This Raging Light (12 page)

I want Wrenny to have a good birthday. She's ten now. Double digits.

This freakin' waffle pan is my nemesis. Just looking at it makes me tired. In and among the many things Our Patron Saint of Dry Goods left us was some pancake mix, so I crack it open, get flour all over me, and stir in milk and eggs while I let the waffle iron heat up.

The wind beats against the windowpane. There was something Dad always did in the basement so the pipes wouldn't freeze. He would clean out the oil burner too and winterize the windows. If it's this cold at the end of October, it's going to be a rough one, and I don't really know how to do any of that stuff.

This looks almost like a normal morning, though. Coffee drips, waffles get golden, I set the table, and I get my gift to Wren out of the closet, down from the shelf where I've been hiding it. That girl gets into everything, so it's in the way, way back.

“What's that?” she says as she slumps to the table with a blanket around her shoulders.

“Happy birthday!” I say way too loud and far too perky, stick the box in my pocket. “You're ten!”

“You made Mom's waffles?”

“No, I made
my
waffles.” I reach into the cupboard for the Nutella I bought, get strawberries and whipped cream from the fridge. “Did Mom ever do
this?
” I squirt whipped cream everywhere, all over Wren's plate.

Wren is decidedly unbouncy, even at the prospect of whipped cream, like she majorly came down from whatever high she was on the other night. Even though she is so sturdy, she looks infinitely breakable. Dark circles under her eyes.

“What's up, Wrenny?”

She shrugs, runs her fork through the whipped cream, gets some on the blanket, lets the fork fall back onto the table.

“I have something for you.” I pull the box from my pocket.

Her face stays dull. It's so unlike her that I get tingly. She unwraps the gift like she's moving through sludge, puts the tissue paper to the side, the extra-sparkly ribbon that I thought would make her so happy.

“Did you see the banner I made?”

“Yeah,” she says, “thanks. It's pretty.” When she takes off the top of the box, sees the tiny diamond studs sitting in black velvet, she stares at me with huge eyes. “Are these real?” she asks.

I nod. “Of course they are.” I don't tell her they were on superextra sale at the mall jewelry store. I want her to think I spent a million dollars. I would if I had it. For her.

“But we don't have any money.”

“You're ten, Wrenny. That's a big deal. Anyway, they're perfect for you.”

“But you're always saying how we need food and stuff.”

I have done the wrong thing again. She shouldn't be thinking about these things. She should be frolicking somewhere instead. She glances at the phone sitting next to the stove, back at me, back at the phone. And then I know. She's waiting too.

“Your mama's so fat, I thought about her and she broke my neck,” Wren says, before I can mention anything about anything.

“Why do you do that?” I put the strawberries back in the fridge and close the door a little too hard.

“Do what?”

“Tell those jokes.”

“Because they're funny.”

“They're not funny. Not really.”

“What do you mean? Don't you get it? She's so fat, just thinking about her breaks your neck.”

“I get it, I just think it's messed up. And it's not . . .” I search. “It's not kind.”
It's not kind to yourself,
I want to say.

And then she's crying, big, globulous, full tears, crying all into the waffles, holding on to her own greasy hair like she's trying to keep her brains in place.

“It's still early, sweetie,” I say, all the fight draining out. “She could still call. She has all day.”

“I have school,” she says into her hands. I hug her, but she makes a fort of herself. Wren has not cried through all of this, not once. How many smiles has she plastered on her face, and why are we all so busy trying to look okay when we're not? I get on my knees, force my face through her arms. She pushes me away but without much strength, and I am an inch away from her. I stick out my tongue and cross my eyes.

She giggles and I giggle back. She lets me part her arms and rest them on my shoulders. “We're going to be fine,” I say. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“Are they going to take me away?” She has never asked me until now.

“I would never let that happen.”

“What about if you can't help it? I heard.”

“Heard what?”

“You and Digby and Eden worrying about it. The night you got mad at them.”

What else has she heard? How much does she know about any of it?

“I'm ten,” she says, and I see how much she has changed, aged. The layers of happiness and carefree peel away.

“You are.” I sit on my butt, so she is above me. “You are ten.” I pull the blanket a little tighter around her legs. “So, do you want to talk about what's going on?”

Shakes her head but then looks out from under hopeful lids, long, thick black eyelashes. “I don't want you to get sad if I do,” she says. “I know you get so sad.” Her lip quakes, and I see how hard she is trying to make it stop. “I make you sad.”

“No!” I say. “No. You don't make me sad at all, ever.” I take her fingers into my own. She has the most beautiful nail beds. Perfect. Round. Pink and smooth. “Sometimes I don't think I do a good job,” I say. “I make me sad. The situation makes me sad. And I like that you
seem
happy. But, Wren,” I say, “if you're not really happy, you don't have to pretend. It's hard right now, but things won't always be this way. And I promise—promise—I'll take care of you, always.” Something surges hard. “No matter what, I will never, ever let anyone take you from me. We'll be together as long as you need me.”

“There's a lady at school who's been asking questions. She's really nice, but she asks about Dad and Mom and stuff. I don't know what to say.” She covers her face again, and I have to pull her hands away. “I haven't told her anything,” she says.

“But you want to.”

“I can't,” she says. “She wants me to talk about my feelings, about what it's like in the house.”

“Oh,” I say. I'm not sure what to do.

“I think if I don't talk to her, it will be worse, but I think she's smart and she'll know if I lie to her.”

“Well, then, don't lie. Just don't tell her everything.”

“She told me it's okay to be sad too. But I am going to try to be happy anyway.” She takes her free hand and pats the top of my head like I'm BC. “The earrings are really nice.” She hands me the box. “Will you put them in for me?”

I sing “Happy Birthday” as I push the studs into her earlobes, and I can't believe how beautiful they are on her, like little reflections of everything she has inside her. I don't ever want that light to go out.

She stands up and looks at herself in the mirror over the sink. Our eyes meet. “Your mama's so fat, she's on both sides of the family.”

She laughs like she's ten billion years old.

Shane and Rachel and Val are all over Wren right now, admiring her Halloween costume while they do their side work, cooing over her, telling her happy birthday every chance they get. Fred, who is dressed in full war regalia, double bandoleer across his chest, headband and everything, puts a candle in a flan, and everyone sings to her.

I hide my phone in my apron even though phones aren't allowed on the floor. Just in case. The girls take Wren into the office. When I check on her, they are doing her hair, making a huge deal over her earrings, asking her about boys. The restaurant is almost ready. Wren is mooney-eyed, sucking up every word they say as I roll silverware on the plastic-covered tables.

I love it when that's my job. Take the clean silver and roll it into napkins, make neat, tight little wraps and press them into each other. I can rest before the madness. And also, it's pretty how they look before they are unrolled and covered in muck. When I almost have a full tray done, Wren emerges from the office looking like a daytime hooker. A very happy daytime hooker. Apparently the girls refreshed her makeup.

“Whoo-hoo,” Fred hoots, busting up when he sees her face. “Oh, man. You girls are crazy.” He shakes his head and wanders back into the kitchen.

“Said the pot to the kettle,” Val offers to his back.

“Look!” Wren says. “Rachel did my makeup!”

“Doesn't she look awesome?” Rachel rests a hand on her hip. “I accentuated her features, her natural cheekbones, those big lips.” She holds Wren by the chin, gazes into her eyes. “Such a pretty face. Such a pretty little rainbow.”

Wren does look awesome in a way that pulls at my chest. She looks too old to be just ten, and the black Rachel put around her eyes only makes all her hurt shine in her big sweet browns. I'm glad she's letting it show some. The red on her lips shines too, and I can see just how gorgeous she's going to be one day. I hope she will love herself so much. I hope she will know that she is beautiful without all that color on. I want to wipe it all off, but it will insult Rach, so instead I nod.

“That's right. You're stunning, Wrenny,” I say. I put my arm around her and lean down. “But you don't need all that.”

“I like it,” she says, and struts back into the office.

Shane pokes her head out, applying lip gloss. “I told Rachel not to use the red,” she says.

I shrug. “It's Halloween.”

“You on the other hand,” she says, “look like a freakin' ghost. Is that what you were going for? Because if not, maybe a little blush?”

“What do you want for dinner?” I call out after Wren, ignoring Shane.

“Steak,” she pipes back. I write up the order and slap it onto the counter by the kitchen window. I feel funny asking for the most expensive thing on the menu.

“You on some kind of protein diet?” Fred says, poking his head out and fingering the paper. “Gah-lutin free, perhaps?”

“For my sister.”

He grins, pushes his glasses back on his nose. “Well, I guess since it's her birthday. The little queen needs her beef.” I want to jump through the window and hug him. So many restaurants would never feed their staff steak. We get to order anything we want off the menu. I love Fred for that.

“Let's rock 'n' roll!” He shoots at me. “You look hot as hell.”

Everyone tumbles out of the office tying aprons over their costumes. The people have gone all out with feathers and masks and face paint. I have settled on a black cocktail dress and a little of Wren's glitter. I do feel extra sparkly.

Wren is looking at pictures on the wall. All of us hugging, laughing, being silly. People are always taking pictures around here.

“You be okay?” I say.

She nods.

“I'll bring you your food when it's up.” She nods again. “I'm sorry you have to be in here on your birthday.”

“Why?” she says. “This place is rad.”

No trick-or-treating. No friends for a birthday party. She gets to sit in an office her birthday night.

I pull on my dress a little, then head over to yank the dangly cord on the Open sign and have a minor nervous breakdown. There is already a line down to the corner. Val is at the door tonight.

“This is crazy,” I say.

“They come from far and wide.” She smiles. “I almost forgot you've never worked a Halloween.” Val, who is dressed like a devil Betty Page, picks up a stack of menus. “Let them in,” she says. “And I'll see you on the other side.”

The night is mad. It's like we're the only party in town and everyone got the memo. I get a few minutes to check on Wren every once in a while. Once when I go in the office, she's eating, pulling bits of gristle off her meat and dropping them on the side of her plate, looking like some kind of really festive Viking attacking a feasting table. Another time I go in, she's drinking a soda. I don't know how she got it. When the night hits its peak, I find her dancing to the music on the floor. Finally I go in and find her slumped in the chair, her head on the table, looking uncomfortable and contorted. Some birthday. I have to get a side of guac for table nine and a check for table twelve. Usually this should not be interrupted, but I hate how she looks. “Tired, Wrenny?”

She lifts her head. At some point in the night she reapplied the makeup, and badly. Now she looks like she should be in
Rocky Horror,
as a rainbow transvestite. “So tired,” she says. “Can we go home?”

“Put her in the car,” Shane says. “When your section clears, you can go. I'll take care of the rest. We're dying down anyway.”

I check the front. It's true. It's almost ten and we're about to close. It's still mayhem, but at least tables won't be turning over anymore. Everyone will be going to their next party, the real party. Everyone except me.

“Throw the heat on in the car and let her fall asleep in the back,” Shane says. “She looks like she's trying to pass out in an airplane seat. Poor little baby. I'll get your side work.”

“Really?” I say. The side work at the end of the night is so long. There's mopping involved, and lots of bleach.

“Yeah,” she says, “get your ass out of here. I'll bring your tips to school Monday.” She pauses, rubs her fingers together. “Well, most of them, anyway. Gotta take a little cream off the top for mama.”

She would never actually do that.

I lead Wren outside and lean her across the seat, put both our jackets on top of her, and turn on the car. It is so nice to be outside in the cold and the quiet after hours and hours of running.

“Lock the doors and stay down,” I say. “Just go to sleep. I'll be done in fifteen.”