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It is your birthday.
You do not want to get out of bed.
There is no party. You didn't want one. You tried to pretend you did, you tried to be excited, but you finally cracked and told your dad the truth. He must have told your mom. They must have had a fight. He must have won. Suddenly the calendar was blank and your mother wouldn't look at you.
It is your birthday. There is a card, and a spare gate key, on your bedside table. Your mother must have come in while you were asleep.
You pick up the card, ignoring the hundred-dollar bill that flutters to the ground. Despite yourself, you crack a smile. You recognize this one from the grocery store. It has a pre-written message, in a bright, multicolor font decorated with stripes and polka dots: Sorry about your ankles!
Sorry and ankles have been crossed out, and your father has scribbled replacements above them, so the message now reads: HAPPY about your BIRTHDAY!
On the opposite flap, in your mother's neat handwriting, there are several lines about how you're growing up to be so smart and so kind and she's so proud of you.
You feel guilty for liking your father's contribution more. A simple gag. A quick laugh. But it's real.
It's not that you think your mother is lying, exactly, it's just...
It's just...
(It's just that you've never stopped feeling like the do-over kid, the second chance, the one she can save, the one she'll get right. It's just that you can't help but wonder if the message is... recycled. If she wrote it once before, decided she didn't mean it, and saved it for later.
Your mother lost your sister long before you and your father did.)
You go to the kitchen. There is a pie cooling on the counter, and another card beside it. Toriel. There is a short paragraph above her signature, and you feel even guiltier about the fact that it warms you more than the one penned by your own mother.
There is a vase of beautiful flowers at the other end of the counter, and a card from Asgore. It's got a silly stick figure drawing on it, of you being lifted into the air by a flower-shaped balloon. You fold it up and put it in your pocket.
There is a note on the fridge giving you permission to skip school, and letting you know your mother is working late.
It is your daughter's birthday.
She is the age your other daughter was when you last saw her alive.
Somehow, you expected to be fine with this. It's just a date. An arbitrary measure of time, as your wife put it. It holds only the significance you lend it.
But a birthday, as you pointed out in response, is a date that you've already assigned importance to.
Of course Noelle doesn't want a party.
It wasn't a fight, exactly. Carol's posture loosened as it only ever does when you're alone, and she pulled up a chair beside your bed.
"I know you've put a lot of work into the planning," you said.
"It's not about that," she said, as you knew she would. Hoped she would.
Carol avoided your gaze. "I just want her to have a normal birthday. Doesn't she deserve that much?"
"Of course she does," you said, taking one of Carol's hands in both of your own. "...Of course she does. But... c'mon, sweetheart. We both knew this year was gonna be tough."
"They're all going to be tough," Carol said, her voice stiff. Cold as ice, and just as fragile. "Every birthday beyond this one is just..."
She did not say: ...is just a birthday Dess never got to have. The words hung in the air anyway.
Carol cleared her throat, and continued brusquely: "If we don't set a good precedent now, she's going to be miserable every year."
"Carol. Honey."
"I know," she snapped, pulled her hand out of your grip, and then exhaled sharply. "I... know. I'm... over-managing her feelings. I know."
You retrieved her hand, and squeezed it. "Just... let her play hooky and eat junk food. Maybe watch a movie together."
Carol made a face at that. She hates Noelle's taste in movies. But she straightened up. "Yes. That's... a good plan."
That was a week ago.
Today is your daughter's birthday, and you woke up feeling numb and strange. You are braced for several hours of painfully boring isolation.
Noelle comes to visit.
A lump rises in your throat. You swallow it down, stifle the tickling threat of a coughing fit, and let joy take hold. "Hey, sweetheart!"
Her smile is wobbly. "Hey, dad. I..." She hesitates. "I, um... I—I'm trying to read this history chapter for school, but it's so boring! I was—I was hoping you could, um..."
You grin. "You want me to do the funny voices?"
Her smile solidifies in relief. "If, um—! If you're up for it!"
"I still got some fuel in the tank today. Hand over the ancient history, and let's see if your old man was alive for any of it."
It's a pleasant afternoon.
You are not oblivious to what it means—for her, and for you. To spend these hours as you would any other day. To pass the time laughing and goofing around, with no acknowledgment of any reasons why you shouldn't be. To silently confirm that she's not too old for silly voices.
The sun is already setting by the time she gets ready to leave.
"Thanks for the card," she says quietly, zipping up her bag. The wobbly smile is back. You manage to keep yours steady.
"Of course. Happy birthday, kiddo. Text me when you get home, okay?"
"I will. I promise. See you tomorrow."
It was stupid to let her stay so late. You just... miss her. And it's a short walk home. On any other day, you would only worry a little.
You stare at your phone in silence for the better part of fifteen minutes.
(You should call her. You should call her. Don't call her. She's fine. If you call her, she'll know why. She'll know what you're thinking about. She'll think about it too. Don't call her. Don't call her. Don't ruin her night. Don't—)
Home :) Good night!
You reply in kind with thumbs you can barely feel, and then let your phone slip from your grasp.
Your head is spinning. The room tilts. In the empty space, the low buzz of fluorescent lights becomes a roaring static, heightened by a thrumming machine in the neighboring room. Your temple throbs. The tickle in your chest is creeping back in, taking root as a persistent itch, peddling the lie that one good cough will clear it all up. You lie back against the pillows and take slow, deep breaths that make you feel like you're drowning.
The world comes gradually back into focus. Enough for you to pick up your phone, hover over your wife's name. Asgore's name. Toriel. Carol. Asgore. Carol. Asgore.
Don't. Don't. Don't.
"Come on, man," you mutter, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. "Get a fucking grip."
Whatever emotional stamina Carol can spare tonight should be going to Noelle.
Things with Toriel are... strained, too much up in the air between her and Asgore and, by extension, her and you. Which doesn't mean she wouldn't drop everything to rush over here, but you don't even know what you'd want from her if she did.
Asgore—
Asgore.
Asgore will promise you things he can't deliver. And it's never been his fault. But you can't handle it tonight.
"Get. A fucking. Grip," you hiss, pressing harder. Your hands are wet. You can't catch your breath. Your chest burns. Your throat aches.
The door opens.
It is your daughter's birthday.
You are busy.
You are always busy. She will understand.
She always understands.
(It's not as if she wants to spend her birthday with you. You are not oblivious. Not anymore. Not with this one.)
The sun is almost down by the time you leave work. If Noelle has not already shut herself in her room, you will offer to watch one of her disgusting horror films. You will refrain from pointing out the stupidity of the protagonists. You will make popcorn. She will go to bed happy, or at least amused. You will text your husband, and imagine his pleased laugh.
The house is dark.
You have work tomorrow morning, and no time to mope. You make your way to the kitchen, flipping lights on as you go.
Noelle has eaten two pieces of pie, and nothing else. She put the rest of the pie in the fridge (responsible, forward-thinking), so she must have seen the diner food and pizza you brought home for her. She hasn't touched it.
Your stomach twists.
Your daughter is not going to bed hungry on her birthday.
On your way to her bedroom, you strategize. Pizza instead of popcorn. Two movies. Three. You will even entertain the idea of playing a video game together, or at least watching her play. Whatever it takes.
A noise stops you in your tracks.
Ah.
It is your daughter's birthday, and she is crying in her sister's room.
An icy wind bears down on you. You suppress a shudder, and open the door.
"Noelle."
She is sitting on her sister's bed, clutching one of her old T-shirts. She startles like you've caught her doing drugs. "Mom! I—I'm sorry, I—I'll wash the shirt, I—I just—"
You step inside and close the door. "You're not in trouble."
"O-okay. Um. Th... Thank you. Um..."
"You haven't eaten."
"I... Sorry." She wipes her face, slow and frantic at the same time. Too dazed to move quickly. "Thank you for the... the, um... I just..." Her stomach rumbles. She crosses her arms and shoves the T-shirt away. "I lost track of time. Sorry. I'll—I'll eat and then get ready for bed."
She wants you to leave. She won't tell you that, but you can see it. Hear it. What kind of mother leaves her daughter crying alone on her birthday?
What kind of mother drives her daughter to prefer that option?
For a couple of seconds, you contemplate stepping outside and calling your husband. He's better at... this kind of thing. He can tell you what to do.
No. No. Just imagine what he would say to that: Your daughter is not a project. You can't set her down and come back when you're ready.
Well, he would put it more kindly. Less bluntly. But he's not here, and you don't have that kind of patience for yourself.
Moving rigidly, refusing to hesitate once you've made the choice, you sit beside Noelle.
The instant you make contact with the bedspread, a wave of nausea almost bowls you over. You breathe through it, ignore the prickling sensation that washes over your entire body, and turn to your daughter. "Would you like to watch a movie?"
Her eyes widen. "Wh... what?"
"A movie," you repeat. "I'll heat up the pizza. And we can watch..." Your face forms a grimace without your permission. You forge ahead. "...whatever you want."
Noelle stares at you in silence for several seconds. Then she launches herself at you, arms locked around your middle, and bawls into your shirt.
Oh. Oh, god. No. You should have called Rudy.
You stare at nothing over the top of Noelle's head, count silently to ten, and slowly bring your arms up around her.
"I—don't—want it—to be my birthday!" Her voice is high, breathless, squeaked out between sobs. "I don't want—I don't want—I don't want to be older than her—"
You tighten your grip. What are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to say? This situation hardly seems conducive to a productive discussion about the likelihood that her sister is still alive. Anything you say to that effect will be taken as scolding. And anything you say not to that effect may be taken as confirmation that Dess is—
"I'm sorry I tried to throw you a party," you say. Stupidly. Noelle chokes on a laugh. "I thought... never mind what I thought. I'm glad your father talked me out of it."
Maybe some mothers could have made today feel normal and fun.
...Probably not.
But plenty could have done better.
(Toriel would have done better.
Toriel is not currently speaking to you.
Toriel baked a pie for your daughter anyway.)
"You... are..."
You start the sentence without knowing how it will end. A labor of love. Each word must be considered carefully, or this time next year you may be sitting here alone, mourning two daughters. "...allowed..."
No. Noelle would never—
Noelle could never—
(You thought Dess would never—)
"...to feel sad. About your birthday. You are allowed to feel... sad. In general. You..."
The room tilts. You take a deep breath. "You are allowed to miss your sister."
(You are allowed to hate me for driving her away. You are allowed to hate me. You are allowed to prefer crying alone.)
Noelle hiccups into your sodden shirtfront. "I—I love you, mom."
Oh.
Your chest squeezes. Your next inhale burns. You hold your breath until it stops. "I... love you, too. Sweetheart."
She sniffles and pulls away, rubbing her eyes. "Can we still watch a movie?"
Your mouth twitches. "We can watch one movie for every slice of pizza you eat."
She giggles. "Fahaha. On a school night?"
"If you eat at least half the pizza..." You lean forward conspiratorially. "...I will let you skip school again tomorrow."
She jumps off the bed. "Deal! I'm starving!"
It is your best friend's daughter's birthday.
You are trying to not make it about you. Your failure. Your inadequacy.
You don't hear from Rudy all day, which raises your hackles far more effectively than if he had actually said anything about having a hard time. Rudy is perpetually bored out of his mind in the hospital. He texts you so often that Carol has decided (not offered) to take on your phone bill.
When the sun starts to set and your phone remains quiet and still, you decide Rudy is probably due for some new bedside flowers.
Visiting hours are over, but no one ever enforces that policy unless there's a crisis. You nod your thanks to the front desk clerk, who politely ignores you, turning the page in her magazine and whistling loudly.
You are not altogether surprised to walk in on Rudy crying.
Almost in slow motion, you watch him perceive the door swinging open, straighten up, smile, realize it's you, and slump back against the pillows.
"Hey!" He wipes his face, still trying to smile. Trying to laugh at himself. "Ha—sorry, man. Just, uh, you know. Noelle's birthday. My little girl's growing up, and all that. My—my, uh—I—hh—"
You set the new flowers on the chair, push it aside, and lean over the bed to gather Rudy into a hug.
Rudy dissolves. "My little girl," he sobs. "My—my little..."
Your eyes widen. The fur along your spine stands on end. This is... too familiar.
(Footprints in the mud, going nowhere. Dark of night. Carol, on her hands and knees. Carol, in the mud. Carol, screaming. Carol screaming like you've never heard anyone scream. Toriel beside her, whispering. Rudy in your arms, crying. Rudy crying like you've never heard anyone cry. "My little girl. My little girl—" Flashlight beam slicing into empty darkness, half your mind still cataloguing every crumpled blade of grass, the other half cataloguing your best friend falling to pieces.
"We'll find her," you promise—and it was so easy to promise, only nine hours in. "We'll find her.")
You hold him closer. "We—"
"Don't," he says sharply, and doubles over coughing. You ease him upright, one hand on his back, letting him lean against you. "Don't," he repeats, wheezing. Gasping. "Don't. Don't say it. Please, man. I don't need... I just need my friend. Just be—just be here, and be—be my—"
"Alright," you say loudly, just to make him stop. "Alright. Easy. Stop talking until you can breathe."
It takes a while, but you are used to this. This is what Rudy calls the "dead wife montage interruptor," though you and Carol both wish he wouldn't. (Tori laughed... the first time he said it.) If he feels one coming on when the kids are around, he will feign tiredness just to get them to leave. They don't need to watch him cough up blood.
You have watched him cough up blood so many times that it barely registers anymore as something that should scare you. You grab one of the small basins that he keeps hidden under his extra pillows, and hold it under his chin. He bends over it, clutching your arm, and a small explosion of bright red speckles the stainless steel.
If there has to be blood, this shade and this amount is the base-case scenario. Throat irritation. Rudy gags, spits out another mouthful, and weakly shoves your hand away.
"'S over," he slurs, panting. "Pu'me down. Agh—"
You settle him back against the pillows, and he curls around his ribcage, jamming one hand as hard as he can into the mattress.
He only does that when he's trying not to scream.
"I'll get a nurse," you say, already moving, shoving the basin into the sink and reaching for the door.
"Gorey," Rudy wheezes, and you freeze in your tracks. "Don't. They'll kick you out. Please—please don't."
"Alright," you say quickly, and return to his bedside. "Alright. If you're sure."
"'M sure," he mutters. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he's clutching his ribs. "'M not dying. Just hurts. This thing's already helping." He gestures vaguely in the direction of the pain pump embedded in his abdomen. "Just. Stay. Please."
"Alright."
You don't ask for how long. You'll stand here all night if it will bring him some peace.
But Rudy scoots over and pats the empty space beside him, which is about a third the size of your body. "Hop up, big guy."
You do not argue. Rudy will stop you if it was a joke.
He doesn't.
It's a tight squeeze. Rudy doesn't seem to mind. He settles against you with an amused, contented hum. "Sorry if you get a little, uh, impaled. I'll try not to have any dreams about head-butting a... big furry soccer ball. 'r whatever."
(Will you really stay? All night?)
You chuckle, and drape an arm over him. "And I will try not to have any dreams about... er, being a hungry boa constrictor that... likes to eat deer."
(Of course I will.)
Rudy laughs. His breath is warm against you. "You're fuckin' weird, man."
You shrug the shoulder that is not currently going numb against a tiny hospital bed. "Yes."
Rudy snorts. "Whatever. You comfy?"
"...Yes."
He snorts again. "Bad liar."
You roll your eyes. "I am comfortable enough. What about you? Your ribs..."
Rudy extracts a hand and gestures vaguely, waving off your concern. "I maxed out th'button on this thing. I can't feel shit and 'm about to pass out."
"Good. Stop fighting it to talk to me. Go to sleep while it's still working."
"Mm." He pats you on the chest with his free hand. "Sure. Hey. Thanks'fr... th'flowers. Always bringin'em. Thanks."
(Thank you for checking on me.)
You do not pat him anywhere, because that seems like a very bad idea. You settle for ruffling his hair. Gently. "You do not belong in an empty white room. I am happy to brighten it up."
(It's the least I can do. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll find her. I'll find her. But for now, I'll do this.)
"Sure, man. Sure. 'Preciate it. Love you. Weirdo."
"I love you too. Stop talking."
His laugh is a barely audible huff.
You close your eyes.