That's Life

I forgot my daughter’s name again.

I know she is my daughter—the picture of her face and the writing ‘Beth, your daughter’ taped next to the television tells me so. Her warm smile echoes Frank’s, and her thick eyebrows are certainly mine. Though every time she walks toward me with a bowl, a cup of pills, or water with a straw, I wonder who let this person into my home.

She lives here, she says. To spend time with me and help me keep my house in top shape. But I have always been a busybody, a chronic cleaner, and so I don't understand just why I would need the help.

Looking around my living room, I see papers scattered along the desk next to my chair. They must be the essays due for grading.

“What day is it?” I ask the woman who brings me a glass of water with a straw.

“Sunday, Mom.”

“Oh lord, I’m late on these. Due Monday, you know.”

Picking up my red pen, I read over the first work of the sixth graders, marking each spelling error and misuse of a semicolon. The television drones on in the background, the laughs of studio audiences like rhythmic cues to the punchlines in the papers. I laugh quietly to myself—my little Beth does the funniest impressions of Steve Urkel.

“What are you giggling about?”

“My daughter Beth does an impression of this character. What’s his name?”

The woman sits down on the couch next to me and smiles. “Steve Urkel, mom. You like this show, huh?”

“It’s rather funny, isn’t it?”

The doorbell rings, and the woman rises from the couch to answer it. She welcomes a group of people holding colorful balloons and bowls of food. A child is asleep in one man’s arms, leaning their little bald head against his chest. I look back down at my work and the stack of papers on the desk.

“Quiet, please. I have a lot of work that needs to be done.”

A few smiles from these guests confuse me, and I receive some hugs and kisses on the cheek. My lap table is pulled from me and set on the desk.

“Happy birthday, Grandma,” a child says timidly, gripping her dress and swaying back and forth on her feet. She lunges quickly, latching on in a hug around my midsection, and I pat her back. Before I can process, she runs back to the adults standing beside my couch and ducks behind their legs. My birthday?

“My birthday?”

“Yes, Mom. Today is November tenth. You’re eighty-three today!” one man says as he sets a present down on the recliner.

Eighty-three?

“Oh, heavens,” I murmur, looking at the people who keep filing through the door. I can't remember the last time I had so many people in my home. I eagerly search faces for someone I know. I feel like I should know them—something about a few of these guests is familiar, but… it escapes me.

Must be the stress. I have too much on my plate with these papers due.

“Hi, Mom,” a man says, rounding the couch and planting a kiss on my cheek, “It’s me. John.”

“John?” I ask, “You look just like my Frank.”

His warm brown eyes are surrounded by thick black lashes, and he even has that same tilted smile. Taller than Frank, and a little wider, I can see that he is not my husband. Where is he, anyway? Surely, he can get these guests into a different room until I finish these papers.

“I’m his son. You’re son, too. All five of your kids as here, Mom, for your birthday. Do you see them?”

I look around the room, eyes floating through the crowd of expectant faces. But its so many people, and I haven’t the time. My kids are children.

“Oh, I don't know,” I say, my eyes finding the wall next to the television. One face, Beth, tells me that she is my daughter.

“Here, Mom, would you like some Sinatra?” One woman asks, turning off the television and fiddling with the CD player in the corner. The orchestral opening of The Way You Look Tonight fills the room, and I close my eyes with a smile.

The house has grown loud with children playing and adults conversing, but it all reminds me of my wedding night. Frank and I danced to this song in a ballroom of three hundred people. We took up the floor, my head resting on his chest as we swayed, with the sounds of loved ones murmuring in the background.

My heart suddenly aches at this memory, and I remember just how deeply we loved each other. For the fifty-two years we spent married, he committed his life to loving me and our children. He’s gone, now, I remember. Gone for a few years. I wipe a tear from my eye and look up at John.

“I do love this song,” I say, “Frank and I danced to this at our wedding.”

“So we’ve heard,” he says, a hand resting on my shoulder and squeezing it. “Dad used to play this CD on your birthday every year, and swing you around the living room. Do you remember?”

I laugh, recalling the times when we danced with small children hanging from each limb.

“Those were the days.” I say, “My babies could never let us dance without them.”

A man walks around from behind the sofa and carefully peels the sleeping child from his chest. “And now your babies’ babies have babies. Isn’t that crazy, Mom?”

I reach out for the child, and she stirs slightly before settling in my arms. I smile down at her; she’s got my son George’s little nose.

“You had this exact nose when you were this age, George,” I say. The song changes to Pennies From Heaven, and I rock my little great granddaughter side to side to the beat, gently sweeping a finger along her face. “And these round cheeks.”

“Yeah,” he laughs, “She’s my twin.”

“Wait, Mom,” Sarah, my oldest, breaks through the crowd of people in the living room, “You remember his name? George?”

I laugh, “What kind of question is that? Of course I remember.”

Some voices halt, and I watch with confusion as hands raise to cover mouths. A few people grip each other, looking at me. I raise an eyebrow, and George kneels next to me, water cresting his lower lid.

“Do you recognize the people in this room, Mom?”

I look around, confused about why he’d ask such a thing. There’s Beth, and her daughters, Amy and Susan. Susan’s child, Jake, sits on the couch across from me. George, his wife, my other daughter, Sarah, and her four kids. Miley, Beth’s youngest daughter, who loves to dress in all black and wear a hairstyle I never personally understood, sits at the kitchen table. Her dark, shadowed eyes are nearly bugging out of her head.

A big bunch, but my bunch. My family. How would I forget?

“Yes,” I look around at the balloons hugging the ceiling and the pile of presents on the couch, “Whose birthday is it?”

“You turn eighty-three today, grandma.” Remi, my oldest great-granddaughter, says, resting a hand on her cheek as she bends over the back of the couch.

“Eighty-three?” I gasp, “My God, where’s the time gone?”

“We love you, Mom,” Beth says, suddenly kneeling before my feet and patting my leg. Her eyes tell me something, like she cannot wait to say that for fear of losing her chance. I look down at the infant in my arms and feel overwhelmed.

“Oh, I know that,” I say, unable to contain the tear that escapes my eye. Why am I crying? “I love you all, too. Thank you for coming.”

The baby squirms awake in my arms, squeaking out her first cry of hunger. A woman comes to take her from my arms, mumbling about needing to feed her, and I let her go. I’ve Got You Under My Skin begins quietly in the background, and I watch someone place a small present in my lap.

“Here, Mom. Open this first.”

I wiggle my fingers beneath the taped-down sides, popping it open. Peeling away the wrapper, someone helps me open the small brown box. Under a blanket of tissue paper sits a mug. I read the quote and laugh at it.

“What does it say, Mom?”

I clear my throat, “cheating is like wearing your grandmother’s underpants. Sure, it might cover your hiney, but if you make a habit of it, you’ve got a serious problem.”

The room erupts in laughter, and I cannot help but join in.

“Thought you’d like it. It’s a good quote for a teacher, isn’t it?” A woman says, standing before me with a familiar, warm smile.

“My Beth,” I say between breaths, “My Beth does the funniest impression of this character. What’s his name?”

“Urkel, mom,” she says, kissing my cheek. “Steve Urkel.”

“Well, thank you for the gift,” I say, “I’ll take it to school with me.”

For some reason, this causes a few people in the room to shed silent tears. I look around in confusion. Who are all these people?

Next to my chair, I see stacks of papers on the desk.

“Oh, these must be my papers to grade,” I say, setting the box down on the couch next to me and reaching for my red pen. “What day is it?”

“Sunday, Mom,” the woman says. “But you don’t have school tomorrow. So let’s enjoy some time together, why don’t we?”

“Thank goodness,” I say, “But don’t let me forget them, okay?”

A close-mouthed smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and she nods, “I’ll remind you. I’ll always be here to remind you.”