3: 3
Aunt Mamie called for a cocktail show.
She said the mood had gone a little flat, that young people liked some noise, and a bit of flair would liven things up.
The business with the pen was behind them, the cake was cut, and they couldn't very well sit stone-faced through the rest of the meal.
The bartender wheeled in a little cart, bottles and jars in every color lined up in a row.
When the flames shot up, Marlene let out a small yelp and shrank closer to Matthew.
"It's fine."
Matthew turned his body and lifted his arm, drawing her a little more toward himself.
He didn't look at me.
The bartender started tossing bottles, three of them spinning through the air.
Then a loud crack.
He missed the third bottle. It hit the edge of the cart, and shattered glass and liquor burst out together.
Marlene and I were the ones seated on the outer side.
The instant the shards flew toward me, a figure cut across in front of me.
Matthew.
He turned sideways to shield Marlene, one arm pressing her head into his chest.
The other arm raised, blocking whatever might come at her.
The whole motion was clean and quick, not a second's hesitation.
Liquor splashed all over me.
From the shoulder down, my whole left arm was soaked.
Glass sliced the outer side of my arm. The first cut didn't register; the pain came late, and then it came hard.
Everyone at the table stood up.
My mother called out my name, and Aunt Mamie kept asking, "Are you all right, are you all right?"
My father pushed his chair back and checked my wound.
Matthew finally turned his head.
He still had Marlene gathered against him, her fingers clutching his shirt, her whole body curled into his chest.
He looked down at me, his eyes going blank for a moment.
"Marina, you—"
I looked down at the two cuts on my left arm. Not deep, but the blood was beading up.
"It's fine," I said.
"Small accident."
Marlene lifted her head from his chest. She looked at the blood on my arm, and her eyes reddened at once.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, this is my fault, I shouldn't have stood on this side—"
She started to pull away again, and Matthew held her back.
"Don't move," he said in a low voice.
"There's glass on the floor."
My father was a calm man by habit, but even he couldn't tamp down the anger now. He looked at the waiter.
"Bring the first aid kit."
"Now."
The waiter ran out.
Matthew let go of Marlene and took a step toward me, as if to check the injury.
He looked down at the blood on my arm, and his brow furrowed.
But Marlene sniffled again, softly.
Matthew turned back to glance at her.
"Let me get you seated over there first."
He turned back and took her arm.
"Watch the broken glass."
He moved her to a chair off to the side, and only then did he actually turn to face me.
There was guilt in his eyes, but more than that, awkwardness, like a child caught doing something wrong, wanting to fix it and not knowing where to start.
"Does it hurt?"
I didn't answer.
My father stood in front of me and didn't leave room for me to answer either.
Uncle Mason frowned and shot Matthew a hard look.
Aunt Mamie only grew more awkward.
"Rina's all right, isn't she?"
Just then the waiter came back with the first aid kit.
Aunt Mamie came over with a bit of eagerness to please, wanting to dress the wound herself.
But my mother took the kit first and wiped the liquor off me.
It did hurt, but I made no sound.
Matthew was still over with Marlene.
Head bent, saying something to her, probably some comfort.
His hand rested lightly on Marlene's shoulder.
She stayed curled in the chair, sniffling, like a startled little animal.
I thought back to the year I was eighteen.
It was summer too. Our group from college went camping in the mountains.
I stepped on a loose rock and slid all the way down the slope.
Matthew had been rinsing fruit by the stream. He threw down what was in his hands and came running.
That slope was steep, and on his way down his knee slammed into a rock, wearing a hole in his jeans, blood seeping through.
But he paid it no mind. He grabbed my arm and hauled me up.
His first words were, "Are you okay?"
I saw the blood on his knee and asked if it hurt.
He said he was only worried about me, that he had no room to feel any pain.
Now, he had no room for me.
My mother finished bandaging me.
Nothing serious.
I stood up and said I'd go clean up in the restroom.
As I passed Matthew on my way out, he looked up at me.
But right then Marlene handed him a wet wipe and said,
"Mr. Morton, you should wipe up too, you've got liquor on your hands."
He lowered his head and took it, and whatever he'd meant to say to me he swallowed back down.
The restroom lights were very bright.
I stood in front of the mirror, looking at the wound on my left arm and the smell of mango soaked into my clothes.
How had Matthew's birthday gone last year?
That day he said work was busy, that he'd be late.
I waited two hours at the restaurant, every dish went cold, and in the end he never came.
Later I saw a photo on Marlene's feed.
A cake, candles, her face with her eyes shut, making a wish.
The caption read:
"Today I made his wish for him. He wants me to be happy every day from now on."
At the time I thought he'd just been worn out from work and lost track of time.
Only now did I understand that the whole routine of that cake and that wish had already been walked through last year.
I shut off the water.
My father was already waiting at the door. He took off his own suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders.
The jacket still carried the warmth of him, and the shoulders were broad.
It covered better than half of me.
My father said,
"This birthday wasn't wasted after all."
"We saw a lot of things clearly."
