The Birthday Room by Kevin Henkes

Ben’s mother called, approaching Ian. A paper napkin was stuck to the back of his shirt. She plucked it off. “I guess you still need me, little brother,” she said, dangling the napkin for him to see.
    Ian smiled. “I guess.”
    She waved good-bye, the napkin flapping from her fingertips.
    Nina started collecting the dirty silverware in the empty salad bowl. She stifled a yawn, covering her mouth with a fist full of spoons.
    â€œNina,” said Ben’s mother, “why don’t you put your feet up or go to bed? You did most of the cooking. We’ll clean up.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    â€œThank you,” said Nina. “I won’t argue with you.” It was almost comical to Ben the way she waddled off to the house with as many things from the table as she could carry in one trip. “Good night.”
    â€œNight,” Ben and his mother said at the same time.
    There was a semicircle of Adirondack chairs near the picnic table. Ben’s mother eased back into one. “Let’s sit for a minute before we get to work,” she said, flicking her sandals off.
    â€œToday was a good day,” said Ben. He plopped down into a chair, leaving one chair between them, empty.
    â€œMmm.” Her eyes were closed, and her legs were stretched out. She tucked her hands under her elbows. “Are you having a good time?”
    â€œYeah,” he answered, meaning it. “Are you?”
    She opened her eyes. “I’m beginning to,” she said, speaking slowly, as if she were choosing each word with extreme precision. “I think Ian really wanted—needed—to see me before they have the baby. He hasn’t actually come right out and said that, but I strongly sense it, and that makes me happy.” Her mouth widened slightly. A smile.
    Ben nodded.
    The bottommost clouds were brushed with yellow and pink. A band of pure light, like a molten river, ran along the tree line, demanding notice. They sat, perfectly contented, without sharing another word, while twilight lengthened. Stars were appearing when Ian came into view with the bouncing beam of a flashlight preceding him.
    â€œStarlight, moonlight,” sang Ian, “hope to see a ghost tonight . . .” He shone the flashlight on Ben’s mother. “Remember that game we used to play with the neighborhood kids at dusk?”
    â€œI’m not the ghost,” she replied, not unpleasantly, squinting her eyes. “You’re the one who vanished.”
    â€œWhatever,” Ian said, snapping off the light.
    Ben could feel his personal gauge of the day take a dip toward the uncomfortable zone. “What are we going to do tomorrow?” he asked quickly.
    â€œGood question,” said Ian. He eyed the empty chair between them, but remained standing. “I was thinking—since you’re not here for very long, not even a full week—that I’d like to take you, Ben, to either the ocean or the mountains tomorrow. We could leave early, and be back here for dinner. Just the two of us. What do you think?”
    â€œGreat!” Ben couldn’t hide his initial excitement. “Yes,” he added, making a thumbs-up sign, keeping it shielded in the crook of his arm. Mountains or ocean—it wouldn’t be a difficult decision for him to make. If he picked the mountains, he knew they wouldn’t be able to reach one of the peaks, but if he picked the ocean, he could and would swim in it, or at least dunk himself, no matter how cold the water was. And that would be a memorable event. He had never been in an ocean. The Pacific would be his first.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Ian said, facing his sister.
    Ben’s mother hesitated. “I . . .”
    There was a long pause. A dog barked far in the distance. Did it belong to the Deeters? Leaves rustled. Ian and Ben waited.
    â€œJulie,” said Ian, “a simple yes or no