Cackle(88)

There’s a decent chance she’ll refuse to see me. Or worse. But . . . I think it’s worth the risk.

She’s a good friend to me, and I could be a good friend to her, though I don’t need her. I know that now. I understand. I don’t need anyone. I never did.

I spent so much time searching outside of myself.

It’s so funny to me now.



* * *



—

Sophie opens the door before I can knock. She’s wearing a black velvet robe. Her hair is in loose, delicate curls. Her arms are crossed over her chest and Ralph is on her shoulder. He waves at me, but then Sophie shoots him a look and he promptly restrains himself.

“Did I not tell you never to come back?” she asks.

“You did,” I say. “But I came back anyway.”

She lifts her chin. “Yes. I can see that.”

“I want to apologize,” I say. “I also want to tell you that you were wrong. It was wrong for you to try to stop me and to give me an ultimatum. I needed to see him. I needed to make the decision for myself.”

“And what decision is that, Annie?”

“I’ve evolved past him,” I say.

She uncrosses her arms and begins to inspect her manicure. Her nails are now restored to their typical state of perfection.

“Go on,” she says.

“Can I come in?”

She pauses to consider.

“You said you wanted to apologize,” she says. “But you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Sophie. I really am.”

“All right, then,” she says, moving out of the way so I can enter. “Would you like some tea?”





IT’S MY PARTY

There are yellow roses. Hundreds of yellow roses all around my room. Ralph is on my nightstand in a stripy conical hat. He’s got a tiny party horn in his mouth.

“Good morning, Ralph.”

He blows the party horn and wiggles his little legs.

“I know, I know,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

There’s a large box at the foot of my bed. It’s tied with yellow satin ribbon. I yawn, flop over and pull it toward me.

“Is this from you?” I ask Ralph.

He deflates, shakes his head no.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “Your presence is my present.”

He holds his cheeks.

I tug gently at the ribbon and undo the neat bow. I set the satin aside, folding it up and placing it behind me on my pillow.

I open the box. Inside is a new dress. A birthday dress. It’s a pale yellowy gold, with lacy sleeves and a corset back.

I put it on immediately. I admire myself in the full-length mirror. I run my hands over the fabric, over my body, over my skin. My face. My brilliant nose. My pretty eyes. My ample cheeks.

I get my hairbrush. It has a thin silver handle engraved with flowers.

I carefully lower myself to my knees, making sure the dress doesn’t wrinkle. I fan it out around me. Then I brush my hair.

I never used to take the time to brush my hair, but it really makes all the difference.

Ralph is still blowing his party horn.

“You don’t have to keep doing that,” I tell him. “Save some energy for the party.”

He gets in one more blow before letting the horn fall from his mouth. He then crawls into bed and takes a quick nap.

I check the time, and it’s disappointingly early. I change out of my dress and back into my pajamas. I make myself toast and a mimosa. I watch a reality TV show marathon about women trying on wedding dresses.

“They’re so excited for one day in a pretty dress,” I say. “Someone really should tell them. They can wear a pretty dress whenever they want.”

Ralph grunts. He’s annoyed that I’ve woken him with my bullshit.

“Women are out there tethering themselves to mediocre men just so they can wear a ball gown. It’s a shame.”

He grunts again.

“Okay, sorry, sorry,” I say. “I’ll shut up.”

Ever reliable, the TV has eaten away the hours. I thank it and blink to turn it off. I leave my dirty dishes in the sink.

I’m not going to do dishes on my birthday.

And besides, they can take care of themselves.

I put my dress back on. My shadow laces the corset. Ralph helps, too. He doesn’t contribute much, but he’s a good boy; he tries.

I feed him dead flies out of the palm of my hand.

“Few more minutes,” I tell him as I step into the bathroom to put on some makeup. Lately, I don’t wear much, because I’ve come to realize that I don’t need much, but it’s a special occasion. And it’s fun to wear lipstick.

As I lean in close to the mirror, dragging the tube across my bottom lip, I’m afflicted with a very specific memory of putting on lipstick before a dinner date with Sam. It was maybe four years ago. We were just going to our usual place around the corner from our apartment, but I decided to put on lipstick. When I emerged from the bathroom, he smiled and said, “Look at you.”

I haven’t thought of him much since his grand exit from my life, but occasionally I’ll experience an echo, the phantom sensation of an emotion that I know is expired. Sometimes it’ll trick me, and I’ll think that I miss him, that I still love him, that I’ll never fully amputate him from me. Usually then I count to eight, because I remember once reading about how, after people were beheaded by guillotines, their severed heads could blink and twitch for up to eight seconds.