The Birthday Room Read Online Free PDF Page B

seems to be a big part of this pregnancy. I’m usually in bed by now, but I wanted to wait up for your arrival. But if I don’t go to bed soon, I’m going to fall asleep right here, standing up, like a horse. Good night . . .”
    Ben blinked. And she was gone. Blink. Some of the lights had been turned off. Blink. What time was it? How late?
    Before it had fully registered with Ben, he was alone downstairs. The greetings were done. The sleeping arrangements were figured out. Ben and his mother had called home to say they had arrived safely. Ian had gone upstairs to join Nina. And Ben’s mother had retired to the small upstairs room that would eventually become the new baby’s nursery.
    Ben had been given a choice—he could either sleep on the sofa or on a cot out on the screened back porch. It was chilly, but the idea of being on the porch appealed to him. He wandered through the rooms, acquainting himself with the house, before he settled in for the night.
    The travel and the anticipation had worn him out. He blinked to stay awake. And he blinked as though his eyelids were shutters, his mind a camera, and he was capturing this new place and storing it away. The kitchen with its knotted, wide-planked floor that pitched down toward the sink. The living room with its stone fireplace—round and gaping like the mouth of a lion. And the dining room—each of the four walls had been painted a different color, and one wall, the largest, unbroken one, was covered entirely with photographs. Except for Ian and Nina, Ben didn’t recognize anyone in the photographs, but he was too tired to spend much time looking.
    Ben guessed that most of the furniture in the house had been made by Ian. He examined one chest of drawers closely. The chest had twelve square drawers, four rows of three. Each drawer had a grooved surface; the grooves were painted in alternating, muted colors—green, blue, gray; green, blue, gray. It reminded Ben of a patchwork quilt. It amazed him to think that his uncle had built it.
    The floor creaked as Ben walked quietly to the porch.
    As he made himself comfortable under some blankets and a down comforter, he was thinking of his father, home alone. But it was one of the photographs he was picturing as he crossed over to sleep. In the photograph, five children of descending height, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, bent slightly forward, backs to the viewer, were looking through curtained French doors, captivated by the intense white light that shone through. Ben knew they were brothers and sisters. He wondered what that felt like.

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    â€œT HERE HE IS ,” said a voice.
    â€œThere he is,” a slightly higher but similar voice repeated.
    The first voice: “I see him.”
    The second: “I see him.”
    Ben awoke and lifted his head to the sunlight, cocked his head toward the sound of giggling. His eyes focused in time to see two white-haired children running away from the porch and out of sight. Peals of silly laughter trailed behind them through the piney brush.
    Ben sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. Had he been dreaming? One, two, three—he sprang from bed, pulled on his jeans and hiking boots, and passed from room to room of the house through bands of light and shadow. He was drawn to the kitchen by the smells of coffee and fresh bakery, and by the soft rumble of conversation.
    Ian was standing by the sink, and Ben’s mother was across the room, leaning against the counter beside a plate of muffins. Both held mugs of coffee.
    â€œMorning,” Ben called. He was surprised to see his mother up and dressed before he was, when she didn’t have to be.
    â€œHey, here’s the artist,” said Ian cheerfully.
    Ben stopped and slipped his mother an angry look. “Mom?”
    â€œWhat?” said his mother. “I was just telling Ian about your art prizes. He’s an artist—I thought it would