Racheal Fest
“If you’re an only child, your parents didn’t like having kids,” Felicity says. In her too-short bellbottoms, she is tall and serious, but only for a moment, suspended there on the curb. The school bus is pulling away behind her, its windows full of round faces, some somber as death, others comically, stupidly alive, laughing outsize, mouths agape. The jangle and purr of hijinks, of menace, is just audible on the other side of the glass. Now, Felicity’s posture breaks, her spine goes long and loose, and her face cracks, the scant teeth staggered like a pumpkin’s.
“Oh really?” I take her hand. Bright leaves stir over the sidewalk.
“That’s what Tana said.”
We’re just walking down the block, very normal, but Felicity is moving like something on strings, a puppet, an angel.
Tana has three brothers.
“Baby, no,” I tell her. But maybe, yes?
I always wanted kids. Two. The correct number.
You have the first one for you, Betsy told me the day after I gave birth to Felicity. My sister-in-law had called to ask when I planned to have the next one. You have the second for the first. Dutiful, selfless, Betsy had formed inside herself and pushed out into the world two babies in as many years.
“Can I have a little sister?” Felicity asks.
My heart folds in on itself like paper.
“What would you name her?” To pose this question to an adult would be cruel, but Felicity traverses imagined futures as easily as she does rooms inside a house.
“Carabiner!” She doesn’t hesitate.
It’s not that I didn’t want another one. I did. Still do, although, at forty-six, I consider the question settled. No, it’s only that I never again felt ready to have another baby, not after Felicity. Felicity, this precocious, caring, elegant child, who now plays cello and reads books aloud to me at night and asks me how my day was, entered this world ready to rule it. Her demands were simple, if unceasing. You would hold her. You would walk her about. You would nurse her, cuddle her, bounce her. And above all, you would not rest. Never would you rest.
“Carabiner,” I repeat. “Original.”
Back then, I kept telling myself I would do it. I was going to do it soon. I didn’t mind being pregnant. I didn’t hate it. And Brian was willing, expectant even.
“We can call her Bean.”
My heart, my heart, paper in a fist.
“Carabiner? Did Daddy put you up to this?” Daddy—Brian—is a rock climber, a chiropractor, a saint.
No, this is my fault.
“Daddy?” Felicity seemed really to consider the possibility. “Oh, no. Not Daddy.”
It isn’t that I have a career, not really. My job, like everyone else’s, is email. I read them. I write them. I circle back to them and write some more. Every other night and on Sundays before 10 AM, sure, I go out to the ceramics shed and throw some tall forms on the wheel.
“Mama?” Felicity says. She can never just ask a question outright.
I look down into Felicity’s face. Her hair is cream, flax. It curls about her cheeks, which are ripe and rosy. Big eyes ashine. The nostrils are delicate, mobile. To look upon her for even an instant is to die the death of the deepest, purest pleasure. She is astonishing, perfect. It’s incomprehensible that she is mine. And yet, to love her fully is to live, too, in dread, to carry in my breast through the quotidian ecstasies of our days together the terror of sudden loss, possible, impossible, unsurvivable. Felicity can never die. Nothing bad will ever happen to her. She will live on, complete and serene, until the heat death of the universe.
“Yes, baby.”
Felicity runs up the steps. There should be four legs running, six, ten, an army of them, a pack, all variations on the same exquisite face, arms entwined, voices blending, each helping the next, urging each other up and on and away and into a future they own, they are.
But it’s only Felicity, all alone at the door. She stops outside and rings the doorbell, like she always does.
I open the door for her, and we go inside the house.
“What are you making for dinner?”
I suppose Tana is right, in a way. It’s not that your parents didn’t like having you, personally, you poor, lonely only child. No. They love you, doubtless, bigger than the moon.
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure. We’ve got Carl’s birthday party tonight.”
But having kids? Like, as an experience? No, maybe your parents didn’t like that.
“Oh yes!” Felicity squeals. “Carl!”
Felicity loves a party. Me? Give me some cold, wet clay to warm between my palms. I’m awful. But no. Brian’s at the office late, trying to resolve every last musculoskeletal crisis in Oneonta before the weekend.
“Carl—” She’s kind of singing now. “Carl, Carl, Carl.”
“So this Carl guy,” I say. “What’s his deal? What does he like?”
Carl is in Felicity’s class at Greater Plains Elementary. We don’t know him, or why he shares a name with grandpas, or why his birthday celebration has been scheduled for Friday evening at 5:30 PM. Saturday, Sunday, those are the conventional days to rejoice, at least among the second-grade set.
“Ummm….” Felicity’s forehead contorts. Her every machination, every rumination, makes its way to the surface of her face. When do children lose this corporeal transparency? “He likes bats? And crows. He really likes crows.”
“Actual bats,” I say. “Actual crows.”
“Yeah. Or fake ones, I think. Maybe, like, a picture of a crow.”
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll stop at the bookstore downtown on the way.”
I’m feeling hopeful. Luckily for Carl, it is October.
*
Carl is holding his party at Noah’s World, a makeshift play place somebody’s grandma put together in a carpeted section of a warehouse. There is a ball-pit in an inflatable pool. There are monkey bars. Old arcade games. A very large dollhouse. A makeshift kitchenette. Several slides, some tubular, some open. Once, the swing in back fell down and hurt a girl on her birthday. And yet, we forgave. We had to. We know how lucky we are to have this space, cobbled together from the best this town in the middle of nowhere has to offer. Soon, the cold will set in, and we will have to keep our children, each one of them bursting with the energy of a million suns, inside our houses all day long.
In the foyer, Felicity throws off her boots. She spots Tana, her best friend, and they run to each other, hug violently, wrench apart, each one dancing manically, crazy, until they join hands like prizefighters and disappear into a green plastic tube.
“Put your shoes in a cubby!” I call after them, pointlessly. This is why nobody likes parents.
I look around for the snacks. At a good party, you’re going to get carrot sticks, broccoli, ranch dip, maybe even hummus, some mottled cheese cubes. Worst case scenario? Individually wrapped packets only kids like: Fruit-By-The-Foot (I refuse to measure fruit using this metric), Scooby-Doo-shaped honey grahams (bland), nacho-flavored Doritos (come on, at least throw in a couple bags of Cool Ranch?).
This party has none of the above. It’s dinnertime, and yet, there is no food on the long table in the dining area. I’m…chastened? Horrified? Intrigued?
Who is Carl? And where are his guardians? I look around in a bid to determine who’s in charge here. Not that I’m going to give anyone a stern talking-to. I just want to judge quietly.
The parents are standing around on the outskirts, some chatting, others peering desperately into their phones. No place is worse for talking, even to your parent-friends, than a kid’s birthday party. Against the standard backdrop of shrieks and mandatory amusement, you just can’t get into the weeds with any of the interesting stuff—small-town politics (too involved), divorce (inappropriate), movies (no one has ever seen any of the same ones). Someone might overhear you, or you’ll get interrupted exactly at the good bit, or you’ll learn your acquaintance stands on the wrong side of the proposed state services facility the city wants to build downtown.
Nobody looks more responsible for what’s happening here than does anybody else, and honestly, I’m too hungry to face any of them. This is my own fault. I should have eaten something before we left the house. We’ve all been here before, at a meal-time party without enough food for the adults. This is our lot. I know better. And yet, this is the first party I’ve been to without any food at all, for anyone. It’s a mystery. There aren’t any decorations, either. I’m starting to wonder if Carl and his family are here at all.
I duck into the dark little room behind the air hockey table and fish around in my purse for a granola bar. I’ve got some Altoids, a cough drop, a packet of tissues. I open the tin of mints and scrape a couple out.
I’m leaning back against the wall, letting the sharp, chalky discs dissolve on my tongue, when I hear it.
Someone in here is breathing. Sniffling.
“Hello?” I call.
The room is moody, atmospheric, lit with string lights, a towering lava lamp, a projector casting weird shapes in the corner. Bean bags scatter the floor. Glowsticks hang from the ceiling like stalactites.
Sniffle. Huff. Sniffle. And then, a miniature hiccup, so sad, so innocent.
I follow the sound to an egg-shaped chair.
“Hello?” This time, I whisper it.
“Hi,” says the tiniest voice I’ve ever heard.
I bend down and peer into the egg. A boy is curled inside, his socks pulled halfway off his long feet. He’s wearing a sparkly t-shirt with a dinosaur on it. His eyes are puffed and dark, like he’s been crying for hours. When I look at him too intently, he covers his head with his hands.
“Hey, buddy,” I say softly.
“Hi,” he says again.
“You okay?”
“Tobbyenbess told me I have to stay here.”
“Tobby?”
“Tobby and Bess!” He’s frustrated, trying to communicate with someone so stupid. “Tobby and Bess told me I have to stay here or else it won’t happen.”
“What won’t happen, bud?”
The boy’s eyes are wide now, frightened. He turns his mouth into the cushion.
“Mmm rthhhh,” he says, voice dropping an octave.
“What?”
“My birth,” he shouts. His mouth is still in the pillow, but the words are clear.
“You mean your birthday? Honey, is this your party?”
“No,” he says. “I mean, yes. It’s my party. But Tobby and Bess says I have to stay here. If I don’t, I could mess everything up. And then I won’t be born.”
The hiccups come back, stronger this time.
“Carl,” I try out his name.
The boy is crying again.
“Carl—” I try to stay patient, soothing. “Honey, you’ve already been born! How else would you be here now, celebrating your birthday?”
Being born is one of life’s most definitive events. It is not ambiguous. I gave birth to Felicity. I should know. The membranes tear open. You become bigger than you ever thought you could. You get very close to death. And then, there are two. You and baby.
“You don’t understand,” Carl says. “I have to wait here. For Tobby—”
“And Bess,” I say. “Yes, I understand.”
These have to be Carl’s siblings, his older brother and sister, maybe, who enjoy terrorizing him because he is young.
“Carl, what do you think about me helping you with Tobby and Bess. I can try and find them for you. We can get this sorted out. Are they here?”
“Where?”
“Here,” I say again. Now I’m confused. “At Noah’s World.”
“I don’t know.” Carl wipes the snot from his nose with his bare wrist.
If Tobby and Bess are not siblings, who are they? Phantoms? Mice?
“What about your mommy? Is she here? Or your daddy?”
“Mama? Oh, no. Tobby and Bess says I can’t tell Mama a thing about this.”
“Okay,” I say. I’m a little worried now. “Okay. Carl, we’ve got to get this sorted out. You’ve got to get born today, you know that. You stay here, buddy. I’ll be right back.”
I’m not sure what I intend to do. Maybe Felicity can help. Only children are rumored to be spoiled, self-centered, but Felicity is a generous friend and an eager helpmate. Perhaps she will know more about Carl, about his potentially toxic dynamic with his big brother and big sister, or with his own personal ghosts. She’s never mentioned a troubled friend, though.
Flustered, concerned, I rush back out into the main play area.
I don’t get very far.
The folding table along the wall, I notice at once, has been converted into a long and elaborate grazing table, crowded with sliced cheeses, smoked meats gathered into the shapes of flowers, cubed fruits, veggies speared and stacked, artisan spreads. A lithe, gorgeous woman in knee-high boots and a leather mini skirt is pouring sparkling apple cider into plastic champagne flutes and garnishing them with orange wheels. She looks exactly like Carl.
“Excuse me,” I say, approaching. She’s so beautiful, I’m almost nervous. I should have at least worn baggy jeans and a nice leather sneaker. I didn’t even bother to put on my good leggings for this. “Are you Carl’s mother?”
Of course she is.
“Hello, yes!” she exclaims, and holds out a hand. “I’m Loretta.” I accept her fingers with the wrong part of my palm and shake a little. “The birthday boy’s got to be around here someplace.”
“Actually, that’s the problem,” I say.
Loretta’s cheeks go white, as if I’ve struck her.
“No, no! I mean, no. Sorry. Carl’s all right. He’s just, well, he’s hiding in the other room.”
Loretta’s features soften. “Oh my goodness. Yes. My shy boy. I knew this was going to be tough for him. But he wanted to do it. Mama, he said to me, children are supposed to have birthday parties. Isn’t that the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard?”
“Is it his first time celebrating his birthday?”
“I’m afraid so. His one and only party! I mean, it’s his first time celebrating outside of the house. I think I might have been even more nervous than he was. He’s just, well, Carl can be a bit dramatic, let’s put it that way. And then, of course, the catering was late.” Loretta glances with a mix of resentment and relief at the table. Never before have I seen anything remotely approaching catering at Noah’s World. The two concepts are incongruous, opposed.
“Tobias! Bethany!” Loretta calls out. “Come and find your brother for me!”
“Tobby and Bess,” I say to myself.
“What’s that?” Loretta looks concerned.
“Nothing. Nothing,” I say.
Two tiny children climb out of the ball-pit in the corner and come running toward us. They look confoundingly alike. It’s hard to tell which is the boy and which is the girl. Not that it matters. I’m just curious about who answers to Tobby and who to Bess. In any case, they can’t be older than four.
“Where’s Carl?” Loretta asks them.
Tobby looks at Bess; Bess, at Tobby. Doubtless, these two are twins. They’re both clad in white knit with green trim, as if they’ve just stepped off the tennis court, or out of a catalogue for a private boarding preschool in the Berkshires. I feel a dark thrill. They don’t know it, but I’m privy to their illicit power already, these diminutive, androgenous nymphs, who, if Carl is to be believed, wield over a fully formed human being the power of birth and unbirth, emergence and miscarriage.
Tobby and Bess shrug. They are untroubled, their eyes empty, their skin smoother than milk. Neither one of them says a word.
“Well?” Loretta prompts. I can hear running below the word an undertow of annoyance so deep, it’s been carving its path inside her for years.
Without warning, Tobby and Bess flee. They hold hands. I watch them run to the little room over to the side, where I know Carl is huddling deep inside his egg-shaped chair, waiting to be born. They know it, too.
I guess every one of us is alone, ultimately. Or at least, Carl isn’t any less alone than Felicity is? Tobby is, probably—less alone. And so is Bess? The two of them, you can tell, will always have each other.
Felicity runs over to the grazing table and grabs a whole plum, which she manages to fit almost entirely inside her mouth. Tana, who follows close behind her, just stands there, looking and looking.
“Wow,” she whispers, her voice sweet with longing.
Everyone is the only one, I say to myself. No one is the same as anyone else. This platitude—from commercials, from greeting cards, from the Constitution of these United States—hits me for the first time like a truth.
“Have some crackers, girls,” Loretta is saying. She loads a handful of buttery disks onto a plate shaped like a trio of bats. “And do me a favor. Bring these in for Carl. I think he might be lonely.”
In some ways, though, we are, aren’t we? All the same.