Birthday Wish

She awoke to the buzzing of the cell phone beside her, her head flat on the mattress between her two Sonoma pillows. The alert was probably about a  missing kid, she thought. She lifted her head, only to feel like the ceiling was crushing her brain. She moved to her right side, settled into Pillow # 1, pulling Pillow # 2 to her chest.  Welcome to thirty-one,  she thought, exhaling. She drifted in and out of sleep for the next few moments, certain the missing kid would be found.  When her phone buzzed again, she brought it close to her face, squinting, her glasses somewhere in her bedroom, hopefully not on the floor again. She read the notification: it was not a missing kid; it was a package delivered to her front porch.  She still had her jeans on from the night before. Other than that, she was stripped.

A package, not a kidnapping. She sat up hopefully, throwing her legs over the side of bed,  immediately regretted it, her temples pounding. She held her head in her hands.

She hoped it was money.  Cash from UPS.  She wished it was money.

Last night at Haligan’s, Steve’s unwanted arm hanging across her shoulder, she had been presented with a single candle on a birthday cupcake. Without making a wish, she took Steven’s arm off her shoulder, bent over and blew the candle out. Meredith, standing beside her, to the merriment of the crowd, kissed her full on the lips. “Happy birthday, kid,” Meredith said, “I love you.”  She remembered how close Meredith’s body had been to hers. But even then, she did not wish.

Last call, the bartender had yelled.  Except that Meredith got them shots for Second Last Call. (Blondes have more fun.) And thus the pounding in Mary’s head.

Now Mary Stuart, the room slowing down, cautiously stood next to her bed. She slapped her palm to the top of her forehead, separating her fingers and rotating her hand back as she brushed her tangled red hair away from her eyes. She went to her laundry, passing a mirror, glanced at herself on the way  (“Ugggg.”), opened the hamper lid,  pulled out an extra-large yellow Tacos R Life tee shirt (glasses on top of the hamper), whisked the tee over her head, stuck her black frame glasses on her nose and walked down the hall to her front door, to the package.

A decade ago, she had an affair with a married man, Don Klossen. Every year since the inevitable breakup, he sent her something on her birthday.

The package was small. She opened it at the breakfast nook. It was a black moleskin journal with unlined pages. As she flipped through it, looking for inspirational quotes (There were none.), a note fluttered to the floor. She let it land on her kitchen floor, then leaned over to retrieve it.  She brought the note into the light from the kitchen window, pulled her glasses down and read, “You were my first. Always, Don.” 

First affair, she assumed. She had been twenty-one. He had been a bit older. He was, however briefly, her first love. The other boys at the time were, well, just that: boys. She tossed the unwritten book on the nook counter, opened her fridge and looked for bacon. She could have had Steve last night if she had wanted. Well, any time, to be honest.  If only he were attractive. Or tall. If she called him now, he would come make breakfast for her while she stayed in bed, door closed.  Her temple raged again. Too much trouble. She settled for orange juice. Straight from the jug.

After her orange juice breakfast, Mary Stuart went back to bed. A few hours later, Robin called. Robin missed the birthday party and wanted to buy Mary dinner and drinks at Toppers that night. Mary agreed and went back to sleep.

When she woke up, the sun that had crept between her curtains was gone and she knew she was late. If it was just Meredith and Steve, she would have slapped on a scrunchie and headed out the door. But this was Robin. Robin had probably had her nails and hair done at Lee’s Happy Nails off Main Street two hours ago. The least Mary could do was grab a quick shower. She texted Robin, “Babe, I’m 15 minutes behind,” then took the hottest shower of her life, promising herself two drinks with Robin—no wings—then done. She had to work tomorrow, regardless. Oh, and Robin was boring. It would be an easy escape.

The next morning, she was awakened by music, Thunder. Good Lord, she thought, who did this? Imagine Dragons? Really? “Alexa,” she yelled, “stop!” Did she do this to herself?  She must hate herself.  She couldn’t stand Thunder. Worst. Song. Ever.  She asked for the time and Alexa told her it was 7:00 a.m. One hour to get to work. Imagine Dragons aversion therapy did not work. She snapped back to sleep. An hour drifted by.

At 8:00 a.m., unprovoked, she lifted her head, only to feel like the ceiling was crushing her thorax. She settled back into her warm pillow.  Welcome to thirty-one, she thought again. She drifted in and out of sleep for the next few moments. She still had her jeans on from the night before. Other than that, she was stripped. Work, Mary. Today is a work day.

Mary Stuart, her bedroom slowing down, cautiously stood next to her bed. She slapped her palm to the top of her forehead, separating her fingers and rotating her hand back as she brushed her tangled red hair from her eyes.

She looked at her nightstand, glasses neatly folded by her Kuerig.

“Oh,” she said, “ that’s interesting.”

Her little black book had migrated from her breakfast nook to her bedside table.

She started reading what, she guessed, she had written the night before. Apparently she met a guy. She turned the page. Looks like she liked him. The entry ended in the middle of the second page with a phone number; his, she assumed.

Then she took the second hottest shower of her life.

When she came back to the room, one  towel around her torso and one around her shoulders, she wanted to re-read about the guy.

Job first.

She called work, adjusting the powder blue towel across her shoulders,  apologized for running late, flat tire, waiting for the tow guy, be there at ten. Then she turned to her entry. Maybe Robin  wasn’t a boring date after all.

She turned to blank page three, watched something flutter to the floor. Shoot. Another note from Don. But when she picked the paper  up from the floor, it was not a note. It was a crisp one hundred dollar bill. How had she missed that? Had she not flipped through the entire journal in the kitchen yesterday? Regardless, a hundred is a hundred.

She went back to Toppers that night after work, alone,  this time with black book in hand. She met Tony and dutifully wrote down his name  and cell phone number, paid cash and walked out.

The next morning, she woke up a few minutes before 7:00 a.m. and canceled her alarm. Praise the Lord, no Imagine Dragons. She took her shower, running only a few moments late this time. She reviewed her three page entry from the night before. When she got to blank page six, there were two crisp hundred dollar bills awaiting her. This, she decided, is fun.

Over the next month, Mary kept up the routine, telling no one. Some mornings when she woke up, the book was so full of hundreds, she postponed taking a shower so she could count it and stuff the money into her purse before heading to the bathroom.  She had to keep writing.

One night, sitting next to Steve at Haligan’s, she had absentmindedly, almost doodling, written his name with an artistic “dork” scrawled next to it and then, an afterthought, had written  his number underneath. The next morning was a five hundred dollar morning.

Her cash flow  noticeably improved, Mary Stuart started wearing nicer clothes, getting long overdue repairs on her car done, hair, nails, the whole nine yards. She had even—finally—taken a self defense class. She found herself eating better food and she upgraded from draft beer to vodka and water, easy ice. She found her voice, when she went out, louder, more confident.  Steven didn’t like the “new Mary” and they hung out less and less. God, she thought, he hasn’t updated his wardrobe in at least four years. And had literally no sense of  humor.

On August 10, she  collected a name and number at Sendera’s newest restaurant.  Zachary. Zach from Fort Worth. Name, address and phone number. Just how far to go.

That August 10th evening, in a creative mood, as she slowly sipped her mixed drink at her breakfast nook, Mary wrote five pages in a row, the fifth page being the last page of her journal. Satiated,  she went back to her bedroom and  fell asleep to Gotham playing out on the television across her darkened room.

Then the inevitable morning, this August 11, this exact no money August dawn, Mary Stuart found her cool reserve vanished. She was, in a word, panicked. Mary Stuart needed a new book.

There were no blank pages to turn to in Don’s little black book, no crisp one hundred dollar bills falling to the floor.

She had developed a certain lifestyle. One she was not willing to abandon. Gone were the days when she had to put up with Steve’s predations for a decent night of dinner and drinks. She was her own best company now.

The big box bookstores had closed in Sendera long ago and mail order would take too long, even overnight. Her only option was the Texian, a neighborhood bookstore near downtown. She hopped in her Jeep and tooled downtown.  At the first red light, she glanced at her hair in the mirror. Awful. She hadn’t even brushed her teeth. But for $34.95 plus taxes, within the hour, she had her new book, 100 unlined pages. She opted for a pink cover this time.

That evening, this is what the security cameras at Haligan’s, unwatched, unmonitored, and automatically erased after 36 hours, showed:

SECURITY CAMERA 1 — 10:58 P.M. — White female NOD exits small tan SUV and rapidly walks to door of establishment. No further report.

SECURITY CAMERA 2 — 10:59 P.M. — White female NOD approaches table nearest entryway and engages several patrons for less than one minute. Subject is seen writing in a small book, nods, and walks to next table, less than two feet away, where the pattern repeats. This pattern repeats itself in rapid fashion, from side to side, table to table.  Subject disappears under SC2. No further report.

SECURITY CAMERA 3 — 11:10 P.M. — White female, red shoulder-length hair, purple pants, blue blouse, approximately five feet tall, enters outdoor patio with a pink book or journal in her left hand. Subject approaches all four tables on the establishment’s patio, briefly engaging with the patrons at each table, writing in her book or journal. At the third table, subject is observed turning the page of the book or journal she is carrying, pushing her turquoise-colored glasses up on her nose, continuing to write.  Subject exits the patio area. No further report.

SECURITY CAMERA 2 — 11:16 P.M. — Subject rapidly walks back to entryway of premises. No interaction between wait staff or bartenders noted. No further report.

SECURITY CAMERA 1 — 11:18 P.M. — Subject observed walking across the street, entering a small tan SUV, possibly a Jeep. The vehicle exits the right side of the viewing area.

No further report.