A Year Less a Day by James Hawkins

it’ll give him more optimism. Believe me, Ruth, determination is everything. If he loses the will to carry on ...”
    Jordan’s birthday seems more of a stumbling block than the final milestone in his life, as he props himself up in bed and forces himself to open the few birthday cards. Sentiments such as, “Happy 40th and many more of them,” leave Ruth blubbering again, but Jordan takes her hand.
    â€œIt’s all right, Ruth. I understand.”
    Ruth’s carefully chosen card accompanies a bottle of Jordan’s favourite whisky—the only gift she could find that didn’t have “Guaranteed for life,” stamped on it. She had sought something really special; something that he would cherish for the rest of his time, but as shecruised the stores in search of the perfect gift, she became more and more despondent. The thought of Jordan saying, “Thanks. It’ll come in handy after I’ve gone,” only heightened her melancholy. She’d finally given up and bought the whisky when she’d found herself reflecting on the irony of Jordan being outlived by a set of plastic handled screwdrivers made in China.
    The digital camera was another matter. Its purpose was so disturbingly evident that she had twice carted it back to the store. In their nine years together, Jordan has avoided being photographed with as much fervour as an aborigine worried about the theft of his soul. Even their wedding album has vanished. “I think mom’s got it,” Jordan had claimed vaguely when Ruth was turning the apartment inside out, but he had never asked for it back.
    Jordan’s final birthday may be Ruth’s only remaining chance to obtain a lasting impression, and she imagines herself peppering a wall with his images, much as she did with the man she idolized as her progenitor. Until her marriage to Jordan, the belief that George Harrison was her father was the only solid ground in her life and, as a teen, she’d lain on her bed for hours studying the features and creases of his sharply chiselled face with the fervour of an evangelist facing Christ, planning for the joyous day they would finally meet.
    In Ruth’s childhood reveries, George would dash out of one of the many posters on her wall, gather her into his arms, and lavish on her everything due to a newly discovered daughter—her own suite of furnished rooms in each of his mansions; a red Ferrari; a personal chef, perhaps; and, above all, a bodyguard.
    â€œYou just wait,” she’d hiss to her tormentors at school recess, though she wisely never completed the sentence.

    Like all children, Ruth sometimes doubted her parentage, though never once imagined that she was adopted or fathered by the mailman. Her misgivings centred solely around whether George Harrison would be prepared to admit his culpability. But, at such moments, she would peer deeply into his eyes and convince herself that all she needed to do was to cross the Atlantic and present herself at his front door.
    Photographing Jordan turns out to be easier than Ruth could have imagined. In fact, once he’s toyed with the camera, he appears quite keen, even showing her how to paste pictures directly onto the computer monitor. Nevertheless, Ruth has qualms as she quickly clicks off a few shots, feeling that she is forcing him to acknowledge the inevitability of his demise when she should be giving him hope.
    â€œWe should invite your mother over for tea, Jordan,” she suggests lightly, taking advantage of his tractable mood, and hoping to offload some of her burden.
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    But Ruth has been winding herself up for this moment, hoping to cheer Jordan with a little afternoon celebration in the café. “I really think you should to tell your mother,” she says determinedly, as she reaches for the phone.
    Jordan stays her hand. “Please ... Not yet,” he says. “You know what