Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer(166)

We whispered wishes to the elephant at the zoo (an old birthday ritual, origin unknown), collected leaves in Rock Creek Park for pressing into the Book of Years (another ritual), ate lunch at one of the outside tables of her favorite Greek restaurant in Dupont Circle. We went to the Phillips Collection, where Sam and Max feigned interest so earnestly and poorly, Julia was moved to tell them, “I know you love me. It’s OK to be bored.”

It was getting dark when we made it home, with half a dozen bags of groceries for dinner supplies. (I insisted that we not shop for any other meals, even though there were things we needed. “Today,” I said, “will not be utilitarian.”) I gave Sam the key, and the boys ran ahead into the house. Julia and I unloaded the bags on the island and started putting away the perishables. Our eyes met, and I saw that she was crying.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You’re going to hate me if I tell you.”

“I’m sure I won’t.”

“You’ll be extremely annoyed.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s an annoyance moratorium on birthdays.”

And then, really letting the tears come, she said, “I actually wanted a big deal.”

I laughed.

“It’s not funny.”

“It is funny, Julia.”

“It’s not that I knew what I wanted and hid it from you. I wasn’t trying to be disappointed.”

“I know that.”

“I meant what I said at the time. I really did. It wasn’t until right now—not even when we entered the house, but right this second—that I realized I really wanted a big deal. I did. It’s so stupid. What am I, eight?”

“You’re forty.”

“I am, aren’t I? I’m a forty-year-old who doesn’t know herself until it’s too late. And to make matters worse, I’m dumping it on you, as if you could respond with anything other than guilt or hurt.”

“Here,” I said, handing her a box of orecchiette. “Put these away.”

“That’s as far as your sympathy can reach?”

“What happened to the annoyance moratorium?”

“That’s a one-way street, and you know it.”

“Put the pretentious pasta away.”

“No,” she said. “No. Today, I won’t.”

I laughed.

“It’s not funny,” she said, banging the counter.

“It’s so funny,” I said.

She grabbed the box, ripped off the top, and poured the pasta on the floor.

“I made a huge mess,” she said, “and I don’t even know why.”

I told her, “Put the empty box away.”

“The box?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” she asked. “To create a depressing symbol?”

“No,” I said, “because understanding oneself isn’t a prerequisite for being understood.”

She inhaled, understanding something she didn’t yet understand, and opened the pantry door. Out spilled the boys, and the grandparents, and Mark and Jennifer, and David and Hannah, and Steve and Patty, and someone turned the music on, and it was Stevie Wonder, and someone released the balloons from the hall closet, and they jangled the chandelier, and Julia looked at me.


HOW TO PLAY EXISTENTIAL SHAME

The IKEA encounter with Maggie Silliman haunted me for years. She was the embodiment of my shame. I would often wake in the middle of the night and write letters to her. Each began the same way: “You were wrong. I am not a good man.” If I could have been the embodiment of my shame, I might have been spared it. I might even have been good.


HOW TO PLAY UNBROKEN RINGS

For his first trick, the magician asked Julia to pull a card from an invisible deck.

“Look at it,” he said, “but don’t let me see it.”

With a roll of her eyes, she obeyed.

“You know your card?”

She nodded and said, “Yeah. I know my card.”

“Now please throw it across the room.”

With an overdramatized windup, she hurled the invisible card. The gesture was beautiful to watch: the fakeness of it, the generosity of its spirit, how quick it was and how long it took, the movement of her ring through the air.

“Max. Your name is Max, right? Can you go fetch the card your mother just threw?”

“But it’s invisible,” he said, looking to his mother for help.

“Get it anyway,” the magician said, and Julia nodded permission.

So Max happily waddled across the room.

“OK, got it!” he said.

“And could you please tell us what the card is.”

Max looked to his mother and said, “But I can’t see it.”

“Tell us, anyway,” the magician said.

“And I can’t remember what the different kinds of cards are.”

“Hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds. Any number two through ten. Or joker, jack, queen, king, or ace.”

“Right,” Max said, and again looked to his mother, who again let him know it was OK. He examined the invisible card, held it right up to his squinting eyes. “It’s a seven of diamonds.”

The magician didn’t have to ask Julia if that was her card, because she was crying. Nodding and crying.