HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME
by C.L. Halvorson

The day before my eleventh birthday, very nearly turned out to be the worst day of my life.

I got off the school bus around four o’clock just like every other day and walked to our house.  Daddy’s car was in the driveway.  That was odd.  He should be at work.  He was sitting at the dining room table.  I thought he worked today.  I turned to set my book bag on the chair and saw Mama’s purse where it always sat, next to the chair.  Something was definitely going on.  They wouldn’t both be home this early on a weekday.

“Mama’s home too?” I asked Daddy.  “Where is she?”

“No, your Mama’s not here.  Just sit down until your sisters get here.”

“But, Daddy, where’s Mama?” I pressed.

“Just sit down and wait, please,” something was certainly wrong.  I could have never gotten away with asking another question after I’d been told to wait.  He surely would have raised his voice; he was quiet.  Too quiet.

My sisters, Sara and Diana finally came bounding through the door.  Talking to the top of their voices.  They had not seen our father’s Monte Carlo in the drive.  They stopped short, surprised as I was to see him at home.

“Hi Daddy!” they greeted him in unison.

He only stared at them.

“Daddy?” asked Diana quietly.

“Sit down, baby girl,” he said.

Then he told us.  Mama had been in a very bad automobile accident that morning.  She was in the hospital. She was in a coma.  The doctors said she would not live through the night.  They sent Daddy home to tell us.  You could hear our hearts break.

A certain traffic light in the city had had more than its share of problems.  It flashed red in all directions and drivers were left to fend for themselves until a traffic cop arrived.  Folks were taking turns going through the intersection.  Treating it like a stop sign.  Except for one particular fool in a pickup. In an effort to avoid the intersection, he barreled through the 7-11 parking lot. 

The huge pickup was equipped with a cattle guard.  A cattle guard is a device attached to the front of ranch trucks so that in the event of collision with cattle or deer, the truck and its occupants remain untouched and the animal is thrown aside.  This pickup’s guard was only for show. 

The welded steel grid crumpled our mother’s tiny Chevy like tin foil.  The truck only received a scratch.  The driver and his teenage son walked away with minor bruises.  The driver only received a traffic ticket.

Something didn’t add up, though, the location of the accident did not make sense.  It was in the wrong direction from the beauty salon where Mama worked.  I said as much.  Daddy told us Mama was on that side of town to pickup my birthday cake.  I started to shake.  I was going to be sick.  Sick with guilt.

“It’s my fault,” I whispered to Daddy through tear filled eyes.

He held me tight and whispered, “No, baby girl, no,” into my hair. 

We had to see her.  He had to take us to her.  We had to say goodbye in person.  Daddy said we had to be fourteen to go into the room.  Surely they would make an exception.  Our mother was dying.  Surely they would let us in.  He told us they would not.  Daddy had already tried to make arrangements for us to see her.  Her doctor refused to let us come.  He felt we would be too traumatized by her condition.  Obviously, she was pretty banged up.  Tubes and wires in her body.

We went to bed early that night without eating.  We weren’t hungry.  Daddy went back to the hospital to stay with Mama.  We cried ourselves to sleep.  We rose early the next morning and waited together in silence in the living room.  Waited for Daddy to come tell us Mama was gone.  Happy birthday to me.   

After a time, the front door opened and Daddy walked in.  Smiling.  He was smiling!  Why was he smiling?  We asked him why.  He knelt in front of the sofa and grabbed our hands.  Mama had lived.  She had lived through the night despite what the doctors had said.  Not only had she lived, but she was stronger.  Her blood pressure, pulse and breathing were near normal.  She was still in a coma, but she would live.  Modern medicine had no explanation.  The doctors were stumped.  She should have died.  But she didn’t.  Happy birthday to me!

Years later, Mama told us what kept her alive was the thought of leaving us alone with Daddy to raise us.  We found out why that was enough motivation for her over the months following the accident.

While Mama recuperated, Daddy was in charge.  Daddy had never been in charge.  This was to be a learning experience for us all.  The first order of business was laundry.  Daddy sent us off to get dressed, strip our beds and bring the hamper to the laundry room.  We scampered off to do as we were told.  He could have instructed us to go out and clean the street with our tooth brushes and we would have gladly done so.  Mama was not going to die and nothing else mattered.  If she had gotten over that hurdle then we, surely, could do anything! 

Yeah, right.