Birthday Cake

The gentle hum of the fluorescent lights greets me as I step through the automatic doors of the supermarket. People mill around the entrance, pulling reusable bags from each other and placing them into trolleys. A few superior shoppers have already completed this ritual at the car or they even have those bags that you simply lay across the trolley. Unfortunately I have neither performed the ritual nor purchased the necessary bags. So instead I hang mine from the small hook at the back of the trolley. I place my handbag in the baby seat, turning slightly when my son Jack pulls at my arm.

“Can we go to the toy bit?” he asks, looking up at me with his dad's eyes. 

“We only need a few bits for the week, but maybe after.” His face lights up, then I quickly add

“If you're good.”

He frowns slightly, his five-year-old brain processing if that's a suitable answer.

“Okay,” he says and grips onto the trolley handle. “I want to push though.” 

Negotiations complete, we wind our way through the aisles. By the time we clear the fruit and veg, my knuckles are white from the death grip I have on one side of the trolley. 

I don't normally do the weekly shop but it fell to me today. My husband Stuart is the organised one; he'd be here, list in hand, items gathered with military precision. He's also the fun one. When he shops, Jack sits between the cans and packets, squealing with glee as the trolley races down an aisle. If I did that there would be a 100% certainty of me hitting someone. Or crashing into the shelves and sending produce smashing to the ground.

It has happened before. Not entirely my fault but enough to give me pause.

When he was three, Jack had grabbed at a box of eggs after I'd parked the trolley too close to the shelves. He'd sent half a dozen of them flying to the floor as if they were paint and the laminate tiles were his canvas. 

A tightness suddenly pulls across my chest as we pass the cereals. I’d been with my mother-in-law. Whereas I'd been mortified, she had laughed and joked with the supermarket cleaner that Jack would be the next Picasso. 

She had smiled at me, told me not to worry, and once both the floor and Jack were clean (he'd been splattered with some residual egg) we had carried on as if nothing had happened.

No judgement. No jokes about my parenting skills.

At the till, she had bought Jack a chocolate bar and given it to him as I dropped her home. 

“For after dinner,” she had said, smiling.

Jack had ripped it open as I pulled off the drive. It was gone by the time we got home. The only evidence of its existence was the chocolate smeared around his face and the crumpled wrapper. She had laughed when I told her the story and had given him another bar the next time we saw her. She just wanted to make Jack happy.

We circle around the sweets; my fingers have loosened on the handle now and our pace slows as Jack, who has given up steering, walks beside me. He occasionally drifts towards a shelf and I have to pull him back with my best 

“Jack, we don't need that.”

He drifts again, “Or that.” 

He turns my own pouty expression back at me.

“What about cakes?” he asks, pointing towards the counters of pastries and doughnuts.

My breath catches slightly.

Cake.

Birthday cake.

I force myself to smile. 

“Alright, just a little something.” I catch up to him and we head towards the counters. The crowd is thinner here so Jack runs ahead, pressing his hands and face to the glass. I wince slightly as I glance at the people choosing their treats, waiting for someone to point out that my son is hyperventilating at an iced doughnut.

No one does.

We buy a cinnamon swirl (my favourite) and Jack chooses a chocolate brownie for his dad.

We turn away and I slow as I pass the boxed cakes. My eyes travel across the shelves filled with superheroes and princesses. The tightness in my chest returns. Stuart's mum always made the best birthday cakes. Whatever shape or design any of the grandkids wanted.

Jack will be six in a couple of weeks.

He appears at my side. Head tilted as he studies the different designs.

“Which one do you want?” I ask.

He marches alongside the shelf, arms swinging by his sides. I laugh at the display; a man walking past frowns at me in confusion. I quickly smother my amusement as Jack turns dramatically towards me, grinning and pointing.

“That one,” he says. I raise an eyebrow and he adds,

“Please.”

The race car cake goes into the trolley, carefully balanced on top of the tins of soup and baked beans. We carry on down the aisles gently weaving between shoppers towards the tills.

“Oh, I forgot a steak for your dad,” I say as the tills come into view.

“I don't like steak,” Jack says, sticking his tongue out and making a disgusted sound, as we retrace our steps back towards the meat section.

“Well then, he doesn't have to share.” I smile and look down at him.

Jack's not there.

I stop and turn 360 degrees.

His messy blonde hair appears from behind a stock cage.

“Sorry,” I say as I walk over to the young lady beside it. I hold my hand out and Jack reluctantly takes it.

“I need to get steak.” 

“They are on aisle three,” the young woman says, smiling.

With a steak safely in the trolley we finally head for the tills. Jack insists on helping me load the shopping onto the conveyor. I initially try to pack the way Stuart would but the categorisation soon goes out of the window. 

The woman on the checkout scans the birthday cake through.

“We sell a lot of these ones,” she says. “Who’s it for?”

“My son,” I say, inclining my head towards where Jack is picking up chewing gums and air fresheners. The random last-minute things they always have near the tills. 

The woman blinks, then smiles slightly.

“He'll be six on the 15th,” I continue, putting the last of the shopping in the bags and gently placing the birthday cake on top. “Can't believe where the time has gone.” 

The woman's eyes shift towards Jack, then she offers me another smile, this one is tighter.

“It does go fast,” she says gently. “Take care of yourself.” 

I pay for the shopping and head towards the exit. Jack skips alongside me. I make him hold onto the trolley as we navigate the car park towards the car. 

“Can I play football with dad when we get home?” he asks.

I shrug. “I don't see why not. We haven't got anything else planned for today.” 

He cheers and I open the back door for him to climb inside. Once the boot is loaded with the shopping bags, I slip into the driver's seat. 

“Put your belt on,” I say to Jack as my phone starts to ring.

 “It's your dad.” I smile as I catch a glimpse of Jack fighting with his seat belt in the rear-view mirror.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi, are you on your way back yet?” he asks.

“Yeah, I'm just leaving. Be home in about fifteen minutes.”

“Ok, no problem, I'll see you in a bit.”

“Oh, I got Jack's birthday cake too,” I add, “so you don't have to worry.”

He doesn't reply straight away, then he says,

“That's great, Louise. I'll see you soon.” 

I frown slightly as he hangs up the call but I shrug it off.

“Right,” I say. “Let's get you home.” 

I look in the rear-view mirror and Jack's not there. His car seat sits empty. The red and blue racing car pattern contrasts vividly against the car's black interior. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as the tightness in my chest suddenly snaps. Silently my hand moves to the birthday cake that I must have placed on the passenger seat instead of in the boot. Then the tears begin to fall as my head collapses onto my arm draped across the steering wheel. 

They fall relentlessly. Flowing down my cheeks and falling onto the denim of my jeans. I wait for them to ease. Wait for my gasping breath to even out. I don't know how long I sit there with my head resting against the steering wheel, my eyes closed against the afternoon sun. Eventually I lift my head slightly and turn to look at the birthday cake. My eyes trace the red and yellow icing that forms the bonnet of the car. For a moment I think about returning it. Then I twist the key in the ignition and pull out of the space.

Heading home with Jack.