Birthdays and Hospital Stays

At 97, a surprise birthday means you’re surprised it’s your birthday. Even if we told you it’s your birthday a few minutes ago. My mom is surprised and gives up on guessing how old she is. She opens and admires the card, then puts it back in the envelope, to open and admire moments later. Everything is new. The turkey dinner looks good, but my mom’s not hungry. I’d forgotten how good the food is here. Ever since the lockdowns, we’re not allowed to dine the way we used to with our parents. But tonight, we shanghai some chairs from the corner and make ourselves at home. Penny keeps an eye out for me, just in case the mask police show up. I deliver the cake to the kitchen so they can present it and sing “happy birthday.” Mom is still opening and admiring the card, then putting it back for the next round. She doesn’t ask about my dad, who’s having his gall bladder tube reinserted at the hospital. “How old are you?” I ask. My mom rattles off a couple of numbers, like a malfunctioning mechanical calculator, then admits she has no idea. I tell her she’s 97, and she’s not completely surprised. “Old.” My dad’s coming home tonight, or tomorrow. Kevin from hospice is in touch with the hospital till they suddenly decide he’s not authorized. Now we have no idea what the plan is, and the nurse hasn’t called me back. My mom and Betty (Penny’s mom) each get a small slice of cake. Penny and I are on the cakeless diet, with errands to run before tomorrow. We kiss the mamas goodnight and wave as we leave the dining room. It’s not the same here when my dad’s away. All his friends at the neighboring tables are anxious and worried. They want him back. He’ll be back. He always comes back.