My Fourth Birthday
by
Diane Morelli
A snowstorm that varied in intensity. An Ebinger’s Blackout Cake decorated with pink hard candy roses. Two things this girl, born in Brooklyn, NY, in the 1960s, got on her birthday. Every year.
My fourth birthday, one of my earliest memories. A recap of that day plays on my mind. Every year. On my birthday, when I awaken. Head sunk into the pillow, eyes still closed. The experience of long ago, vivid as ever, and just as unsettling as it was when I was four.
I lived with my parents and older brother in a second-story apartment above a butcher shop on Avenue J. The building was attached on two sides. Even with the Venetian blinds open and the sheer, white curtain panels pulled back, almost no sunshine came through.
That February morning, I stretched out on the living room floor. Scruffy beige carpeting scratched my wrist as I rubbed a green crayon across a forest scene in my coloring book. Humming a birthday ditty to cut the silence. Squinting to tell blue and black Crayolas apart in the pale, gray daylight.
My brother slipped into the room. He was six. For the most part, he obeyed Mom and Dad when they warned him to be nice to me. They drilled it into him to never hit me because he was a boy, I was a girl and he could really hurt me. He kicked my artwork out from under me, said, “Look out the window!”
We raced to get there. It was as bleak and shadowy outside as it was inside. The screens were coated in ice and rattled from the high winds. The snow fell fast. Huge flakes hung together, like paper doll angels dancing hand in hand.
My mother walked up behind us. We turned. She was wearing a rain hat, scarf, gloves, long coat and rubber boots. My brother and I were still in our pajamas. He said, “Don’t build a snowman without us. We can get dressed quick. Be downstairs in a minute, Ma.”
“You two aren’t going anywhere today.”
“It’s my birthday and I get to do what I want and I want to play in the snow,” I blurted out in one breath.
“You can’t go outside. We’re having a blizzard. It’s freezing and wet. The snow’s too deep to walk through.”
My brother was curious, asked Mom, “Where are YOU going without us?”
I felt swirling and wriggling deep in my stomach. The only time Mom left us at home was when my father or her sister babysat. Dad was at work in the city now and my aunt was in her own house, nearby, on East 42nd Street.
Mom talked to my brother as if I were no longer in the room. My ears swooshed like they did when I had a stuffy nose and refused to blow it. My mother’s voice was muffled, sounding like it came from far away. “I’m going to Ebinger’s. To pick up Diane’s birthday cake. Sit with her at the window. Don’t move from that spot. Don’t let her go anywhere either. Do not pick up the telephone phone if it rings. And do not answer the doorbell.” She placed two chairs by the window. Out she went.
The two of us sat side by side. Staring downwards, in the direction our mother walked to run her errand. For a change, my brother was quiet. No teasing. No hair pulling. Speechless.
Like me, he may have been too scared to talk. Or too busy thinking. What would happen if Mom left with no intention of coming back? I was afraid of that. I pretended it was nighttime. Pictured myself opening presents and playing with new toys. Daydreaming pushed all frightening thoughts out of my head.
While I indulged in happy musing, my brother misbehaved by getting out of his chair. Once standing, he pressed his hands against the pane. Starting at eye level, he slid them up the glass until they were well above his head. Before he plopped back into his seat, he placed his cold, drenched hands on my flushed cheeks.
A chill shot through me, destroying my sense of peace.
My brother finally spoke. “You know. Today isn’t your real birthday. No one knows the actual day you were born. Could have been in the winter. Could have been in the summer. It was some time after you were left on our doorstep. That’s how we got you. And that’s why I’m sure you’re not part of this family.”
“You’re stupid,” I said.
“I may be stupid. At least I’m not adopted.”
“I’m not adopted.”
“Of course you are. You know how I know you’re adopted? I was the one who found you outside curled up in a basket. I made Mommy close her magazine to take a good look at you. I begged her to bring you inside and keep you, even though you were ugly.”
“I wasn’t ugly. Mommy and Daddy said I’ve always been a beautiful girl.”
“A girl? A girl?” he laughed. “Is that what you think you are? That’s something that definitely is not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“If I’m not a girl, what am I?”
He paused. Moved closer toward me. “Mommy told me I’m not supposed to tell you. Now that you’re four, you’re old enough to know.”
“Know what?”
“The truth,” he said.
“What’s the truth?”
“The day I found you on the doorstep, you were not a beautiful girl. You were a cat. A dirty, hairy alley cat. You looked nasty and smelled bad. I asked Mommy if we could keep you. She said no. Daddy coughs and sneezes from animal hair, so we shaved and bathed you. We taught you how to walk on two feet and dressed you like a little girl. Mom and Dad said you can stay in our family as long as your fur doesn’t grow back.”
My fourth birthday. The blizzard, the chocolate cake. Standard fare. Mom leaving us at home with no supervision? That was a first. Fear overtook me. And disappeared once she emerged from her mile-long trudge, soggy Ebinger’s box in hand. Questioning whether I’m a natural born member of my family? That worry started with my brother’s taunting. And remains with me to this very day. A lost thought that finds its way back to me. Every year.
No comments:
Post a Comment