Not Just a Birthday Text

Happy birthday, Sara <3

Happy birthday, Sara!

Happy birthday!

Happy birthday!

Happy birthday!

As I type her name into my phone, five years of unanswered texts stare back at me. Am I really doing this again? How many years can a person send birthday wishes to an estranged cousin before it gets pathetic?

The first year, I didn’t really expect a response. Tensions were running high then, and I was away at college, outside of it all. But by year three, I started to feel the pang of humiliation. I questioned my own judgment. I wanted to protect some shred of my dignity. The fourth year brought outright anger and an impulse to delete her number. Thankfully, I didn’t. And last year, I just figured this was not her number anymore.

But here I am, about to text it again. Part of me hopes it is her number, desperately hopes that this shot in the dark makes some kind of a difference. Pushing my pregnant self back from my desk in my rolling swivel chair, I grip my mug of hot tea and breathe in the steam. Tea always gets me in a thoughtful mood.

It’s strange. At one point in my life, she and I shared a twin bed at sleepovers. She knew about every awkward crush, every pet hamster I lost, every embarrassing or hilarious moment. She was like a living diary. Come to think of it, we actually did read each other’s diaries - the glittery ones with tiny locks for keeping out nosy brothers. Being a few years older, I felt some responsibility to look out for Sara, to be a good example to her and all of that. What I’m saying is, I didn’t put everything in my diary. Maybe I didn’t do a good enough job, of shielding her, of guiding her. And I wasn’t there for her when stuff got really bad.

I rub my belly that’s now roughly the size of a watermelon. Hormones are running the show. One minute I’m typing a work email and the next, I’m thinking about my estranged cousin whom I haven’t seen in years. The numbers on the billing statement before me make my brain want to cry. A client is waiting for an explanation of her latest bill, and here I am wondering if my daughter will have a Sara in her life to have sleepovers with.

I don’t even know where Sara lives now. Nebraska, or was it Wyoming? Sometimes it’s like Sara doesn’t even exist anymore. Who in my family decided that? It feels wrong. Family is supposed to be forever. We have to have each other’s backs no matter what, right?

I wish it were that easy. I can see something in Aunt Kristy’s eyes whenever someone mentions Sara. Pain. That’s it. Maybe some shame. Maybe even a hint of maternal protectiveness. There’s a lot going on there. It’s not just one girl, one mistake, one fight.

My family might hold the record for Olympic-level grudge-holding. Mom warns me in not-so-subtle terms that Sara has made her choices, and it’s better for everyone if she just stays away. Sure, sending a happy birthday text isn’t a drastic thing to do, but the five bubbles of unanswered texts are my quiet rebellion against the grudge.

And yet, I’m terrified of making things worse. I don’t want to make life harder for Aunt Kristy than it already is. My cousins seem fine, good actually. There’s certainly less drama in their house. Who am I to stir the pot?

At least, Mom and Aunt Kristy are still close, even after everything. I guess the twin connection is pretty unbreakable. But Mom can’t help herself. She still brings up that day, the one when Sara blew up at her, packed up her stuff and left. She was living at Mom’s house that October, after Aunt Kristy kicked her out. I was away at college, so I don’t know exactly what all happened. It was partly Aunt Kristy’s divorce, I’m sure. Add in Sara’s lying and drinking and, of course, the boyfriend. It was a ticking time bomb.

The night before Sara left, she had snuck out of Mom’s house, met up with her “sleazy” boyfriend, as Mom calls him, and didn’t come home until the next morning. Mom took it especially hard, because she had made it clear that she wouldn’t put up with any of that stuff if Sara was going to live under her roof. My little brothers were still at home, so she didn’t want any bad influences for her babies. They were in high school too, but babies nonetheless.

Nursing my tea, I can still remember Mom’s wine-fueled whisper-yells across the Thanksgiving table to anyone who will listen. This was not directly in front of Aunt Kristy, of course, but Mom wasn’t trying too hard to conceal it either. Maybe part of her was trying to protect her sister from getting hurt again. Anyway, the twin connection went on ice after Sara left, but only until Christmas. In a family that knows how to hold decades-long grudges, that’s not too bad.

I truly understand how Mom feels. Sara betrayed her. To open her home to a troubled niece, to help her sister in a time of hardship, that’s not nothing. Mom really did try, but I guess the betrayal was just too much. Sara shot across the bow after a peace treaty, and that’s just not forgivable.

I drum my fingers on my desk. My office phone rings. It’s the client again asking about the bill. She just called this morning. Didn’t I tell her that I was going to email her? Yeesh. I tell my paralegal to put her through to voicemail.

So, my cousins. They pretty much avoid the subject of Sara altogether, even though I know they all follow her on social media and text sometimes. It’s yet another reason that I’m grateful to not be on social media. Sure, I’m curious. Who wouldn’t be tempted to see the photos? What does her hair look like now? What’s her daughter’s name again? How many tattoos does she have?

Really, I want to know how she’s doing, but not like that. Not like some gossipy girl, just looking for something juicy to talk about or for someone to put down. I’ll admit that Sara’s done a lot of crappy stuff, but she doesn’t deserve to be judged like that. Nobody does.

Today Sara will be turning, let’s see, 24? Wow, I let that sink in for a minute. Her daughter must be 6 then. Just finishing kindergarten? I never met her daughter, of course, because I haven’t seen Sara in six or seven years. Sara’s 24. She’s not a wild high school kid anymore. She’s a mom of a kindergartener. I don’t know if that thought is comforting or terrifying. I close my eyes in a silent prayer. Wherever they are. Whatever they’re doing. I hope they’re safe. I hope they’re doing alright - maybe even better than alright.

I take a deep breath and tap my phone screen awake.

I type, “Happy birthday, Sara! Hope you’re doing alright.”

My fingers hover over the tiny keyboard. Damn it, Sara. Why am I reaching out to you? Again! You’re the one who screwed everything up. Why am I trying to bring you back, when you clearly don’t want to be back? I breathe a frustrated sigh through my gritted teeth.

I swallow my pride and add, “Miss you.”

I turn the phone over on my desk and get back to work. My brain makes a heroic effort to finish this email. There’s the bill and your detailed explanation, lady. You happy?

My brain is foggy as I drive home from work. It’s mid-spring, but the weather is unusually warm and humid, making me feel extra-pregnant. After I pull my shoes off my swollen feet, I lower myself onto the couch and take a casual 2-hour nap. That’s normal when you’re 8-months pregnant, ok? When I wake up, I prop myself up on the cushions and rest my hands on my enormous belly. Baby girl’s kicking again. My heart flutters as I feel her little heel glide across my palm.

I twist awkwardly to grab my phone on the side table, straining every muscle in my abdomen. I have a new message.

It’s Sara.

“Hey. You around this summer?” is what she says.

I feel frozen, stupefied. I blink and make sure I texted the right person, even though I clearly did. My blood pressure starts to rise, and I have no idea how to respond.

Then more dots, the dots that mean she’s writing more. The dots vanish and reappear over the course of the next five minutes. I’m relieved, honestly, to not have to respond to the first text. What the heck is she going to say? Does she want to see me? After 7 years of silence?

My eyes latch onto the incoming words.

“And thanks, Tess. I know that it’s been a really long time. I understand that you might not be comfortable with this, but I would really like to talk.”

More dots. I wait, feeling a little cowardly for not responding. I realized that I’ve been holding my breath, which is making me lightheaded. A stiff drink would be great right about now, but what I really need is cold water. I’m about to get up and fill a glass when I see the message pop in.

“You’re probably really busy…”

I manage to fire off a quick “Hey,” but almost simultaneously there’s more coming in.

“Maybe after the baby comes, Bella and I can stop by? She loves babies. Sorry, my mom told me everything…I’m moving home for a while…”

I tap my thumb nervously on my thigh. There’s a break for a minute, which feels like ten. My mind starts spiraling out of control. Sara is moving back home? With her daughter? I can’t really grasp this in the heat of the moment. My heartbeat is pounding so hard in my ears that my brain feels like static. Then more dots. I breathe out.

“Anyways, I just want to say congrats. You’re going to be a really great mom. I miss you too.”

The compliment comes up and whaps me in the tear ducts. Oh, Sara. What is happening? Why now? Is it because I’m having a baby? Did she have some kind of an epiphany?

My trembling hand lifts off the phone and rests again on my belly. It doesn’t matter why she responded. She did. She finally did. I breathe in and out and rub my belly until I feel like I can talk without crying, in my cheerful big-cousin voice - my voice that will let her know that everything is alright. Then I pick up the phone and call her.