Chapter 6 - The Fourth Plate
The kitchen was still heavy with the scent of burnt sugar and melted ganache when we walked back up the basement stairs.
The late afternoon sunlight cut across the floorboards in long, amber slats, catching the dust motes stirred up from below. At the dining room table, our three surviving children sat in total stillness. They had pulled up the folding chair Caleb had dragged across the flagstones earlier, wedging it neatly between Caleb’s place and Nora’s.
On the credenza behind them, they had arranged their small altar: the yellow knitted cap, the bassinet card curled at the edges, the hand-knit booties with the frayed silk bows, and Tess’s crumpled yellow paper party hat.
In the center of the table lay a piece of heavy white construction paper. Nora had used her twelve-pack of Crayola markers. Four stick figures stood in a row against a jagged green lawn. Three of them had wildly curling scribbles of brown hair; the fourth, standing on the far right under a lopsided yellow sun, had neat, dark lines falling straight to her shoulders.
Nora looked up as my sneakers squeaked against the kitchen linoleum. Her fingers were stained purple from the marker cap.
"I gave her straight hair," she said, her voice small, tentative, testing the air to see if the house was still shaking. "Like you said."
My chest ached with a physical tightness that felt like cracked ribs. I walked to the head of the table, pulled out my chair, and sat down. Adam stayed by the archway, his hands buried deep in his sweatshirt pockets, his shoulder resting against the doorframe. He looked drained, hollowed out, ten years older than the man who had lit twenty-one candles three hours ago.
"It’s beautiful, Nora," I said. "Her hair was very dark. Almost black. Exactly like mine."
Caleb leaned over the arm of his chair. "Did she have fingernails?"
"Caleb," Nora hissed, nudging him with her elbow. "That’s weird."
"It’s not weird," I said, catching Caleb’s eye before he could shrink back. "She did. Tiny, tiny little fingernails. Like little slivers of pearl. And she had long toes, just like Tess."
Tess immediately pulled her bare feet up onto her chair and inspected her toes, her brow furrowing with solemn pride. "Long like these?"
"Just like those," I said.
Adam cleared his throat behind me. The sound was rough, scraping against the quiet room. "Who wants cake?" he asked.
The children didn't cheer the way they normally would have. They nodded, subdued, watching us carefully.
I stood up and brought the platter from the counter. The three number-seven candles were gone, but the gouges where they had sat were still visible in the dark chocolate icing, like tiny craters. I picked up the chef's knife Adam had washed earlier.
"Can we sing?" Tess asked, looking up at me through her eyelashes. "We didn't get to finish the song outside."
"I don't think we need to sing, Tessie," Caleb murmured, glancing uneasily at my face. "Mommy's tired."
"We can sing," I said. The words came out raspy, but I meant them. "We can sing it properly this time."
Adam stepped up to the table. He didn't look at me, but his hand found the back of my chair, his fingers gripping the wood so hard his knuckles whitened. We stood together at the edge of the table, and in ragged, quiet voices, the five of us sang.
There were no party horns. No twenty neighbors shouting from the lawn. Just our voices, slightly off-key, echoing in the quiet house. When we reached the name, Nora and Caleb hesitated, looking at me.
"Happy birthday, dear Nora, Caleb, Tess," I sang, my voice wavering. Then I took a breath. "And June."
Tess beamed, a sudden, radiant flash of gap-toothed relief that shattered the gloom in the room.
I sliced the cake. I cut a thick piece for Caleb, one for Nora, and one for Tess.
Then I picked up the small floral dessert plate that had been sitting unused on the sideboard since two o'clock. I cut a fourth slice—neat, square, topped with one of the yellow sugar daisies that hadn't completely melted—and I set it down in front of the empty folding chair.
None of them spoke. Caleb reached out and gently nudged the fork so it rested straight beside the paper napkin.
"She would have liked chocolate," Caleb decided, picking up his own fork. "Because everybody likes chocolate."
"She would have," Adam agreed from behind me, his voice barely a murmur.
May you like
I watched my children eat their birthday cake in the fading light. Every bite felt heavy, ceremonial, like an ancient peace treaty being signed in fudge frosting. But for the first time in seven years, the air in the room didn't feel thin. We weren't holding our breath anymore.
***
