Esther M. Friesner - Birthday

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ESTHER M. FRIESNER

A BIRTHDAY

I wake up knowing that this is a special day. Today is Tessa's birthday. She

will be six. That means she will start school and I won't see her during the

day

at all.

My friends will have a party for Tessa and for me. The invitation sits on my

bedside table, propped up against the telephone so I can't possibly forget it.

wish I could. There are pink pandas tumbling around the borders of the card

and

inside my friend Paula has written in the details of time and place in her

beautiful handwriting. I get up, get dressed, get ready for the day ahead.

Before I leave the apartment I make sure that I haven't locked Squeaker in the

closet again. Squeaker is my cat. You'd think it would be hard for a cat to

hide

in a studio apartment, but Squeaker manages. Tessa loves cats and pandas, just

like me. She told me so.

I am almost out the door when I remember the invitation. Tessa hasn't seen it

yet. Today will be my last chance to show it to her. I keep forgetting to take

it with me, not because I want to deprive my daughter of anything but because

what this birthday means to us both. I don't like to think about it. I tuck

the

invitation into my purse and go to work.

I arrive a little before nine. Mom always said I never plan ahead, but I do

now.

There are flowers on my desk at work, six pink fairy roses in a cut glass bud

vase with a spill of shiny white ribbon tied around its neck. There is a

freedom

card propped open on the keyboard in front of my terminal, signed by most of

the

women in the office. I hang up my jacket and check my IN box for work, but

there

is nothing there, no excuse to turn on my terminal. Still, a good worker finds

work to do even when there's none, and I do so want to touch the keys.

I sit down and reach for a sampler sheet to rub over my thumb and slip into

the

terminal. Damn, the pad's empty! I know I had some left yesterday, what

happened? I can't turn on my terminal without giving it a sample of my

cell-scrapings so the system knows it's me. Who's been getting at my things!

I'll kill her!

No. I mustn't lose my temper like this. I have to set a good example for my

girl. It's important for a woman to make peace, to compromise. No one wins a

war. Maybe whoever took the last of my sampler sheets needed it more than I

do.

Maybe she had to stay late, work overtime, an d everyone else locked their

pads

away in their desks so she had to help herself to mine.

"Good morning, Linda." It's my boss, Mr. Beeton. His melon face is shiny with

smile. "I see you've found my little surprise."

"Sir?" I say.

"Now, now, I know what day this is just as well as you do. Do you think the

ladies are the only ones who want to wish you the best for the future? Just

became there's a door on my office, it doesn't mean I'm sealed inside,

ignorant

of my girls' lives." He pats me on the back and says, "I'm giving you the day

off, with pay. Have fun." And then he is gone, a walrus in a blue-gray suit

waddling up the aisle between the rows of terminals.

I don't want to have the day off. What will I do?

Where will I go? The party isn't until six o'clock tonight. There is so much I

need to say to her before then. I suppose I could go to the bank, but that's

only ten seconds' worth of time. It's nowhere near enough. Here at work I

could

keep finding excuses to --

Mr. Beeton is at the end of the aisle, staring at me. He must be wondering why

I'm still sitting here, staring at a blank screen. I'd better go. I put on my

jacket and walk away from my terminal. It will still be here tomorrow. So will

part of me.

I hear the murmurs as I walk to the door. The women are smiling at me as I

pass,

sad smiles, encouraging smiles, smiles coupled with the fleeting touch of a

hand

on mine. "I'm so happy for you," they say. "You're so strong."

"I've been praying for you."

"Have a good time."

"Have a good life."

"See you tomorrow."

But what will they see? I think about how many sick days I have left. Not

enough. I will have to come back tomorrow, and I will have to work as if

everything were still the same.

As I walk down the hall to the elevator I have to pass the Ladies' Room. I

hear

harsh sounds, tearing sounds.

Someone is in there, crying. I don't have to work today; I can take the time

go in and see who it is, what's wrong. Maybe I can help. Maybe this will kill

some time.

The crying is coming from one of the stalls. "Who's there?" I call. The crying

stops. There is silence, broken only by the drip of water from a faucet and a

shallow, sudden intake of breath from the stall.

"What's wrong?" I ask. "Please, I can help you."

"Linda?" The voice is too fragile, too quavery for me to identify. "Is that

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Esther M. Friesner - Birthday

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