Seven Years Old

Mrs. Johnson's daughter, six years old, was turning seven today.

"Momma, is Daddy going to be home soon?" she squeaked, tugging on her too-tight braid and brand-new-spankin' party dress. Six-nearly-seven, boyish, and without much care for frilly dresses, Allie squirmed uncomfortably on the couch, staring up at her mother.

Mrs. Johnson was in the midst of placing decorations about the living room. Her daughter was turning seven today, and several of her first grade friends were coming over for a party. Though she had insisted upon a princess theme, Allie had complained loudly that not a single one of her friends would want to come if everything was decked out in pink.

"Sweetie, that's because all of your friends are boys," her mother had said stiffly while they shopped for decorations and party favours.

In the end, they had gone with a Hotwheels theme, the streamers black, orange and yellow instead of white, pink and red like Mrs. Johnson had wanted. The plates were flashily decorated with black tires and flames licking the edges.

"This is so cool!" Allie had yelled, twirling the paper plates around like they were real steering wheels, making loud screeching and vrrroom sounds while she dashed up and down the aisle.

How different she looked today, with her dishwater blonde hair tied back in a French braid, a pretty pink ribbon woven through her locks. Her mother had forced the pale pink summer dress over her head despite Allie's furious kicking and flailing.

"No mom, no! I don't want to wear this, all my friends are going to laugh at me!"

Allie had long gotten over her fit already and was now eagerly focused on the front door, hoping that her father was going to burst in at any moment and scoop her up into his arms, fly her around the room like he always did whenever he got back from a business trip.

"Your daddy will be home at seven," Mrs. Johnson replied, putting the finishing touches upon the table settings. She stood back and stared at the long oak table, now laden with paper plates, party favours, party hats and a plate of pepperoni pizza and a jug of orange juice placed in the middle.

Mrs. Johnson checked her watch. "They should be here right about now." She frowned and glanced at her daughter, sitting on the couch kicking her legs up and down impatiently.

"Allie, please stop that."

"Yes, Momma." While her mother's back was turned, Allie stuck out her tongue and made a face. She sighed and continued to stare at the door. A whine escaped her.

"I thought Daddy would be home for the party."

"He'll be home in time for our own little party," Mrs. Johnson replied, straightening when the doorbell rang.

"I bet it's Tommy!" Allie hollered, bounding to the door before her mother could walk two steps. She opened the door with a flourished and grinned. "Hey!" she said.

Slight and dark-haired, Tommy pulled at his shirt collar uncomfortably and smiled sheepishly. "Hey, Allie. Here's your present." He thrust a brightly packaged box into her arms and followed her into the living room.

"Whoa! This is so cool!" he said in awe, looking about at the decorations.

Allie grinned proudly. "I know, right?"

Tommy's eyes finally fell upon the birthday girl herself. He snorted. "You look kind of sil—"

"Tommy."

"Spiffy. You look kind of spiffy," Tommy corrected hastily, looking up at his mother.

Allie scowled at him. "You were going to say silly, you—" she shouted.

"Allie."

When most of the guests had arrived—Tommy, Chuck, James, Brandon and Cody—and they had finished eating dinner and playing games, Mrs. Johnson brought out the cake (double-decker with red and yellow icing and a chocolate racecar on top), singing Happy Birthday To You in a jolly, though slightly impatient voice.

The kids around the table joined in, the boys singing loudly and purposely off tune. Allie grinned nonetheless, though all the while she was thinking,

Where's Daddy?

Mrs. Johnson set the cake down in front of the birthday girl and lit the seven candles, all multi-coloured like Allie had asked for.

"Time to blow out your candles, sweetie!" she said, smiling and clapping her hands.

Allie grinned around at everyone and gazed down at her candles. Yellow, green, blue, pink, each flame glowing softly and warmly. The lights danced across her face and threw her features into shadows. She darted a glance at the door, then at the clock.

"Momma, where's Daddy?" she whispered, looking back at her mother.

Mrs. Johnson smiled sadly. "His plane's been delayed a few hours. They're having a hard time taking off. Blow out your candles, sweetie, I'm sure Daddy will be here in no time."

Allie felt her eyes welling over with tears. "No! You always say that to me, Momma!"

The table fell silent at her outburst. Tommy stared at her with a pizza crust still stuffed in his mouth, pasta covering his face like a red beard.

"Daddy won't be here to see me turn seven, and you know it!" she shouted, pointing a finger at her mother. Mrs. Johnson stared back at her daughter with an open mouth. "He's never here for anything. Not for my school play, not for Christmas, not for anything." Her chest rose up and down rapidly and she whirled back to look down at her cake, tears dripping freely down her face now. She did not bother to wipe them away.

"He always says he'll be here but he's not," she said quietly before wedging her small fingers under the plate and throwing the entire cake up into the air.

Her guests screamed and covered themselves as the red and yellow icing splattered everywhere. The flames were extinguished, covered partly by icing, partly by cake. Allie grasped them all from the mess and leaped out of her seat.

"I hate him, I HATE him!" she screamed, throwing the candles down at her mother's feet and running upstairs to her room, sobs wracking her tiny body. On her way up the stairs, she knocked their family picture from its nail on the wall, sending it flying and shattering the glass it as it hit the ground.

-

Pilot. Storm. Lost control. Couldn't stop. Explosion. Casualties. 129. Killed. No survivors.

Mrs. Johnson pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to blink the tears away. Her husband. Allie's father.

"Oh, Allie…"

Her daughter, now seven, had cried herself to sleep.

"I hate him" she had last said.

The TV turned off, and Mrs. Johnson made her way to the staircase, picking up the photograph from its broken frame on the ground. She walked quietly up the stairs and into her daughter's bedroom.

"Allie, sweetie?"

She was not asleep, like Mrs. Johnson had thought.

"I hate him," she cried, burying her face into her pillow.

"Sweetie, there's been an accident. Your father…the plane he was on, it…it c-crashed." Mrs. Johnson stroked her daughter's hair as she sat up.

"What? Where's Daddy?"

"Your Daddy was in an accident."

Allie's eyes widened and she rubbed her eyes as if trying to wake herself from a dream. "Where's Daddy?" she repeated.

"Sweetie, your Daddy isn't coming home. He…He died."

Allie stared at her mother for a few more seconds before tears started to trickle down her cheeks again.

Mrs. Johnson's daughter, seven years old, had lost her father today.