Birthday(62)

“Never cared much about all that,” Mom said when I asked her about it. We sat on the porch, me practicing guitar in a hammock while she smiled and waved to the neighbors. “Appearances and all. I came up on a holler in Pikeville, barefoot for the most part. Your father cared about appearances, and it seemed right to make myself useful.”

She leaned back so she was directly in the sun and stretched like a cat, and I was amazed how she seemed to be growing younger. “The way I see it, the place where you are doesn’t matter as much as the person you are and the people you’re with.” She smiled at me, and even months in, it was electric to see her smile this much. “My sons are happy and healthy. We’ve got enough food. I like my sons’ girlfriends. My job’s tolerable. Our air-conditioning works sometimes. What more could a woman really ask for?”

“You really like Morgan?” I said.

“Oh, of course.” She sighed and folded her hands over her chest. “I’ve always loved Morgan. Nothing could change that.”

Mom’s made it clear the last few days that she didn’t want me to go anywhere tonight, which seemed kind of unnecessary since it’s a weeknight and, for the first time in a long time, I actually care about my schoolwork. Maybe I never realized how much slack teachers gave me while I was on the football team. Maybe it’s knowing I sink or swim on nothing but my own merit now that I’m out of high school and away from Dad’s money. Maybe seeing how hard other students have it at Miami Dade College has finally made me respect all my advantages.

Either way, between practicing guitar, homework, and talking to Morgan, my evenings are almost completely accounted for. I miss her, and it seems wrong not to be with her on our birthday, but I’ve told myself it’s only one year.

“Here you go, man,” Peyton says. I rise up from my thoughts to find him standing over me, a Florida ID card held between his fingers. He flips it toward me and I just barely catch it before it falls through the strings into the belly of my guitar. Closer investigation reveals my picture, my name, all the normal details, except the birth date is three years older than it should be. I stuff the ID in my pocket before Mom can come out of the kitchen and see it.

Peyton grins. “Happy birthday, good luck at Churchill’s, and if you get caught I don’t know you.”

“Got it,” I say. “Thanks, man.” The song I’m writing is almost done, and now I get to play it at the open mic at one of the coolest bars in Miami. Excitement runs through me.

“No problem,” Peyton says. He sniffs the air and leans toward the kitchen. “That smells amazing! How long till it’s ready?”

Mom emerges from the kitchen, wiping sweat from her temples with a smile, and I can’t help noticing as she slides her phone into her back pocket. Was she texting someone? “Soon. Peyton, could you run to the corner store for soda?” He flips his keys around his fingers and heads out. She leans against the couch, that smile only widening, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “So! Eighteen!”

“Yup,” I say.

“How do you feel?”

“I don’t know,” I say. I drop my hands in my lap and roll my head back. “I don’t smoke, it’s not an election year, and I’ve still got to go to school tomorrow, so it sort of doesn’t feel like anything.”

“You’re not sad we’re not throwing you a party?” Mom says, and you’d think she would sound regretful, but the corners of her mouth are twitching and that playful air is still there. Obviously she’s planning something, has been planning something for a little while, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what it might be.

“I’m happy just to be here,” I say. I pull her into a hug and kiss her cheek, then grab my guitar by the neck and head outside, where I flop into the hammock. There are no stars in the city, but I stare up into the blue smear where they would be and let my eyes follow the planes blinking red and blue as they soar overhead, imagining all the lives and all the connections on each one, and suddenly the last few notes fall into place.





MORGAN



The woman at the flight bridge smiles and says, “Have a nice flight, miss,” and that makes me feel good. The elderly woman who takes the aisle seat next to me smiles too. She pats my arm, calls me “dearie,” and tells me shakily that this is her first flight as well. Never thought she would fly, but she’s a great-grandma as of yesterday and no way is she not going to hold that child.

I try to focus on her but the plane is in position now, engines revving for takeoff, and my eyes keep darting to the window. I’ve always loved roller coasters, so I thought I would be fine, but suddenly my stomach is trying to crawl out through my mouth.

“Yes, ma’am, a sweet little great-granddaughter,” she says with a proud beam. I blink and forget where I am for a moment. I’ve been called “miss” and “young lady” and “young woman” and “sweetie” and words for women I don’t like thinking about, but never “ma’am” until now. One day, I realize, all these things about my gender will probably just feel normal, and that’s something to look forward to.

I slip my hand in my pocket, fingering the edge of the letter like a talisman as the plane starts to rise. I take out the envelope and open it slowly, partially because my hands are suddenly shaking and partially because this, the very last of Mom’s letters, feels like something worth savoring. But eventually the anticipation ends and there’s nothing left but to take the final step.