Tora
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Mom, Grammy, Tora, Auntie.” The names and titles garble in layers atop one another over the computer airwaves. “Happy birthday to you!”
The people that fill my screen—each in their own little box—smile, cheer, and clap. I blow them kisses and say, “Thanks one and all. I love you!”
“Love you too!” or some such version bounces back to me, and my heart accepts their intentions.
“Before everyone leaves, Hazel has a special salutation for her Grammy,” our son-in-law Isaac says, waving his arms wildly to get everyone’s attention.
“Simmer down, everybody,” my husband Peter says. “We are about to hear from our brilliant, shining granddaughter!”
I am almost embarrassed at how much we love this child. She is currently our only grandchild, and maybe that’s what makes our affections so intense. But, from what I’ve heard from all my friends who have about a dozen grandkids each, this is quite a common phenomenon.
In her sparkly princess dress she has chosen for this occasion, Hazel stands and folds her hands primly in front of her. The fake jewels on her tiara shimmer over her auburn tresses as she sets her chin just so.
“I would like to wish my Grammy happy birthday in four different languages,” she announces.
I see smiles of appreciation pass over the faces that surround her on the screen.
“Spanish—Feliz cumpleaños, Abuela. French—Joyeux anniversaire, Grand-mère. Italian—Buon compleanno, Nonna. And Norwegian—Gratu…gratul…”
Her face scrunches in a concentrated scowl.
“Gratu…” she tries again.
Isaac swoops in and whispers in her ear. He is a developer of linguistic software for children, and I can see his fingerprints all over this gift.
Hazel nods, and then pushes her father away.
“Gratulerer med dagen, Mormor!” she shouts, lifting her arms overhead, and then plunging them down to her toes in a dramatic bow.
The crowd erupts in applause. I can see the pride on Isaac’s face. But no one is more pleased or proud than me.
“Bravo! Bravo!” I say, wishing beyond wishes that I could seal this gift with real hugs and kisses. “Mange tusen takk.”
“What does that mean, Grammy?” Hazel says.
“It means ‘many thousand thanks’ in Norwegian,” I say. It’s one of the few phrases I know from my grandparents’ native tongue.
“Oh, it sounds funny,” she says.
“Yes, well, unlike you and your father, I am not a linguist.”
“What’s that?” she asks.
Her mother, our daughter Mariah, pulls her back to herself. “Daddy will explain,” she says, knowing as I know that the questions with this child can be endless. Interesting and entertaining, but endless.
“I appreciate you all taking the time to celebrate with me,” I say once Hazel has been mollified.
“It’s not every day you turn sixty-five, Mom,” says Brian, our youngest lounging on his sun-filled patio, nineteen-hundred miles away.
“Yes, I know,” I reply with a wince. “I am trying to accept it as the blessing it is. But attaching myself and that age together still seems a bit surreal.”
“You look great,” my cousin Katie chimes in. “I can only hope to be as lively and healthy as you when I reach your age.”
I place my hands on my heart and nod.
“You are not too far behind me,” I say.
“Totally aware,” she replies with a laugh. “Sorry my sister couldn’t be part of this, but my mom said to send her love. She needs help to get on her computer even though we’ve written down step-by-step instructions for her. But you know, at a hundred and one, that she can even use a computer is quite remarkable. I’ve got to hop off and go pick up my dog from the groomers. Lovely to see you all. And happy birthday.” She waves and her square disappears.
Several other friends and family do the same until there are only three squares left filled with my immediate family.
“You are healthy, aren’t you, Mother?” Mariah asks.
“Yes, I am feeling much better. What about you? You look a little peaked.”
“Oh, I’m just tired. That’s all,” she replies, brushing off my concern.
“Did you get tested?” Isaac asks me.
“She did,” my husband Peter replies.
“And?” Mariah says.
“And it was not COVID,” I reply. “Just some other type of influenza.”
“Well, that’s good, at least,” Isaac says.
I see Hazel whispering into her mother’s ear. Suddenly Mariah is laughing and shaking her head.
“No, honey, she’s not,” Mariah says.
“Is so,” Hazel insists. “She just said.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Hazel leans forward until her face fills the entire section of her family’s place on the screen. Her eyes, which are the color of her name, stare right into the camera.
“You are, too, an influencer, aren’t you, Grammy? That’s what you said, right?”
Peter and I look at one another and chuckle.
“How does she know what an influencer is?” Brian pipes up.
“Cuz, I know stuff,” Hazel says. “And she is too.”
“I think Hazel’s right,” my husband says, grabbing hold of my hand and giving it a squeeze. “Grammy has influenced all of us, right?”
“That’s not exactly what an influencer is, Dad,” Brian scoffs.
“Well, you have your definition and I’ll have mine,” he replies in my defense.
“I’m gonna be an influenza when I grow up,” Hazel says, plopping back down on her mother’s lap.
“Not an ‘influenza’, sweetie,” Isaac corrects. “An ‘influencer’.”
“Same dif,” Hazel says.
Brian lets out a guffaw. “I don’t know about the flu, but COVID sure has influenced the heck out of the whole stinking world. Maybe she’s got a point.”
“Yeah, see?” Hazel says. “Uncle Bly gots my back, bro.”
“Gots your back, bro?” I say. “What are you letting this kid watch, Mariah?”
“Oh, Mother, she spends so much time in front of a screen these days, I honestly don’t always know,” Mariah says.
“But we are seriously monitoring as much as we can,” Isaac adds. “It’s just hard when we’re all working from home, and trying to do our job, and be her constant companion and overseer all at the same time. Things are not what they were in your day of raising kids.”
“We know,” Peter says. “Not accusing you of anything. It is a tough go for everyone these days. We know you’re doing your best, and we appreciate it. Just wish we could help out.”
A silence suddenly settles.
A sigh escapes my lips.
“Well…” Isaac starts.
Mariah puts a hand on his arm and shakes her head. “Don’t,” she says quietly.
“Way to go, Dad,” Brian adds. “Let’s ruin the whole party with a vax argument.”
Peter raises his hands into the air. “My bad,” he says. “Sorry. You’re right. Didn’t mean to stir that all up. Let’s not go there. Let’s keep this about Mom.”
Tears fill my eyes despite everyone’s best efforts to keep the peace. I am so tired of this strange time we live in. So tired of having to navigate even the seemingly simple things, like having a family birthday party. Peter puts his arm around my shoulder.
“The numbers are coming down from this latest wave of the omicron variant,” Mariah says. “Maybe things will be better soon.”
“Let’s hope so,” Peter says.
I shake off my melancholy, trying to recapture the spirit of conviviality we had just moments before.
“I love you all, and I truly am thankful for this party you organized, and the beautiful flowers that showed up at my door this morning, and the lovely set of paints I received, and the gorgeous scarf, and the hand painted card I got in the mail,” I say.
“That’s from me, Grammy,” Hazel shouts.
“I know and it is amazing. Just like you.”
Hazel claps her hands, and a black bundle of fur leaps up onto the couch beside her. She grabs the puppy and waves one of its paws with her hand.
“ShoSho says happy birthday, too. Right, ShoSho?”
The dog looks up at her adoringly and licks her face. She giggles.
“ShoSho thinks I’m amazing too, Grammy!”
My heart squeezes. Fresh tears spring up.
“Everybody knows that, Haze-amaze,” Brian says. “That’s my new name for you. Haze-Amaze. Like it?”
Hazel stops for a second, and ShoSho curls up in her arms.
“I think I can go with that,” she says with four-year-old seriousness.
We all smile.
“Okay, guys, good to see ya. Time for me to take a run before the sun goes down,” Brian says. “Happy birthday, Mom.”
“We will talk soon, Mother,” Mariah adds. “Enjoy the paints. Hope to see some new pics on your Instagram feed soon.”
“Shalom, shalom,” Peter and I say in unison, using the standard family farewell passed along from my Grandmother Arnhild. She was Norwegian and not Jewish. At least, not that I know of. So, why she adopted this Hebrew saying, I do not know. It was just what she always said when we were parting and, to my eternal regret, I never thought to ask her why or where it came from.
“Shalom, shalom,” they all reply.
We wave until only Peter and I remain staring back at ourselves from my laptop. He reaches forward and hits the ‘leave meeting’ button.
