Brenda quieted down and followed the manager. Order was restored, except for Tilda, who was mortified as everyone within earshot stood listening—and watching.
The stranger from the cantaloupes came up behind Tilda and whispered in her ear. “This might be a good time to try a good green juice.”
Tilda gathered up her bag, holding it to her chest, and let him guide her out of the store, his hand gently cupping her elbow.
Chapter Six
SEEKING TO REPAIR WHAT IS BROKEN
“It wasn’t exactly meet-cute, was it?” said Bev when Tilda told her about the incident at the store.
“Not exactly. I really should’ve known not to touch her. I don’t know what gets into me sometimes. I’m usually so standoffish and then suddenly I turn into some version of the touchy-feely, dotty old grandmother.”
“Well, no. First, you’re not that standoffish, and second, no one will ever accuse you of being dotty—well, not unless you get demented in your old age. But enough about that, tell me about organic man.”
“Okay, first of all, let’s get serious. I think I know where you’ll be going with this, that I’ve met someone, as in someone I’ll be interested in. That’s what happens in those movies with old actors, our age, right? I saw one on TV the other night with what’s-her-name. You know, still beautiful—did a lot of movies in the ’60s? Anyway, her husband dies, and next thing you know she’s talking all warm and fuzzy with her other old friends, who are really actresses from old sit-coms. Their conversation is supposed to be funny because they sound like fourteen-year-olds teasing their newly widowed friend about having a crush. I had to turn it off, it was so wrong.”
“Right. And everybody’s rich, and they all live in beautiful houses and have lots of eligible old actors hanging around.”
“Why does this sell? First of all, most widows I know don’t have money to burn, or friends with perfectly highlighted hair. And they’re either so shell-shocked by loss that men are the furthest thing from their minds, or they’re like Midge—you remember. She was so lonely that she joined all those dating sites. Most of that led to constant disappointment, remember? I think she finally found someone with mild dementia, and she’s happy taking care of him. So good for her, but she went through hell because she was so terrified of being alone. These are not movie stories. Well, maybe Midge’s story would make a decent indie, but it probably wouldn’t sell. No, people want to see old actors, looking great, in love and starting over.”
“Okay, I get it. So who’s the guy you’re not interested in?”
“His name is George. He’s a retired librarian. He was at the library over in Longview, Laura’s town, and he was there for twenty years, he said, after he retired from the military. I bet Laura knows him.”
“A military man. Did he see action? God, don’t tell me he’s a Vietnam vet. That would be tragic.”
“He is, but he was against the war. Well, he wasn’t when he went, but that’s how it ended up. He was posted in a place called Phu Bai doing radio research. I’m not sure what that was, but I don’t think it was as innocent as it sounds.”
“A lot of guys wouldn’t do anything that supported the war.”
“I know, Bev, but he was career Army. His whole family was. Telling them he was against the war, and he did, was a big deal for him.”
“You got all of that out of one juice-bar date?”
“It wasn’t a date, but he was very easy to talk to.”
It was true. He had been very understanding after the store incident. So much so that Tilda wound up telling him about Anthony, something she would ordinarily never mention to anyone except those closest to her. He then told her about his brother who had died young and how every time he saw a boy about as old as his brother had been, he felt a pang of regret and sometimes a desire to reach out and engage the kid in conversation.
“Maybe that’s why I tried to get you out of there, because I had an idea about what you were feeling, not that I knew you had a brother, of course not, but that I saw that you were trying to make a connection.”
“But why did you talk to me in the first place, a perfect stranger?”
“That was kind of forward, wasn’t it? But you remind me a little of my wife, the way you were so intent on those cantaloupes. That was something Joyce would’ve done.”
Joyce was his wife of forty years who had died eighteen months ago of lung cancer. Never smoked a day in her life, he told Tilda, who had asked if it ever got any easier.
“Not exactly. You just learn how to accept it better,” he’d answered, “how to keep going.”
“Does he have kids?” asked Bev.
“Two daughters and three granddaughters, all in the Boston area.”
“Well, he ought to be pretty sensitive to women, then,” said Bev. “What’s next?”
“Nothing’s next, Bev,” said Tilda. “We exchanged phone numbers, but nothing’s next. Even if I see him occasionally, just to talk, it will be as someone who understands what I’m going through, who’s been through the same thing.”
And Tilda did think she might see him again for those reasons. But she was definitely not interested in anything more. Harold would always be the one true love in her life.
By Thanksgiving Eve, Tilda had been invited to dinner not only by her sister but also by Bev, and even George (whom Tilda had seen twice casually and strictly for company since the Nature’s Food incident) had asked her to join him at his daughter’s. “You need to be with family, even if it’s not your own,” he had said.
Tilda wasn’t sure why everyone thought she would be alone. She kept reminding her would-be hosts that she had a family, who were also missing Harold terribly, and that of course she would be with them (as much as she was still dreading it and the whole damn holiday season, she said to herself more than once).
Just as she was ready to call it a night, she thought about Darren and Lizzie. She had assumed they would be going to his mother’s in White Plains for Thanksgiving, but she thought she should call to check.
The phone rang several times before Darren answered, sounding disappointed. “I hope I didn’t wake you,” she said.
“No, it’s early yet. I was just hoping we’d hear from Amanda.”
Tilda bit her lip and felt a quick punch in her gut even though there was no one there to deliver it. She hasn’t called yet—after promising me she would? Those were the words that were uppermost. But of course she couldn’t say them.
“She still hasn’t called?”
Darren said no and went on to tell Tilda all the reasons why he was not going to his mother’s. Mainly because she cried every time she saw him and Lizzie, making them feel worse, like abandoned puppies, having to be nurtured and seen to.
“I can’t put Lizzie through it,” he concluded.
She pictured Amanda with her artist friend, the one she couldn’t keep her hands off of, and felt a flash of anger, like lightening rise to the top of her head. She took a few breaths to calm down and said, “Well, then come to us. It will be fine, and no one will be making anyone feel one way or the other. We’ll all be dealing with our own issues, and besides, it would be so good for Tilly and for Lizzie to have each other.”
Tilda imagined Darren had been preparing his refusal, but when he heard the case for Lizzie being with Tilly, he let her continue.
“You know,” she pressed, “it would cheer her up, and it would make Tilly happy. I know she misses Harold. Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday. He always said it was the only one not devoted to religion or any other cause, just family and friends getting together to eat. He made it fun for all of us, especially Tilly. Being with a friend would help her out.”
Darren was still quiet, but Tilda could tell he was coming around. “Are you sure it would be okay with Laura? It’s sort of late for more people.”
“Laura has been cooking for days. We always have so much food left over, we spend the next day packing it up and delivering it to the Ezra
Farnum House. She’ll be delighted, but if it will make you feel better, I’ll call her right now and make sure and then call you back.”
He agreed, and of course Laura said yes. It made her happy to be inclusive on her father’s favorite holiday, just as Tilda had expected.
Tilda arrived at Laura’s in the morning to help with last-minute preparations. The smell of roasting turkey hit Tilda as soon as she walked in the door, making her clutch the grocery bags she was carrying to her chest. Without warning, the tears came and flowed down her cheeks. Laura saw her predicament and took the bags so Tilda could reach into her purse for a tissue.
“You see, this is why I’ve been dreading this. It’s too soon, Thanksgiving. It meant so much to him.”
“I know, Mom. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Just take a minute to . . .”
Tilda knew Laura was struggling, too, and didn’t want to make it harder than it already was, but there was nothing to be done to change the situation or to ease anyone’s pain, so she continued.
“It would have been better if I had gone to Barbara’s, where I would have been miserable for entirely different reasons,” Tilda said, wiping her eyes. “There I would have been dying for a drink to escape their cursed cheerfulness, the original Ozzie and Harriet.” This was Tilda’s less than complimentary description of her sister’s conservative teetotaling family. “But here, I’m just dying.” With this, Tilda’s overly dramatic rendering of her misery, she burst into tears all over again.
Laura, to Tilda’s surprise, maintained her equilibrium, and she led her mother to the sofa in the living room, where Tilda collapsed, her head in her hands. Laura sat beside her and took her mother’s hands in hers.
“I know. This is so hard, for me, too. I keep feeling as though Dad is looking over my shoulder, ready to dip a finger in the cranberry sauce or to ask for a little scoop of stuffing, the way he always did. But I’m doing okay.” Laura dug into her pocket. “Here, Mom, take these,” she said.
Tilda stared at the two white pills in her hand until Laura came back with a glass of water.
“Why am I taking these?” Tilda asked, not waiting for an explanation before swallowing. “They look like Tylenol.”
Laura nodded yes. “There’s a good reason,” said Laura. “I was so gloomy, and you know about how the holidays make depression worse, so I did some research because I wanted to be sure what I was feeling was in the normal range for a recent loss.”
This was so like Laura, thought Tilda, who herself never doubted for a minute the legitimacy of her grief, fully expecting to live with it on and off for the rest of her life.
“I found out that emotional pain, like grief, activates the same part of the brain as physical pain. So they did experiments and gave acetaminophen, basically Tylenol, to people with emotional pain, and it worked. They discovered that their brains showed less activation in the region that registers pain, whether it’s emotional or physical. Makes sense, right?”
“Well, I don’t know. It sounds kind of simplistic.”
Laura nodded and said, “I know, but it was worth a try, and you know what, I think it does kind of dull the pain. I mean, of course I still know he’s not here and won’t ever be again, but . . . anyway. A little better, Mom?”
“I’ll be okay. What about Tilly?”
“Well, she’s been quiet. Not her usual holiday self.”
“Yes, of course. This was a special time for the two of them.” Tilda remembered last Thanksgiving, when it seemed as though their lives together would go on as always. No one foresaw this future, not when they were happily making their separate wishes as Tilly held the two ends of the turkey wishbone in her hands, something they had done together since she was five.
It had been Harold’s idea that year. “It works like this,” he had told her. “You hold the wishbone all by yourself, both ends, one in each hand. See, Tilly, like this,” he told her, demonstrating. “And then you pull both ends while we all make a wish, silently, and you pick one side of the bone or the other to win. No one’s allowed to tell what their wish is, or it won’t come true, right, family?” Everyone nodded as though they had been doing this little ritual for years before Tilly had come along.
“Now, the trick is, you have to pull both ends, like this, out and away, until one side breaks. Okay, Tilly?”
“But what about me? Don’t I get to wish?”
Harold had seemed to contemplate this for a minute and then said, “Oh, of course you get to. You get to make two wishes, so no matter which side breaks, you still have a wish that will come true.”
This seemed to satisfy Tilly. “So,” she said, “I can make whatever wish I want to come true. I’ll just break the other side.”
Her grandparents and parents nodded in approval, ignoring that she would be in effect gaming the game, but choosing rather to marvel at her precociousness.
Tilda still remembered her wish that first time, that they would all be as healthy and happy as they had been at that moment, the same wish she made every year. Tilly had told everyone she had wished for a trip to Disney World, and when Harold told her she wasn’t supposed to tell, she cried until her parents told her they were all going to the Magic Kingdom for Hanukkah and so had to spoil the surprise.
“Tilly! See, it works. Your first wish and it came true, even though you told it,” Harold said. She rushed into his arms, delighted that Grandpa’s game had already yielded so much pleasure. This had been the beginning of the special Thanksgiving bond they shared.
“Where is she now?” Tilda asked.
“In her room. She’ll be down soon to help with the candied yams and the mashed potatoes. Are you feeling a little better, Mom, really?”
“Yes, thank you, honey. It must be the Tylenol. We’ll all be okay, I’m sure.” Then with great earnestness, she patted her daughter on the knee and quickly rose. “C’mon, kiddo, let’s get started. I’ve got everything for the pies in the bags, and they’re just about ready to go in the oven. I just need to do some assembling,” she said, thinking how similar assembling and dissembling sounded.
By early afternoon when the doorbell rang and Darren and Lizzie arrived, Tilly had still not come down. Laura stood at the bottom of the stairs and called for her. When that didn’t work, she looked for Mark and realized he was still out back raking leaves. Tilda looked out the kitchen window to see Laura standing with her hands on her hips saying something to Mark, who put down the rake and followed Laura into the house. Laura came back into the kitchen and smoothed her hair back with both hands.
“Honestly, I’ve got one who won’t come down and one who won’t come in. Mom, you’d better go make sure our guests are comfortable.”
“I’m bringing them some sparkling water and something to snack on.”
“I have some nuts and also crackers and cheese. I’ll be out in a minute to say hello. I haven’t seen them in a while, since the funeral, I think.” Laura kept to her task, peeling the potatoes, Tilly’s job.
Tilda, who had felt all day as though some unseen gremlin had been pummeling her stomach, took a deep breath. “My God, Laura, we’re quite a pair, trying to get through this, aren’t we? And I bet Tilly, too. That’s probably why we haven’t seen her all day.”
“I don’t know,” Laura said, “but this isn’t right.” She pulled the apron over her head and walked toward the stairs again.
Tilda picked up the tray she had been preparing for Darren and Lizzie.
When Tilly finally came down, she was wearing jeans and her plaid flannel shirt, her hair back in a ponytail, a stark contrast to Lizzie, who was in a pink tulle party dress. If there had been a teen magazine article rating what to wear to a family Thanksgiving, ranging from underdressed to over-the-top, each girl would have been on opposite ends. Neither one seemed to care or to notice.
“Hi, Grandma,” Tilly said, giving Tilda a tight hug around the waist. It had been so long since she had shown any affection that Tilda was nearly undone. The hug h
ad been tender, and sad, Tilda thought. “Hello, Mr. Esmond. Hi, Lizzie,” she said. Then, turning specifically to Lizzie, she asked, “Would you like to help me with some things in the kitchen? I always make the mashed potatoes and the candied yams. It’s not too bad, kinda fun, actually.”
Tilda noticed that Tilly’s eyes were a little red. With her shoulders slightly rounded, her gaze down, she seemed on the verge of folding into herself. She was Tilly, but not the same girl who bounced through space barely touching ground when she walked. This was an earthbound Tilly, and it broke Tilda’s heart to see her.
Once they were alone in the living room, Darren told Tilda there had been a breakthrough.
“Amanda sent us cards. After you and I talked, I realized I didn’t check the mail yesterday. I always figured she’d text or call, but she sent cards to us both,” Darren told her.
Tilda’s head jerked back, her chin tucking into her neck, a maneuver executed unintentionally, and she hoped Darren didn’t notice, but she was surprised at this news. Who goes AWOL over the holidays and then sends cards?
“Mine didn’t say much,” he explained. “A lot of words, but still, just how sorry she was, that she was okay, and that she couldn’t come home.”
Listening intently, Tilda was surprised yet again, this time at Darren, who was opening up on his own, without Tilda having to pry loose each word. Had he come to trust her, believing he had a friend to confide in? The thought made Tilda cower with shame, knowing his trust was misguided. She was still sitting on information because Amanda had promised to call, not to send fucking cards.
“Those were the main points, but she filled up the whole space, mostly about how she knew she was causing so much pain. Frankly, it made me madder than hell.”
Tilda certainly understood Darren’s reaction. It was callous and bordering on cruelty for Amanda to have sent a card for Thanksgiving, with no explanation and no hint of her intentions, just that she was gone and sorry.
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