Page 2 of Nine-Tenths

It's an old joke, me being the Changeling child. I'm the only one of them with dark hair. The rest of my family are blond as heck.

Mum’s grinning at her own cleverness, lips curving into that little curl in the side of her mouth that holds secrets. Dad always called it Mum's 'Peter Pan Kiss’. It’s the spot where her sense of humor lives. He'd wrap his arms around her waist and kiss that corner, and Mum would swat at him for ruining her lipstick.

Thinking about Dad reminds me that he's dead.

I hate the swoop-and-stab sensation in my chest that comes with remembering. Especially when there's a moment you want to share, and you thinkI should say that to Dad, and you straighten up a bit and take a deep breath, and turn your head tohis chair and start composing the sentence in your head: "Hey, Dad, Mum's doing that—" and then you stop.

You stop composing. Stop turning. Stop thinking about sharing. Stop breathing.

Because that chair is empty.

Dad's dead.

And you'll never get the chance to point out the Peter Pan kiss again. Or watch Mum swat him. Or listen to him tease us for falling for Mum's Old World fairy stories. Or hear his stupidhar-har-hardonkey laugh, thick with his Lower Canada accent.

It's my birthday.

He's not here.

I'll have another birthday, next year, and he won't be there for that one either.

I try to control my breathing, but Mum hears it hitching. I'm already staring at Dad's terrible empty chair, so it's not like I can hide what I'm thinking about. Mum curls her fingers over my knuckles.

"I wish he was here too,mo leanbh," she says softly.

Stu and Gem go quiet.

"Sucks," I cough out, deciding to give no one the pleasure of watching me actually cry. I'll save it for later, when I'm back in my own apartment. Not because of any kind of 'real men don't' toxic masculinity bullshit, but because I hate the fuss. They take the shit my therapist tells them about being my support network too much to heart.

"More tea, Mummers?" I ask instead, standing, breaking her hold on my hand to pick up the teapot on the counter beside the decimated cake.

"Time for something stronger, don't you think?"

"I've got it," Gem says, leaping at the chance to be helpful. She pops my gift back into the box and pushes the whole thing into my arms, forcing me back down into the chair. "Four glasses?"

"Extra ice in mine," Stu calls at Gem's back as she breezes into the living room and over to the booze hutch. We all pretend Gem's not wiping at her eyes. "I gotta drive."

"You're not staying for dinner?" Mum asks him.

"One of my guys got in the weeds with something at the museum, and the city wants it done before the kids start showing up for summer camps."

"But Colin's come all the way from St. Catharines," Mum protests. "I thought you'd at least spend the night."

"I have a perfectly good bed a ten minute drive away, Mum."

Mum's lips pucker. I hate seeing her unhappy, but what am I gonna do? Tie Stu to the chair?

Ha.

"Could use your advice," Stu says to me. "Figure out the best place to—"

"I know what you're doing, and the answer is no," I say, but I force a smile through it. "Try all you like Stu-pid, I'm not coming to work with you."

"It'd be nice to see both my boys working in their Dad's company," Mum says, trying to keep the peace.

"I need a landscaper for the summer—"

"My degree is in environmental and sustainable tourism," I remind everyone. "I wrote my thesis on biodynamic viniculture. Y'know, the science of eco-forward vineyard management? Not grass-cutting."