Title: This Thing About Birthdays
Author: Andrea
E-mail: CarbyLove@aol.com
Rating: R. Well, not yet … but maybe later. Definitely later.
Summary: It's Abby's birthday, but this year things are a little bit different. Same old Carby fluff with some Suby thown in for good measure.
Author's Note: So this is a little alternate universe fic. I don't usually do well writing those, but I started this one so long it go, it wasn't AU yet. But alas, time caught up with me, so now it is. Anyway, I liked it too well the way it was to change things around, so we will all just be transported to another dimension for this one, okay? We'll call it " the universe of what might have been if certain people hadn't been tragically afflicted with head-up-the-ass disease." And oh yeah, this one is actually NOT a stand alone … it has real chapters and everything. Not that it's actually finished … but um … I'm working on it. *Big props to Catherine for being a selfish bi-atch and telling me to post this one now so that maybe I'll finally finish it. Because apparently she's anxiously awaiting chapter 5. Huh, who knew? But anyway, thanks, McJackass. And well, hey, you rock my world.*
Disclaimer: Yeah, they're mine. You wanna make something of it?
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This Thing About Birthdays
Chapter 1: What a Difference a Year Makes
Birthdays suck. Oh sure, it's a well known fact that most thirty … something women aren't exactly thrilled by the prospect of another birthday. Of being a year older. For me, though, it's never been about vanity, or the fear of growing older. Happy birthday has always seemed like an oxymoron to me. In my world, birthdays are nothing but unpleasant reminders. Of all the things that are wrong with my life. A time to look back and gauge the past year's failures. To be reminded, in no uncertain terms, of just how utterly alone I am.
When I was a child, my mother forgot my birthday as often as she remembered it. And when she did remember it, I often wished she had forgotten. Like the year she showed up in the school cafeteria with a Hello Kitty cake and party favors for all the other kids sitting at my table. Which might have been nice. If I hadn't been fifteen.
When I was married, my husband seemed to think that an appropriate way to celebrate my birthday was to go out on a romantic date … with his girlfriend, the whore. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Of course I can't say that these past few birthdays without my cheating ex have really improved. Because, for the most part, I've spent them alone, and quite often, depressed.
That was certainly the theme of my last birthday. Just thinking about it makes me groan inwardly. The birthday when anything that could have gone wrong did. Talk about a day from hell. But that was then and this is now.
I smile to myself, remembering the now. That's right, this year is a little different. God knows, it's been a tough one. I made some bad decisions, some major mistakes that got the year off to an inauspicious beginning, to say the least. But I've come a long way since then. I've worked hard to get my life back on track, and things have gotten better and better as the year has gone on. This year I've got some things to be proud of. Some things I've done right, for a change. And one or two things in particular that I managed to get right. Finally. And that makes me happier than I've ever been. Yep, I'm happy. It's the first birthday in a long time when I can say that without reservation. A happy birthday for once? Maybe. No, not maybe. Yes, definitely, a happy birthday.
With that thought, I open my eyes and lazily turn my head to look at the pillow next to mine. Empty. Well, I knew that. He had an early shift, and I knew I might not even hear him leave. Still, if I couldn't wake up in his arms, it might have been nice for him to at least wake me before he left and wish me a happy birthday. I knew he didn't forget. He wouldn't. Not after last year. He knows now, all to well, how my relapse started, and he seems to be determined to make sure the same thing doesn't happen again. The depressing birthday, that is. Not the relapse; he knows I'm stronger than that now. I have to be. I've promised him. I've promised myself. Most importantly, I've promised the baby that's growing inside me, making a little bump under my pajama top. Or rather Carter's pajama top. My hand falls automatically to that little swelling in my belly, rubbing absentmindedly, as if the child within needs to be soothed. Looking down at the ever-growing bulge, I can't help but smile as I realize this birthday will be unlike the others. No more lonely and depressing birthdays. Not now that I have this baby. And it's father, of course. My sweet Carter. He's been hinting for weeks, trying to get me to tell him what I want for my birthday. I keep insisting that for once I have all that I need. I have him. I have our baby. What more could I want?
Well, geez, a rose on his empty pillow or a card or a note or something might have been nice. Or he could have called. On the other hand, it's nice that the phone didn't ring all morning, for once I got to sleep in. I pull on my robe and head to the bathroom. Figuring that it's my birthday, and I can sit around in my pajamas all day if I want to, I decide to skip the shower for now and head out to the kitchen.
And there, in the middle of the table, sits a birthday cake. Chocolate frosted and leaning precariously to one side, it is certainly not the most beautiful cake I've ever seen. It's much better than that. The words "Happy Birthday, Abby" have been carefully lettered on to the top of the cake in red icing. And a birthday card sits propped up against the cake. I open it up and read it. It's perfect. Not too sickeningly sentimental, yet sweet. The handwritten note on the inside says simply,
Happy Birthday, my dearest Abby,
It's your birthday, so you can eat cake. Eat it for breakfast if you like.
Love,
John
PS Check the machine.
The machine? Oh, the answering machine. I turn around and look at the answering machine that sits on the kitchen counter these days. The light is blinking urgently. I hit the button and wait for his voice. But nothing happens. What the hell? Is it broken? Oh wait … no, the volume is turned down. I turn it up and rewind the message. There's his voice.
"Hey sweetie, happy birthday. You were sleeping so peacefully when I left that I couldn't stand to wake you. I sorry I'm not there with you right now. But I promise I'll make it up to you tonight. I have a little surprise planned. I love you."
There's a beep and another voice comes on the line. My mom wishing me a happy birthday. And then a message from my brother. And then another familiar voice. Susan.
"What the hell is this Ab? It's your birthday, the day when you should be able to do anything you want, and you didn't come to work? You didn't get up at dawn for the pleasure of battling the bitter cold and ferocious winds so that you could come here and insert foley catheters? Why not? Do you need a psych consult, because … "
By now I'm giggling uncontrollably. Susan's voice fades away and I hear indistinct rumbling, until suddenly I hear John's voice again.
"Push the button."
"I did push the button"
"Are you sure, Susan?"
"Of course, I'm not an idiot. See the light? The speaker is on."
"If you're sure --"
"Hey, are you two just gonna argue or are we gonna do this?"
Chuny. She then says something in Spanish which must have been an insult because then Susan reminds her in rather unpleasant … okay, *bitchy* tone of voice that SHE speaks Spanish. But before she can say anything more, a chorus of voices starts singing. To me.
" … happy birthday, dear Abby. Happy birthday to you."
This singing is followed by several different voices calling out birthday wishes, Pratt offering to give me a very special birthday gift, Carter offering to have his face rearranged, and Haleh offering to lock them both in an exam room together for the rest of the day. All this frivolity comes to an abrupt halt when Kerry Weaver barks out that it's time to get back to work, the patients are waiting. But then I hear her voice, much softer, much sweeter.
"I hope you have a happy birthday Abby. You and John enjoy your weekend together, and I'll see you both next week."
Now I'm just confused. "Enjoy our weekend together"? As far as I know I'm working tomorrow and he's working Sunday. Some weekend together. Unless … maybe that surprise he mentioned …
A smile creeps across my face, as I realize that maybe this birthday is going to be even better than I thought.
Wow. What a difference a year makes.