The One & Only(20)
“Gifts from my shop. Unwrapped. That hardly counts.”
“Of course it counts. I love that wrap dress—and the chandelier earrings are gorgeous.” Buying clothes for a friend was usually a risky proposition, but Lucy nailed it every time. “Can’t I at least take you to lunch?” I asked.
Lucy shook her head and said she just wanted to forget her birthday altogether this year; that it didn’t even feel like a birthday without her mother, the person who had given birth to her. At that point, I acquiesced, but, later that afternoon, I had second thoughts and called Neil, both of us worrying about the same thing. Even though Lucy thought she was telling us the truth and giving us the right instructions, what if she felt differently on the actual day when nothing special was planned?
“Do you think we should call Coach and ask him?” Neil said.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think we should just inform him of the plan, or lack thereof … I don’t want to bother him …”
“Because of the spring game?” Neil said with the slightest trace of disgust. “It’s not even the real season, Shea. And this is his only daughter’s birthday.”
He had read my mind, of course. The game was precisely the reason I thought we shouldn’t bother Coach, but I could tell how trivial Neil thought the whole thing was, at least in the context of Lucy’s first birthday without her mother, and I felt slightly ashamed as I tried to cover up.
“No. It’s not the game per se,” I said. “He’s just overwhelmed right now … and sad enough without having to make these sorts of judgment calls. Besides, guys don’t really get these nuances. Other than you … Anyway, I say we have something small. A casual dinner?”
“I agree,” Neil said. “Just family, you, and your mother. I’ll barbecue some ribs … Just keep it really simple.”
“Perfect,” I said, selfishly relieved that we didn’t have to include Lucy’s gaggle of friends, and told Neil that my mom and I would handle the cake and all side dishes.
“And the party hats?” Neil said, only half kidding.
“And the party hats,” I said, smiling. “ ’Cause we all know how much Lucy loves a good party hat.”
On the evening of March 21, thirty-three years after J.R. was shot on Dallas, I drove to Lucy and Neil’s house with a custom two-tiered birthday cake, Lucy’s gift (a coffee table book on runway fashion), and a half dozen party hats. I arrived about thirty minutes late, finding Lawton’s and my mom’s cars parked in the driveway. There was no sign of Coach.
When I walked in the front door, balancing the cake on Lucy’s present, Caroline greeted me in red leggings and a clashing pink glitter top. It was a far cry from the traditional prissy way Lucy usually dressed her child, and I could tell in an instant that it hadn’t been a good day over here.
“Hey, Care Bear,” I said, as she clamored for a peek of the cake, which I granted, and a taste, which I denied.
Then, just as I feared, Caroline announced in her high, squeaky voice and oddly clear diction for a four-year-old, “Mama’s crying because Poppy forgot her birthday, and she misses Gigi. Because Gigi was better on birthdays than Poppy.”
She was referring, of course, to Coach, and my heart sank.
“What do you mean Poppy forgot her birthday? Isn’t he coming tonight?” I asked as Lucy emerged from upstairs in faded yoga pants, a spandex workout tank, and a lifeless ponytail. She wasn’t wearing any makeup or jewelry except for her watch—and not even the nice watch that Neil gave her last Christmas. A digital one. It was worse than I thought.
“He’s on his way,” Lucy said, trying to take the cake from me. I turned my shoulders so she couldn’t get a glimpse of it before it was time to blow out the candles.
“So, then! He didn’t forget!” I said brightly.
“Neil had to call and remind him.”
Speechless, I glanced down the hallway to see Lawton, Neil, and my mother in the kitchen, huddled together, looking somber.
“It’s okay,” Lucy said. “I get it. He has a lot on his mind, with spring practice and all that … shit.”
No matter how many times she had alluded to football being “just a game,” this was the first time she had overtly called it shit—and I saw a flash of anger in her eyes that alarmed me.
“Are you sure he forgot?” I said, wishing that I had called to remind him this morning. It had actually crossed my mind to do so, but I’d decided against it, thinking that it might come across as presumptuous or insulting.