By Lauren Davis
Beneath the undusted dining room chandelier, the father cut into the cake, which was chocolate with raspberry jam between two layers, and chocolate frosting on the top. He put one large slice on a paper plate and handed it to the mother.
You get the first bite, he said, and the two kids clapped their hands.
Yes, the teenage daughter said. You deserve it. Happy Mother’s Day!
Happy Mother’s Day, echoed the five-year-old boy.
The mother smiled and took a bite from a pink plastic fork. Yum, she said, and grimaced.
Do you love it? the little boy asked. I helped.
I sure do like it, the mother said, and patted him on the head.
He asked if you love it, the teenage daughter said.
I love it, the mother said.
Everyone chewed and looked at each other and then at the table.
Time for presents, the father said. He pulled a small gift out of his pocket. The silver paper crinkled as the mother unwrapped it. Her eyes grew big at the sight of the jewelry box. It snapped open between her bitten nails.
A watch, she said.
Yes, he said. You’ve been talking about needing a watch.
It’s black, she said.
You always wear black, he said. Do you like it?
I like it, she said.
My turn, said the little boy. He jumped out of his chair and climbed into his mother’s lap, kissed her on the cheek and hugged her. Happy Mother’s Day, he said.
Thank you, she said. She looked at his empty hands.
Do you love my present? he asked.
Your present? the mother said.
Yes, the daughter said. He gave you a hug and a kiss.
Oh, yes, the mother said. I like it.
The boy slid away from his mother and returned to his chair. He glanced back her way and then began to eat his cake again, his movements slow, his eyes lowered.
Well, the daughter said. I guess I’m last.
Yes, the mother said.
The daughter went to the closet and came back with one large box and two smaller boxes all wrapped in light blue paper with small daisies printed in an obvious pattern.
Open the large one first, the daughter said.
The mother quickly unwrapped it and stared at the printing on the cardboard box.
It’s a magnifying mirror, the daughter said. It has three different light settings, for when you put on your makeup.
Oh, the mother said.
Open the other two now, the daughter said.
The mother unwrapped tweezers next.
You said the ones you have aren’t the ones you want, the daughter said. These are stainless steel. These won’t rust.
The mother said nothing.
It’s what you keep saying you need, the daughter said. She began to wring her hands in her lap. Her face flushed.
The mother dropped the tweezers down on the table and they made a slight clank. She carefully unwrapped the last present, then tossed the daisy print paper on the floor.
You lost your comb, the girl said, her voice soft as prayer. You keep talking about how you loved that comb. This one is almost the same.Thank you, the mother said. Thank you all. She got up from the table and left them and the gifts behind and closed the door to the bedroom down the hall.
Lauren Davis is the author of the forthcoming short story collection The Nothing (YesYes Books), the poetry collection Home Beneath the Church (Fernwood Press), the Eric Hoffer Grand Prize short-listed When I Drowned (Kelsay Books), and the chapbooks Each Wild Thing’s Consent (Poetry Wolf Press), The Missing Ones (Winter Texts), and Sivvy (Whittle Micro-Press). She holds an MFA from the Bennington College Writing Seminars. Her work has appeared in numerous literary publications and anthologies including Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Ibbetson Street, Ninth Letter and elsewhere. Davis lives on the Olympic Peninsula in a Victorian seaport community. https://laurendavisauthor.com/