And she does. I don’t even remember my head hitting the pillow.
Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff…
The sound pulls me from sleep, and before I register what is making the noise a wet dog nose stamps my cheek.
“Argh!” I swat it away and my hand is met with a slobber-soaked tennis ball and steamy dog breath. “Hairy?! What are you doing in my old room?” What am I doing in my old room?
The dreamlike events of the previous evening flood into my mind and I pull the flowery sheets over my head in embarrassment. I got awkwardly close to Anders to the point that he sent me home. Then I had a crying jag worthy of a Disney princess and accidentally drove to my mom’s house. Basically, I am killing it at life.
At least the sun is shining.
Which means I am late.
A few swear words fly through my mind as I track down my cell phone and scramble out of bed and into the hall. Hairy barks, thumping down the stairs behind me.
“Mom! I slept in! I’m going to grab Immy and we’ll be back in a few!” I holler across the house. I don’t even know if she’s around to hear me, but I don’t have time for a polite goodbye. I hope I didn’t totally screw up Anders’ day.
“We’re in here!” a familiar voice calls from the direction of the kitchen. Immy?
I look down at the dog. Hairy is here. Why is Hairy here? My groggy brain is buffering. No important details are registering.
I wander into the kitchen, where I find Immy standing on a dining chair next to the counter. Over her nightgown she’s wearing my mother’s apron that reads “Hands off my buns” with a few strategically placed cartoon dinner rolls. Her hair is still pulled away from her face in the two braids I gave her last night. I have so many questions.
“Happy birthday, my Sunflower!” My mother circles the counter and wraps her arms around me.
“Yeah, happy birthday, Sunny!” Imogen smiles over a huge metal bowl of waffle batter. It looks like my mom has her folding in the whipped egg whites. That was always the job I got as a kid.
“Thanks, you guys.” I check the clock over the stove and find that I slept for over nine hours. Nine hours? “Um… I have so many questions. How did you get here, Im?” I rub my eyes. Maybe I’m still asleep and this is a bizarre dream? It’s possible.
“Miss Sarah came and got me and Hairy this morning.”
My mom must have clocked my worry, because she cuts in, “You needed sleep. That was obvious. Anders and I agreed that you’ve been pushing yourself much too hard and that you deserve to sleep in on your birthday.”
“You talked to Anders about me? How? Why?” There’s embarrassing, and there’s my-mom-talked-to-my-celebrity-boss-about-me humiliating. Happy birthday to me. “I was extra tired last night, but I’m fine now. I’ve got this. I can’t believe I slept in so late.”
My mom sighs. “I can. You’ve run yourself ragged for weeks. Anders says you’ve had nothing but late nights and early mornings. He got my number from his manager and called me after you went to sleep last night. He was worried about you, especially after I told him you were crying when you got here. We decided that you should sleep in for your birthday and I would take care of Imogen this morning.”
“Mom!” I can’t believe this. But the fire of my mortification burns down to the steady, warm glow of feeling cared for. That was unbelievably thoughtful for a man who supposedly doesn’t respect women. I can’t afford to see this side of Anders. He’s easier to resist when I think of him as a womanizer.
“Happy birthday and you’re welcome,” she says with a mom look that silences me. The waffle iron beeps and she opens the lid. “This is ready. Should we cook up some birthday waffles, Imogen?”
“Yeah!”
I slump onto a barstool and watch while my mom guides Imogen. She shows her how to scoop a cupful of the lumpy batter and spread it onto the hot iron, where it sizzles and steams and fills the kitchen with the smell of happiness. Imogen giggles when she closes the lid and flips the waffle upside down.
“I made a waffle, Sunny!” She beams at me and my chest aches with pride over this little girl who isn’t mine. The joy she finds in her new skill makes my heart swell.
I can’t help my smile. “You did a great job, Im!” Confused feelings aside, I am giddy about this breakfast. Our family celebrates a lot of birthdays and these Belgian waffles have made me a lover of birthdays.
The crusty-eyed sleep fog is dissipating and I’m looking forward to the day. The ever-present tiredness that has clouded my mind for weeks is gone. I’m well rested and there are waffles on my horizon. I get to have dinner with my family and Immy tonight. Maybe my life isn’t tragic. Maybe I really was just overtired last night.
“I’m sorry about last night, Mom.”
She cracks open a can of diet Coke. “Don’t apologize for being tired to the point of tears, especially not on your birthday,” she says as she pours the drink over ice and pops a bendy straw into the glass. A tiny, pink paper umbrella materializes, and she props it on the rim. “We’re celebrating you today. Drink this.” She slides the glass to me across the counter.
I laugh, “The umbrella is a nice touch.” I take a long sip. Bubbles. Caffeine. Happiness. Diet Coke for breakfast. It’s good to be alive. I might have a problem. “I can’t believe Anders let you take her,” I whisper with a nod to Immy, who is busy over-stirring the big bowl of batter with her noodle arms.
“He was almost too okay with it, actually. It wasn’t the first time we’ve talked, though. I’ve met Oliver and Christopher. Signed all the stuff. He said he knew I was your mother by the matching braids.”
