Happy Birthday, My Daughter (Based on a True Story)

“Happy birthday, Patty,” Uncle Joe embraces Becky from behind while once again mistaking her for his other niece, “Hey, you’re getting to be a big girl.”

“This is Becky, Joe,” Mother scolds him, “Not Patty.”

“I… I… I know it’s Becky,” Uncle Joe sniffs Becky’s red hair reeking of stale cigarette smoke, “I’m just making a joke. Come on, man!”

“Go back to your bowl game,” Mother shoos him away, “Now, let’s get a photo of the birthday girl with her lovely cake that I purchased.”

Uncle Joe heads to the other end of the patio and the television. Bundled up as are Becky and Mother on this cold and gray late Saturday afternoon in January. Becky sits at the patio table. Sour faced and dejected. Before her lies perhaps the sorriest excuse for a birthday cake ever. A cheap and generic white slab of refined sugar Mother picked up from a supermarket on the way here. Its price made cheaper due to one corner being smooshed down to the cardboard underneath. That and another corner bearing damage to the piping. A sickly shade of light green calling to mind split pea soup rather than cake frosting. What’s left of three roses formed in a darker shade of green reside on the smooshed corner. Two additional roses occupy the opposite corner diagonally. The remaining surface displays the phrase “Happy Birthday My Daughter” in a similar shade of green as the roses.

“Hold still,” Mother captures Becky’s unenthusiastic expression with her cake on a Sony Cyber-Shot, “Got it. Now I need you to put it on your phone and upload it to my Facebook.”

“You could just shoot it on your phone and upload it to Facebook yourself,” Becky sighs.

“But I have to use the fancy camera for special occasions,” Mother insists.

“Your phone takes just as good of photos as that camera,” Becky lights up another Merit.

“Hey, Patty!” Uncle Joe yells louder than necessary, “You tried those Dave’s brand cigarettes yet.”

“I’m Becky, Uncle Joe,” Becky rolls her eyes, “And what are you talking about?”

“You know, man? The Dave’s cigarettes,” Uncle Joe explains, “He’s the guy. The… The… The Dave guy. And he makes his own cigarettes now. Cause he… he don’t like the other ones.”

“I guess I’ve never heard of him,” Becky shakes her head.

“You’re missing your game,” Mother informs Uncle Joe.

“You call this a bowl game. “I remember when the Hogs played in real bowl games. Not this malarky,” Uncle Joe lectures the television, “Wh-wh-what is this? The ShowBiz Pizza Bowl?” he begins to stand, “Hey! I… I… I got an idea! Let’s take Patty to ShowBiz Pizza! You know? For… For her thing. The…The birthday thing. I’ll drive.”

“Sit down, Joe,” Mother orders before handing a butcher knife to Becky, “You can cut into your cake now,” she turns and adds under her breath, “Not that you need any.”

Becky takes the knife and shrugs in despondence. The frigid and gloomy weather in lockstep with her mood. She stares towards her new in-ground pool. Up and running despite swimming weather in Arkansas still being months away. Its liquid mirror surface adorned with garish inflatable pool toys. The backyard fence and rear of her home graffitied with every sign referencing beach bumming or chunky dunking ever made. Her patio also received upgrades of the audio-visual, mood lighting, and décor variety. This is it. Her key to becoming queen of summertime. The Aphrodite of Sherwood. To making all her friends envious. Forcing them to bow down and lick her feet in exchange for the privilege of hanging with her. In her mind, this is more than worth the cost of both a third mortgage and depreciated property value.

And yet, none of those friends are here to celebrate her birthday. Mother was responsible for sending the invites via Facebook. A task she dumped on Uncle Joe since it would’ve cut into her busy schedule of watching paid programming all day. What happened next is anyone’s guess as Uncle Joe barely has any idea what Facebook is. While Mother is somewhat to blame, Becky is more at fault than anyone. Although friends will inevitably suck up to her in exchange for access to her backyard amenities, that won’t start happening until April at the soonest. Not in January. No one wants to stand around in the cold to admire a pool they can’t swim in lest they catch hypothermia. Nor do they want to fawn over a pitiful birthday cake that looks more like a cry for help than anything.

“Uncle Joe,” Becky lights another Merit, “Are you sure you sent out the invitations on Facebook?”

“I sure did, Patty!” Uncle Joe assures Becky, “I… I got on the Facebook and… um… sent them out on… on… the TV… No! I mean… Oh, you know… The… uh… record player.”

“What about Charolette?” Becky inquires, “Did you at least send her an invite?”

“Oh no! I… I… scratched that one off the list,” Uncle Joe states proudly, “That’s not how you spell Charlotte. Someone’s a lying, dog-faced pony soldier.”

“Don’t worry about him, dear. The sun’s about to go down soon anyway,” Mother tells Becky, “Now let’s have some cake so I can get home and back to my infomercials.”

Becky glares silently at Mother. An expressionless woman as serious and boring as her short, gray perm. Never smiling. Always lecturing others and making sure everyone knows how self-sacrificing she is. Even when her so-called selfless actions consist of nothing more than snagging a damaged cake from the discount table. It’s probably a day-old cake. One that someone probably sat on too. The only enduring gift mother ever gave Becky was the art of practicing selfishness disguised as selflessness. But Becky is too blinded by her anger and self-loathing to recognize her sins. It’s this volatile mix of misery and faux compassion that has continuously built pressure over the decades. And something deep within her psyche now feels ready to erupt.

“Hey, Patty!” Uncle Joe is standing at the fence and staring into the street, “I… I… don’t want to alarm you, but there’s a black fella walking down your street! Don’t worry! I’ll call the cops!”

“Damn it, Uncle Joe! The neighbors are gonna hear you!” Becky scolds him, “Now sit down and shut up!”

“Don’t you talk to your uncle that way, missy!” Mother admonishes Becky, “He’s just trying to help!”

“Help with what?” Becky asks with astonishment, “Making all my neighbors hate me?”

“Look, fat. I’m just sayin’…” Uncle Joe sits down and returns to the game, “He didn’t look all that… you know… clean or bright or… or… articulate.”

“I’m sure your neighbors already hate you,” Mother snarks, “I mean, they have to look at you. Your own friends don’t even want to look at you, apparently,” she delivers a melodramatic sigh, “So glad I wasted all this money on your cake.”

“All this money?” Becky is incredulous, “It’s a cheap Walmart cake that you obviously got for cheaper because it’s old and damaged.”

“And you’re not even worth that,” Mother retorts, “Even Alice Walton is a better daughter than you. And she’s a murderer.”

“Oh, but you have no problem making sure everyone knows I’m your daughter,” Becky counters, “You even had me write ‘Happy Birthday My Daughter’ on my own birthday cake.”

“I had you do that so I can show everyone how far I go for my ungrateful daughter,” Mother laments, “I certainly didn’t buy it so you can get even fatter. Just because you have a pool now doesn’t mean you have to be Free Willy.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been doing my part to flatten the curve,” Becky boasts, “Doing my part to help keep you alive. You’re welcome.”

“Looks more like you’ve done your part to fatten the curve. You’re supposed to cheer for the Hogs. Not be a hog,” Mother scoffs, “And I don’t need your help for anything. Get over yourself.”

Despite the weather growing colder as the sun begins to set, Becky feels a searing heat washing over her. Like menopause on steroids. The cherries of a million lit Merits smoldering all at once. Her world growing even darker than the shadows now cast upon her backyard. Barely making out Uncle Joe’s figure as he’s dozed off while watching the game. The butcher knife still in her hand. Caught in the vise of a white-knuckled grip. Adrenaline rushing. Heart pounding. Tears building. Rage intensifying. Sixty years of trying every way possible to please Mother has led her to this moment in time. Backed into a corner with seemingly no escape. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

“Even your own husband didn’t want to be here for this,” Mother continues berating Becky, “And he lives here.”

“We’re having our celebration with the girls and grandbabies tomorrow. You know that,” Becky corrects Mother, “You were the one who insisted we do something with our friends today. This is all your doing.”

“Oh yeah. It’s all some big conspiracy against you,” Mother reacts sarcastically, “Why don’t you grow up already?”

“You never believed in me!” Becky explodes in a teary rage, “My whole life… All you’ve ever done is tear me down!”

“You’re crazy! I’ve done everything for you!” Mother shouts, “All I’ve ever wanted was for your treat me with some common decency. Like those nice people on TV.”

“I am not one of your infomercial hosts!” Becky screams, “You know… I don’t think Uncle Joe is the only one here whose brain is turning to mush!”

“At least I haven’t let my body turn to mush!” Mother unloads, “I should’ve drowned you in the bathtub when I had the chance!”

“You bitch!” Becky exclaims viciously through clenched teeth.

Mother slaps Becky across the face. An unstoppable force overtakes Becky. Thrusting the knife into Mother’s stomach. To her spine. Slashing Becky’s hand in the process. She removes the knife from Mother and lets it drop to the concrete. Looking at the wound on her palm. Then at Mother, who stands there. Speechless and in disbelief. Blood flowing from her stomach and mouth. Coughing and sputtering. But refusing to go down easily. Refusing to concede defeat to her fat, angry daughter. Fatal injury be damned. Becky begins to panic as the gravity of the situation sets in. Looking over to see that Uncle Joe is still asleep. The wheels in her head turning as fast as they can within the limitations of her intellectual modesty. But the rage only intensifies as she dwells on the last words Mother spoke.

Becky summons all her physical strength. Grabbing Mother by her winter coat and tossing her face down at the pool’s edge. Becky gets on her knees while straddling Mother. Pushing her head under the water. Holding it there with all her might. Mother’s limbs flailing in a desperate attempt at self-preservation despite the blood loss. Becky keeps Mother’s slender frame immobilized thanks to her generous weight. Forcing Mother’s face underwater for seemingly an eternity. Becky doesn’t care. More than content to spend the rest of eternity drowning Mother in her expensive swimming pool. Making that third mortgage and depreciated property value a downright bargain in her deranged mind. Savoring every second Mother inches closer to death. As she fights it less and less. Until she fights no longer.

Becky utilizes the momentum generated by her ample size to shove Mother’s lifeless body into the pool. She goes to the table, lights up another Merit, and picks up the knife. Returning poolside and tossing the murder weapon into the water. Taking a seat on the scene of the crime. All is quiet in her world. Not even the game or Uncle Joe’s snoring register in her ears. Her immense rage subsiding. She still must devise a way out of this mess. But for now, she’s content to enjoy the first cigarette of her new mother-free lifestyle. Each drag from her bloodstained cancer stick more satisfying than the one before. She’d spent all afternoon convinced this was the worst birthday she’s ever had. But now she’s made it the best. Mother is finally out of her life, Uncle Joe is the closest thing to a witness, and no one will ever see that God-awful cake. Becky feels confident she can pin this on Uncle Joe and his dementia. He’ll just get stuck in a hospital for his remaining days, she rationalizes, where he probably belongs anyway.

Suddenly, Mother’s reanimated corpse rises from the water. Butcher knife in her right hand. Wrapping her left arm around Becky’s neck. Attempting to stab her in the stomach. Becky flails wildly. Struggling to breathe. Much less scream. Fighting with all her might as Mother struggles to stab through her daughter’s winter coat and thick layer of flab. Try as she might, Mother can’t break through to Becky’s internal organs. Finally moving her left arm down and going for the throat. The blade piercing Becky’s neck. Blood flowing instantly. She has no time to contemplate the severity of this wound as Mother pulls her backward into the water. Down to the darkness of the deep end. The world above the surface pulled further away with every foot descended. Her attempts to call for help couldn’t be any more futile. What was literally a moment of life without Mother now terminated in a most unenviable fashion.

“Huh? Wh-wh-what?” Uncle Joe awakens as if he heard something.

But all he sees is the peaceful calm of the swimming pool. And that the game has just ended with an Arkansas loss.

“You wanna know how to get Arkansas winning again?” Uncle Joe announces to no one, “You… uh… you… you bring back that Bobby Petrino. He’s both a winner and a class act.”

Uncle Joe slowly rises and sees that he’s alone.

“Patty!” he calls out while looking around, “Hey, Patty!”

He shuffles poolside. Unable to comprehend the situation. Staring into the water. Unable to see anything through its unrelenting darkness. Finally turning to head for the house.

“Hey, Pat…” Uncle Joe slips on a puddle of water and blood. Falling forward. Smacking his head on the concrete. Dying instantly.

A cold rain begins to fall. Becky’s birthday cake melts in the dark. All that hideous green frosting flowing down. Happy birthday, my daughter.