Jack’s birthday arrived in August.
I had been counting toward it for weeks without admitting that I was counting.
Every shop window full of birthday cards seemed to know something about me.
I avoided the bakery aisle because he used to request a chocolate cake with too much icing.
Daniel asked what I wanted to do.
“I don't know.”
“Do you want people here?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you want to be alone?”
“Maybe that too.”
We agreed not to force a plan too early.
The night before, I opened the box of birthday decorations.
Inside were paper banners, a string of crooked stars Jack had made in primary school, and a packet of candles.
I took out the stars.
One was covered with glue that had turned brown over time.
I hung them across the kitchen window.
Daniel came downstairs and saw them.
He touched one gently.
“Remember when he insisted these were professionally made?”
“He tried to charge us admission to the dining room.”
Daniel smiled.
On the morning of Jack’s birthday, I woke before the alarm.
For a few seconds I forgot why the date mattered.
Then I remembered.
I lay still and listened to Daniel breathing.
He reached for my hand without opening his eyes.
We stayed that way for a while.
Later I made pancakes.
Not the neat, round ones I usually made.
I poured batter into ridiculous shapes.
One looked like a dog.
Another looked like the state of California after a minor disaster.
Daniel took a photograph.
“Jack would approve,” he said.
I was grateful he said it lightly.
We ate at the kitchen table.
I did not set an extra plate.
After breakfast we visited the cemetery.
Someone had left a small paper airplane beside Jack’s marker.
I suspected Theo, but he was away at college orientation.
It could have been one of the classmates.
We did not need to know.
I placed a card beneath the flowers.
In it I had written about the terrible pancakes and the new edition of the booklet.
I knew Jack could not read the card.
Writing it still helped me shape what I wanted to say.
That afternoon two of his friends came by.
They brought a packet of sour sweets and asked whether we would mind if they sat in the garden.
We said yes.
For an hour they talked about school, music and their summer jobs.
Only occasionally did they mention Jack.
I liked that.
They had not come to perform grief for us.
They had come because they remembered him.
One friend described an argument Jack had started over whether an embarrassing nickname counted as a legal name.
Another remembered the day Jack insisted a teacher had mistaken his handwriting for Theo’s.
“He was offended,” she said.
“Not because it was bad. Because he said Theo's was worse.”
We laughed together.
Later the friends left for an evening shift at the cinema.
Daniel and I washed the plates.
The house felt quiet again.
Theo called just before seven.
He was standing outside his new dormitory.
I could hear people talking behind him.
“Happy birthday to Jack,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Sorry I can't be there.”
“You're exactly where you're supposed to be.”
He told us about the campus.
His roommate had brought six plants and no bedding.
One of the dining hall cooks had served pasta that reminded Theo of Jack’s favorite overcooked noodles.
Daniel asked whether the course schedule looked manageable.
Theo sounded enthusiastic.
Before he hung up, he asked whether we were okay.
“Not completely,” I told him.
He was quiet.
“But we had a good day,” I added.
“I think Jack would have liked that.”
“I do too.”
After the call I took down most of the decorations.
I left the crooked stars in the window.
They could stay a few more days.
Grief had made me afraid of firsts.
The first birthday.
The first holiday.
The first time we heard good news and could not tell him.
That day did not remove the fear.
It showed me that we could carry it and still set a table for the people who came.
The week before Jack’s birthday, I received a message from one of his classmates asking permission to share a photograph.
It showed Jack at a school picnic with an ice cream melting down his wrist.
He looked furious and delighted at once.
The classmate wanted to post it with a short memory.
I told her she could.
Then I put down the phone and cried.
I did not want the world to stop saying his name.
I also felt a sudden desire to keep every photograph private.
It was difficult to be the parent of a child whose memory belonged to many people.
I asked the classmate to send me the picture too.
She did, along with a note describing the day.
Jack had bought two ice creams because Theo was late.
Then he attempted to carry both without dropping either.
By the time Theo arrived, one was almost liquid.
Jack declared that this counted as soup.
I laughed at the ridiculous story.
Then I sent a thank-you message.
I did not offer an explanation for my tears.
She did not ask for one.
Later that day Daniel and I drove to the bakery.
I wanted to order a small cake for the birthday.
At the counter I found myself unable to say the name.
The baker asked what should be written on the icing.
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
Daniel gently took over.
“Just flowers,” he said. “No words.”
We bought a simple cake and brought it home.
That evening I was angry with myself.
I felt as if I had failed to say Jack’s name when it mattered.
Daniel sat beside me.
“We say it here all the time,” he said.
“I know.”
“You didn't fail him at a bakery.”
I leaned against him.
I had spent so much of the year judging every action as a test of love.
Was I keeping too much?
Giving away too much?
Talking about him too often?
Not often enough?
There was no answer that made those questions disappear.
But I was beginning to recognize when the questions were hurting me.
I called a friend the next morning and asked whether she wanted to go for a walk.
She said yes.
We walked through the neighborhood without discussing Jack for the first twenty minutes.
We talked about gardens and the rising cost of groceries.
Then I told her about the bakery.
She listened.
At the end of the walk she said, “You can miss him and still be tired of being sad.”
That sentence stayed with me.
On his birthday, when the students came, we shared the small cake.
There was enough for everyone.
I was glad we had bought it.
I was also glad there was no message written in icing.
I did not need a cake to tell me whom the day belonged to.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: A Holiday Without Jack and the Different Ways We Learned to Keep His Place
The Red Dress in the Funeral Chapel and the Promise Our Son Had Kept from Us
Part 11 of 16
