She and I arrived early enough to help set up the tables and chairs. Gradually, starting at 2 o’clock, the residents began to gather. Some of them understood the purpose of the party, and smiled and clapped with glee. Others seemed unaware—they were unaware of everything—but still happy to be a part of something festive. Charlie came out at 2:15, and looked truly surprised by the people, the balloons, the pile of gifts on the table. “I’m forty-four! I’m forty-four!” he shouted, clapping his hands, and then he ran about hugging everyone.
Miss Greer had placed the candles in the cake, and it took Charlie three breaths to blow them out. Then he opened the presents—a T-shirt from Miss Greer from her recent trip to the Grand Canyon, a Dodgers cap from the receptionist, and a picture book of cats from one of the social workers. Mrs. Bradford had bought him a puzzle, a 500-piece picture of the California coastline that would keep him occupied for days. When he opened my gift—a camera—he laughed out loud, and then proceeded to take pictures of everyone present until the entire roll of film had been used. Anticipating his enthusiasm, I had brought an extra roll, and after I changed the film he pointed the camera at me.
“Put on the party hat! Put on the party hat!” he demanded. I declined at first, but after more goading from Charlie, who was joined by Miss Greer and the rest of the staff, I placed the cardboard cone hat on top of my head and slid the elastic band beneath my chin. Charlie jumped up and down, laughing—I gathered that I looked quite silly—and Mrs. Bradford reached up and straightened the hat. Then, smiling at me, she placed a hand on my shoulder and pulled a loose thread from my coat.
Almost a year and a half has passed since I first met Charlie, a period full of unexpected pleasures. After the first time I went to see him, I stayed away for several weeks, shaken by my knowledge of his condition as well as my shame that it had taken me so long to find him. But when I had time to grow accustomed to the idea of him— and time, as well, to recover from my experience with Josh Dreyfus—I wanted to see him again. I have had no real family for all of these years, and now I suddenly had a child, just a few miles away.
I went to see Charlie a second time, about a month after the first. And then I went again two weeks later, and a week after that, until I found myself visiting him regularly, two or three times a week, and arranging all my other activities around those visits. We settled into a comfortable routine—I would join him outside or in the common room, and we would work on a puzzle together or play a board game. He was uncertain of me during the first few visits—a discomfort only augmented, I suspect, by my own nervousness and sorrow—but gradually we grew more at ease with one another. I decided early on that it would be best not to reveal my connection to him, as this could only cause him pain and confusion. Better that he think of me as an interested friend. And he did. The first time his face lit up when I walked in to see him, I felt a joy deeper than I had ever thought possible.
I didn’t realize these visits were having an effect on my demeanor, but one morning, during our usual Saturday breakfast, Mrs. Bradford put her fork down and looked at me. “You’ve been so happy and preoccupied lately,” she said. “You’re always sneaking off to secret places, and you even walk like you’re twenty years younger. I catch you smiling when you don’t know anyone’s looking. What’s happening, Mr. Nakayama. Are you in love?”
I laughed. “No, Mrs. Bradford. But I cannot deny that my life has changed significantly.” I told her then, haltingly, that I had recently discovered the whereabouts of my long lost son. I did not explain the circumstances of his birth or the identity of his mother, nor did I outline how I had remained ignorant of his existence for so long. Mrs. Bradford listened to all of this with obvious interest, but she knew me well enough not to press for details. At the end of my story, I felt a rush of adrenaline, the result of having told someone of Charlie’s existence. “I go out to see him several times a week,” I said. Then: “Would you like to come with me sometime?”
In truth, I was as surprised by this invitation as Mrs. Bradford—yet once I issued it, I realized it was genuine. I wanted her to come to Seven Acres with me; I wanted to share my son. She agreed to accompany me, and I do not know whether this initial acquiescence was out of politeness or curiosity. I do know that when I took her to Seven Acres and introduced her to Charlie, I was as nervous and proud as any young father would be of a beautiful newborn child. I had not told her—I had not found a way to tell her—what kind of place he lived in. But perhaps she already knew what Seven Acres was, or perhaps she was simply exceedingly tactful, for when we parked on the grounds and she got her first glimpse of the residents, she did not seem particularly surprised. And when I introduced her to Charlie, who stood and hugged her
