gently. “Go on with ye then. Ye’ll tell me about dinner tomorrow.”
I left the house with a knot in my stomach that even thinking of my letter couldn’t chase away. I didn’t belong with my parents anymore. Peg knew it, and I knew it. Yet I kept having to go back to them, and each time it became harder for me to do.
By the time my parents picked me up for dinner, the letter stuffed under my mattress had become yet another thing that depressed me. I loved it, every sentiment and curved letter… but it made me miss Patrick even more. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to smell the scent of cigarette smoke and feel the callouses on his fingers brushing against my face. And I hated that I was spending my birthday dinner with two people who hadn’t given a shit about me for as long as I could remember.
As soon as I got to the kitchen, I was greeted with the sight of a small cake complete with birthday candles. “Happy Birthday!” she yelled so loud I was sure the neighbors across the street heard her.
My mouth lifted in a huge smile as I looked around the kitchen. She’d hung up a homemade banner and streamers, and I could have cried at the trouble I knew she’d gone to.
“I can’t believe you did all this.” My heart felt light as I met her eyes.
“Of course I did! My girl is eighteen years today. It’s cause for celebration!” She carried the cake to the table and set it down, careful not to let the candles burn out. “I’m sorry I didn’t meet ye at the door. I wanted to have the candles burnin’ when ye stepped in! Well, blow them out then.”
I dropped my bag to the floor as I stepped closer to her, but I was in no hurry to blow out the candles. I hadn’t had birthday candles in years. I wanted to savor the moment, to take it all in for just a second so I could remember every detail later. When I finally leaned down to blow them out, she started clapping delightedly, a wide smile on her face.
“I love you,” I told her, my voice full of wonder.
“Sweet girl,” she murmured with a soft look, “I love ye, too.”
We sat down and ate the yellow cake she’d made, and as soon as I’d finished, she popped up from her chair to grab a small wrapped package from the couch.
“You didn’t have to—” I started uncomfortably.
“Ach, I wanted to. It’s the day of yer birth, the day God saw fit to put ye on this earth so seventeen years later ye could make yer way to me. It’s worth celebratin’, and it’s worth a gift.” She handed me the squishy parcel and stood, expectantly waiting for me to open it.
I couldn’t help the look of confusion or the emergence of a grin that hit my face.
“An apron. Did you make this? It’s beautiful!”
“Aye, I did. It’s time for ye to start learnin’ a little more in the kitchen. We’ll start lessons after school tomorrow. Yer an adult, ye need to be able to feed yer family more than spaghetti and stew… not that those are anythin’ to be ashamed of.”
“I love it.”
“Really? Yer sure?” she asked nervously.
“I’m sure.”
“Right. Well, then, one more gift for ye.”
“Peg, you shouldn’t have got me—”
“Oh, this one’s not from me,” she replied with a sneaky smile, handing me a thin envelope. “Ye go on into the livin’ room while I clean this up. Have a bit of privacy, eh?”
For Amy on her Birthday was written on the front of the envelope in familiar messy cursive. I barely made it to the couch before I carefully opened it, loathe to ruin even the envelope.
Amy,
How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss...
I’d like to credit those words to myself, but I’ll be honest and tell you they come from W.B. Yates. Don’t try to find the rest of the poem, it’s a bit of a depressing thing. Only these few words seem to remind me of you.
I hope you’re doing well. Mum says you’re spending a lot of time with her. That’s good. Spend as much time with her as you can, it’s good for her and it keeps you away from those parents of yours.
I hope you have a wonderful birthday, sweetheart.
I wish I could write you pages and pages, but if I begin to do that I know that I will not be able to stop. I’d never get any work done that way.
Know that I am thinking of you constantly, especially on your special day. I wish I could be with you to celebrate.
Stay safe, darling.
Patrick
I read his letter over and over again, letting it seep into my brain until I could recite it word for word. He called me sweetheart again, and darling. My heart raced as I imagined him sitting at a small desk somewhere, finding just the right poem to quote and words to write. He hadn’t crossed out one letter, as if he’d painstakingly chosen every word before he wrote it down.
“Amy, it’s almost five,” Peg warned me as she laid her hand on the top of my head. “Best put that away for now and head home.”
“I wish I didn’t have to,” I mumbled, folding the paper back up and slipping it into its envelope.
“I know ye do. Do ye have special plans tonight?”
“My parents are taking me to dinner,” I answered as I grabbed my bag and stuffed the letter inside.
“Well, I’m sure it will be lovely.” It sounded as if she was trying to convince both of us.
“Probably not. I doubt I’ll be over tonight, though. Even they wouldn’t have people over on my birthday.” I leaned down to hug her slight frame and inhaled deeply. “Thank you so much for my cake and my present.”
“Yer welcome.” She patted my back twice and then shoved me away gently. “Go on with ye then. Ye’ll tell me about dinner tomorrow.”
I left the house with a knot in my stomach that even thinking of my letter couldn’t chase away. I didn’t belong with my parents anymore. Peg knew it, and I knew it. Yet I kept having to go back to them, and each time it became harder for me to do.
By the time my parents picked me up for dinner, the letter stuffed under my mattress had become yet another thing that depressed me. I loved it, every sentiment and curved letter… but it made me miss Patrick even more. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to smell the scent of cigarette smoke and feel the callouses on his fingers brushing against my face. And I hated that I was spending my birthday dinner with two people who hadn’t given a shit about me for as long as I could remember.
