Memories, a faraway laugh, in a birthday phone call

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

“It's Janet’s birthday," I tell the person who answers the phone, expecting her to say, "It is? I'm so glad you mentioned this." Or "I know. We're having a little party this afternoon."

But she says, "Oh." She says it flat, without inflection, in a way that means "I don't care. What difference does it make? Why are you telling me?"

The voice belongs to a woman who cares for my friend in a facility a thousand miles away. I want her to like me and talk to me. I want to be able to ask, "How is she? Does someone read her the cards I send? Is she even getting the cards?"

The "Oh" - one syllable, two letters - has stopped me cold.

Maybe a birthday doesn't matter. My friend has lost her words. She doesn't remember what they mean or where they belong. She lives in a place where she is cared for and protected.

Maybe only this matters.

"Call back," the voice tells me. "They're at lunch now."

I hang up and think about her eating lunch with people who don't know it's her birthday.

We grew up together, Janet and I. We played marbles in our driveways, Red Rover in our yards. We made first communion side by side. Slept at each other's houses. Told each other horror stories. Double dated. Laughed. Argued. Cried.

Then she got married and moved away. But it was only geography that separated us. One phone call and we were 12 again.

Still, the miles between us had an effect. Good times, bad times, we couldn't share them. Not when we were adults. We weren't around for each other's ups and downs, for our kids' milestones, when our parents got sick. All the parties and celebrations that make up a lifetime? Hers were on one coast and mine were on another.

We never wrote and as the years went by we seldom called. Except on our birthdays. We always, always, called each other then.

Her’s came first and mine came three weeks later. On her birthday, I'd phone her early in the morning, waking her. And she'd answer with a drawn out "Hel-lo-o-o-o," knowing exactly who it was. I'd sing the predictable "Happy Birthday to you" and she'd laugh and laugh.

It never got old.

She did the same, calling me at midnight, waking me up, belting out a tune, making me smile.

When we were kids, I envied her being older, hitting 13 first, then 16, then 21. Then the tables turned and she envied me the extra weeks.

What bound us? Not blood. Not obligation. Not much, really. Just a few old memories: Getting the giggles in church. Crying at "Imitation of Life." Convulsing over the word "Chicopee." Watching "Fury" on Saturday mornings. Passing notes in class. Liking the same boy, the same books, the same corny songs.

I call back. I ask for my friend again and the voice says, "Hold on, hon."

I hold on to the "hon."

Janet comes to the phone. I start singing "Happy Birthday." Then I prattle on about this being the BIG ONE and how did we get so old so fast?

And she laughs, not her old trilling laugh, but some of it. And I think, she's still here.

For my 14th birthday, she gave me a mohair scarf. It itched but I loved it. Every time I wore it I thought of her.

I hung it on a coat rack at an inn in Maine one night. The scarf was 20 years old by then. But someone must have thought it was beautiful, because when I went to get it, it was gone.

I moaned about losing that scarf for the longest time. And then one day I realized it would never be gone. I remember it each fall when I put on some other scarf. I remember it each time a sweater or a coat chafes my neck. I remember it each year on Janet’s birthday and I remember it two weeks later on mine.

“Happy Birthday,” I sang to my friend. And she laughed. And I smiled.