"Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday, dear Erica! Happy Birthday to you!"
Mom had made the cake earlier that day, and devised a way to cover it in fondant to make it a pristine white. In a paper gift bag (the size of a gift card) on top, she had dug out the cotton candy machine she had and made a tuft to put inside of it. It was adorable- and a wonder the bag didn't catch fire when the flames danced and the candles were blown out.
"Happy birthday, honey! Make a wish!"
Mom manned the camera, sang, and enticed enthusiasm from Dad and me. It wasn't like I didn't care- I did- I just don't celebrate as joyously as some. Mom forced the joy from her, and it worked every time. Her real celebrations (bank accounts swelling, the dress she liked on sale in her size) were celebrated boastfully, with her fist bumping and "YES!"-ing all the way.
It was March 16th, Erica's twelfth birthday.
"Woo!"
The wish had been made, and Mom was eager to reveal the filling she had put between the square layers of cake. Whipped cream icing beat with strawberry compote to give it a balmy pink speckled by strawberry blemishes. Chocolate was melting in her small crock pot, and waiting to be drizzled onto the cut slices. If there was anything my mother did completely void of common sense and inhibition, it was baking sweets. Ever since I could remember, she would lovingly make diabetes-infused everything, from brownies, to ice cream, to gelato, to batches of flavor-fucked crème brulée. All of them artful and delicious, the ultimate symbol of her love for Father.
He knew how he wanted a wife to be, and he got the classical Japanese beauty with American glitches and design. Serves him right- to do what he does, you have to manipulate police officers of all languages of the world to follow the digital voice slipping out of the computer. Which is why the older I got, the more I resisted him. Lately, my hypothesis had been shaking- how manipulative can he really be?
Mom hugged Erica around the shoulders and cut the cake, passing out slices and gleefully tasting her own creation. It was nice to see Mom so excited, so happy. We really weren't enough.
"How's the season coming along?"
"Yeah, I've been meaning to ask, George."
Erica and Mom were always the ones to ask the questions. Following Mom, I felt Dad turning his head to await my response. What a gentleman.
"It's going well, we've won the past three games."
Playing sports was another prop to occupy my time. It just stopped being fun the day I had to try out for it. Pretentious guys from the city were just so much better, even if they never tried out at my school. Really, I guess the fun was lost after Dad died. Mom was a lot more hostile about taking me to games, taking me to practice, and everything technical about playing rec ball. She apologized for that the day I came home accepted onto the team, but I still turn my (disgustingly) sweaty socks right side out before putting them in the hamper. I'm not a momma's boy, but I really don't want to piss her off. She's a lot more patient at work. They all deserve it there, anyway.
Kinda how I speculate she's so... like that with Dad.
"... I don't understand the progression in team sports. Please explain."
He meant the progression to the regional and state championship levels. Most fathers know that.
"Uh, you win games. It's really not at the true competitive level yet, then it goes on."
"Oh."
We all ate cake in the comfortable silence. Before long, Mom took up the plates and rounded up the presents and began awaiting... wait for it... gleefully for Erica to rip them apart. No, not the objects, but Erica has always taken wild abandon in opening presents. To my surprise, she started on the corner, and neatly shucked the paper off in two pieces.
I haven't felt a change in myself for a few years, and here she is. She's becoming less of a little sister, and just a sister. Seeing the extra box of tampons called for a similar reaction. I just can't believe that she's not the stupid little girl. She's going to be socially adept, like mom. Secretive and quiet, but with a *pleasant* presence, like dad.
I don't like to think of it, but I think I called for their negative traits. The second one is usually the best anyway- I'm the prototype.
She got a t-shirt for one of the shows she watches, some glittery nail polish, and candy. Happy 13th birthday.
"Erica, would you like to have friends over this weekend to do something? Really, I ordered more stuff for you, but it's shipping late. What ever happened to being friends with Isabella Bigham, anyway?"
"She's just... busy."
"Well, you can have friends over if you want- just tell me."
"I'll ask around."
Clueless as ever, Dad sipped his mid-evening coffee calmly, then cut himself another slice of cake.
Ryuuk was watching us the entire time, and somehow the realization had lost it's potency. He was always watching.
That night, I found myself standing outside of Erica's door in some sweats and an old "THE LAKE" shirt from a summer camp I used to go to- it was a wonder the shirt fit. She just lightly shouted "Come in!" and I heard her sit up on the bed.
When I opened the door, she was in the middle of her pink bedspread, with her kitty cat linen pajama pants on paired with an old autism awareness shirt. Her Nintendo 3DSXL displayed an older Pokemon game, from before they were made in 3D, although I wasn't sure exactly which one it was.
"Hey, Erica."
"Hey."
I sat, uninvited, on the edge of the bed beside her, and she gave me a look.
I haven't been the best brother, or best damn kid, lately. I kinda felt lonely. Ryuuk's company extends as far as you'll harbor the delusion, but nothing beats torturing your sister.
Somehow, she hugged me back.
The rule of an uncomfortably creepy hug doesn't apply to siblings, or I'd be one sick fuck for how long I held her.
Shamelessly, it was for my own selfish benefit. She smelled good, like PINK lotion and keratin oil conditioner, and she was soft, like girls are. Like what you feel when you hug that one girl you've known forever, crushed on, and subsequently got over more times than you can count on your hand. But, she was my sister, my baby sister; everything was that much brighter.
I thought of Audrey.
Erica shifted, brushing her hair against my chest and bathing "THE LAKE" in black.
"Have you packed for the trip yet? We leave this weekend..."
Shit.
She looked up at me, waiting.
"No... Have you?"
"Yes, but Mom forgot, too. I reminded her."
"Good job, I guess."
She really wasn't as excited as a twelve year old girl who was about to go out of the country for the first time should have been. Our whole household was approaching this venture as a rehearsal for "Past the Point of No Return" from Phantom of the Opera. Thank you, Mother, for the evenings spent watching these when all three of us were having the nightmares and unwelcome anxieties from Dad's stroke instead of sleeping. The course of action was always late nights with Andrew Lloyd Webber.
"George,"
She never finished her thought.
"What?"
"Why did you just... hug me like that?"
Like our parents, motive was important to her when making decisions. She was logical; sometimes, I couldn't be. I didn't want to be. It was still one of the hardest things I've ever had to say on my own breath.
"I'm... I'm kinda scared, y'know?"
"No, I don't. Of what?"
But, after it, everything else burst at the seams.
"Dad, Ryuuk... The Deathnote..."
Laying back across her bed, I saw the glowing stars Mom stuck up there the last time she painted her room. I put my hands back to cradle my head that was nearly hanging off the side, and let myself breathe. The room smelled faintly of cheap glitter spray and Victoria's Secret.
"Have you read the rules yet?"
"What?"
"The Deathnote's rules. I asked Dad about it, and he let me read them. They're on the inside of the covers."
"The thing has rules?!"
"Yeah. It's not a genie lamp, it's just a tool to play a game."
"Y'know what, you're pretty philosophical."
"George, our mom is a psychiatrist and our dad can somehow equate shoe soles to murder suspects. I hope I've picked up something from them."
"Yeah, I know."
There was almost nothing more needing to be said.
"I'm sorry, that sounded mean."
Until, of course, she spoke up against it. Her mind was already flung open, more was practically spilling out. She was a certain kind of reserved, like Dad, but I knew she thought. A better analogy is that there were two of her: one to have fun, and the other to be rational. She was always so strong; she did my job better than I ever could through those years.
Don't think I was denying her natural emotional responses or responding positively to her suppressing it. I'm not. She was just always more apt to take the hidden brightness of situations rather than the face value. She was just that person. Mom kept our momentum, let everyone else know we were fine. Mom never let anyone know what she couldn't handle, or what really was first. She never lost her martyrdom as a housewife; she wore the title with pride and went about seeing patients.
I didn't know my job, really. I still don't.
I say that about a lot of things, but I truthfully don't know my job.
After the last few days went by and everyone was packed and ready, we left Friday evening to the tune of "Adam's Song" and my mother hesitating until the second verse to change it.
"Buzzkill... I like the song, but a total buzzkill..."
And, we drove until we reached Richmond, to spend the night in a hotel and wake up in the unreasonable morning hours. Dad almost immediately stripped when we got in the room, put on his pajamas, and had nearly gone to sleep by the time Mom had showered, redressed, and stolen the hotel soaps. Erica and I resolved to shower once we were in the UK.
Even in a civillian's jeans and a simple graphic shirt, my mom demanded the attention she sought as if every step was punctuated as normal by her heels. Dad followed her over her right shoulder, Erica over the left, and I transitioning from directly behind Dad to beside Erica. We marched on, barely dignified, into the gate the next morning, and it was filled with stereotypically speaking Brits. Or, how I imagined it would be. As we sat in the gate, Dad began to offer quiet, tiny things for us to look forward to.
"I have missed Jammie Dodgers so much from living there."
"Weren't those the crumbly jelly cookies?"
"Yes... I might just hoard them in our luggage. I left space."
"I hope so, this is a giant checked bag."
-That she willingly dragged the entire way, which was why none of us could travel directly behind her.
"I missed them."
"You both lived in England?"
Erica.
"Yes, I met her there. I grew up there."
"Oh."
At the least, it was quickly settled. We boarded into coach and sat in the middle row behind a pod of genuine senior citizen whales. After Mom chatted a bit with them, she learned they were a retirement activity group on a trip. Dad was on the outside end, with Mom, Erica, and then me, beside a cat carrier with a snoozing, slightly anxious maine coon inside.
And, thus began the dragging hours of mid-air brain death in the center aisle of an airborne metal baguette.
Erica zoned out on her Nintendo for the first two hours like a champ, then took a short nap. Dad was doing the same over her drooping shoulder, it seemed; he and mum were leaned against each other, listening through respective headphones through a splitter attached to her phone. Mom's eyes were open, but staring blankly ahead into the dimmed cabin lights. Over the heads of the retirement group, and past the screens, still onward past the lulling beards of scraggle into "vintage" scarves. They had come closer since he's been away, he much closer to her, and she accepted every memento of happiness he gave her.
Mom never slept when traveling, which was why we got that hotel room in the first place.
The in flight was the kind of trash Nicolas Cage should have starred in, but they hired some D-List actor in his place. Something with a deep, resonating theme about family, growth, and learning about life. Lifetime Nic Cage movie.
We landed and disembarked in England a little after noon due to the time difference, and once we had boarded up in our hotel suite, Mom began to tell us what we would be doing.