The Birthday Surprise

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Birthday Surprise

Over the years, Thomas’s wife grew cold, uncaring, distant. For years, she withholds favors, content with one child. That is never his plan, his desire, but hers. She gives him one, for both of them, their parents, the future. They married at 18. At 19, Em’s birth ends her commitment to children. By 25, she dispenses with sex.

The bargain they live with isn’t the one they made. To love, honor, obey—when does she obey him? Never!

Now she’s 37, fertile; Thomas’s needs no longer matter to her. If they no longer enjoy being together, they may come to hate each other. In his mind, he’s determined to share passion, to breed. Never once does he find pleasure in cheating. Yearning for emotional connection, he longs for an act of love, or something that’s a substitute for romantic coupling.

The new desire invades him when the clock strikes midnight. A dark, forbidden yearning grew from nothing but the twelve chimes, announcing his daughter’s 18th birthday. One peal for each of the swats he gave her on her 12th, the last time he touched her ass. Such things, out of bounds from that day forward, from her anger over his doing that to her.

Who is she to tell her father what to do? The house holds its breath.

Thomas stands in the hallway, one hand on the doorknob, the other wrapped tight around a half-empty bottle of Knob Creek. Staring at the white wood, he focuses on the childish sticker in the shape of a purple heart clinging to the panel. A relic, as useless as everything else in this house. The clock in the foyer ticks out the seconds. Waiting, he counts five, ten, twenty. Testing the handle, he turns with a muted click.

The time is here for her birthday surprise.

The carpet swallows the sound of his steps. Thomas glances down the hall—dark, empty—and slides into the room, pulling the door shut behind him until the latch snicks closed. His eyes adjust. The dim blue glow of a lava lamp puddles in one corner. He moves in silence, savoring the hush, the privacy. The bottle trembles in his hand; his knuckles shine white.

Sleeping curled tight beneath her comforter. With her lips parted in a faint oval, Emily’s breath puffs out in little shudders, long hair fanned in russet arcs over the pillow. More fragile than her eighteen years, she appears younger this way, all jaw and cheekbones and bones under the surface. Even in slumber, her hands clutch the covers. The father studies her face: the feathery lashes, the slope of her nose, the pale crescent of her throat. No one ever really knows their own children.

Drifting closer, her scent—baby powder, lotion, something floral—mingles with the stale heat from the vent. Upending the bottle, he drinks a swig, lets the bourbon sear his tongue. After a breath, he drains the rest, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and sets the container down hard on her dresser. The clink ricochets off the walls, but she doesn’t stir. At this point, he traces a finger along the edge of her mirror, smearing a crescent in the dust. So easily, he could fold her up, take her with him, tuck her away.

Instead, Thomas crouches next to the bed. He watches her a long time, drinking in the up-and-down rise of her chest, the fragile pulse at her neck. Waiting in the dark, for her to sense him, eager for the moment her body recognizes before her mind does.

Emily twitches. Her lids flutter. The girl rolls onto her back, a soft moan at the edge of speech.

Placing his hand on her shoulder, Thomas says, “Emily.”

Mumbling, she stirs, eyes creaking half-open. “Um, Dad?” And her voice floats, dazed.

Stroking her hair, he says, “Shh. You’re dreaming.”

Trying to sit, the blanket tangles around her arms; her head lolls. Eyes blinking in confusion.

“What… what time is it?”

Thomas brushes her cheek.

“Late. Go back to sleep.”

She blinks again. Her confusion blossoms into alarm. She tries to pull the covers higher, fumbles, and finds his hand instead. Her fingers graze his knuckles—seize, tense, attempt to pry him off.

“Ah, Daddy, what are you doing?”