Page 51 of Loud Unspoken Memories

A cake withthreecandles.

I power over and sneer at her. “Is this some sort of sick joke? What the fuck, Marti?”

She holds her hands up. “I know how this must look. But please let me explain. Then, if you want me to throw it out in the snow, I’ll do it.”

“What the hell is there to explain? You made a birthday cake for my dead son.”

She nods. “Yeah. I did.”

Sickness grips my stomach. “Why?”

“Sit.” She motions to the other chair. “Please.”

I do, albeit reluctantly. I cringe at the thought of looking at the cake though, but my eyes go there anyway, no matter how much I don’t want them to. Three fucking candles. Jesus.

“After my, um… losses,” she says, “I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to celebrate any holiday or birthday again. But Asher, he was far wiser than I gave him credit for. He forced me to acknowledge those important days. It was hard that first year, I’m not going to lie. It’s still hard, even years later. It’s difficult celebrating anything knowing they’re not with me.”

She picks at a spot on the table, holding a lighter in the other hand. At least she didn’t light the candles. That would just be… wrong.

“On March fifth, when I was thirteen, Asher came home from work with a cake, and I almost threw it at him. He got so mad at me, upset that I didn’t want to acknowledge our father’s birthday and celebrate him for everything he was to us and all he did for us.” She nods at the cake. “So from then on, we celebrated his birthday and those of others we’d lost. We’d eat the entire cake, the whole time sharing stories about our loved ones. On our dad’s birthday, we talk about what we loved about him, and sometimes what we hated, like when he made us pull weeds. When we celebrate Mom’s birthday, I listen to Asher recall hismemories of her. It's a way for us to remember. To feel close to them. To honor them. To honoreveryone.

“If you think it’s stupid, I’ll throw it out. But, Dallas, it would be great if you could try. Just a little. Even if you don’t say it out loud, maybe you could think of a happy memory of DJ. And if you wanted, you could light the candles and wish him a happy heavenly birthday. It’ll be hard. But one thing I promise you—it’ll also be cathartic.” She quiets for a moment. “What do you say?”

I stare at the cake. The cake for my son. The one that should have been baked by my wife. One that DJ would blow out the candles on as he stood up on a chair, leaning over the table.

I can almost see it—DJ at three years old, falling face first into the cake to get a bite as I record it on my phone for all of eternity. Or maybe he would reach out with his bare hands and squish a fistful between his fingers, licking it off while telling me how much he likes the sugary icing.

Prickly tears run down the back of my throat. I swallow hard and close my eyes. “He… he had just learned how to sit up. We would prop him up with pillows, terrified he’d fall over. And when he did”—my voice cracks with emotion—“he would laugh. He thought falling over was the funniest thing.”

I get up quickly and pace the room, my chest tightening with each step. I spare a glance at Marti, and she offers me an encouraging nod and a sad smile. Why am I going along with this? It’s not making me feel any better. It’s only dredging up memories that died along with them.

I draw in a stabbing lungful of air and continue. “He wasn’t crawling yet. But he’d do this thing when he was on his stomach. His butt would go in the air and he’d inchworm his way across the room.” A picture of him doing it appears in my head and I chuckle. Then I cry out in pain because it hurts so bad.

Arms come around me in a warm embrace, holding me tight. I sob into the side of her head. She cries with me, somehow sharing a pain I doubt she could even possibly imagine. I don’t know how long she holds me like this, or how many tears I cry, but afterwards I realize I feel…better.

Feeling like a blubbering idiot, I pull away and cock my head. “How did you bake a cake without an oven?”

“It wasn’t that hard,” she says, wiping the remainder of her tears. “You had two skillets of the same size. I whipped up some batter and took a chance. I have no idea if it’ll be any good though. I didn’t have the benefit of searching the internet for a recipe.”

“What kind of cake is it?”

“Carrot.”

“DJ hated carrots. He’d spit them out all over the floor and we’d have to clean up a slobbery orange mess.”

The sweet laughter on Marti’s lips makes me smile. She holds out the lighter. “Do you want to do the honors?”

It feels strange lighting candles on a birthday cake for a boy who isn’t here to blow them out. If you’d have told me yesterday that I’d be doing this, I’d have called you crazy with a capital C. But here I am, doing it. I close my eyes, visions of DJ dancing in my head. What he might look like. How he’d call me Daddy.

“Happy birthday, little man,” I squeak out through the lump in my throat.

“Happy birthday, DJ,” Marti whispers respectfully.

I blow out the candles then look across the table. “Thank you.”

She smiles and picks up a knife, cutting us each an oversized slice. “Will you tell me about him? I’m all ears. And we have a lot of cake to get through. It’s tradition, Dallas. We have to eat the entire thing.”

We spend the next hour eating, talking, and crying our way through his cake.

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