Tilda steeled herself and asked, “How did Lizzie take it? If you don’t mind talking about it, that is.”
“No, it’s okay. She didn’t say much, just that she was happy to finally hear something and that she was glad her mother was okay. But she’s been sort of depressed, I think, not really herself lately. It’s gotten worse with the holidays coming. By now the two of them would have been shopping already and would’ve had wrapped presents hidden around, in closets and under the bed and stuff.”
Tilda thought it best just to listen, but the more Darren talked, the angrier he became.
“Honest to God, I don’t know what she’s thinking. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive her for this.” And then he stopped, abruptly.
Tilda was quiet, too, not sure what to say.
“I’m sorry, Tilda. I try to keep it together—for Lizzie. But really, she helps me. Without her, I don’t know what I would’ve done by now.”
Now Tilda felt even worse for holding back essential information, and just as Bev had warned, it was gnawing at her.
“Darren, how hard have you tried to find her?”
His back seemed to straighten at the question, as though he were considering the idea for the first time.
“I guess I really haven’t. I mean, after that first night I haven’t gone out looking for her. I’ve called her friends and talked to them, but I believe them when they tell me they don’t know anything. But if you mean hiring someone, no, I haven’t even considered it.”
“No, I didn’t mean you should’ve been doing more. It’s just, I guess I was curious, wondering if you could find out where she is.” The way I have, she wanted to say, but she stopped herself.
“Honestly, it’s the fact that she left. That’s it, really, not where she is. I’m not sure I care where she is. I can’t believe she was careless enough to have done this to me—but mostly to Lizzie. Her leaving us, what she’s done, it’s unbelievable. At this point, I don’t know if I even want her back. And if there’s a guy involved, I’m done. She hinted at something in her letter to me, but I’m not sure. I just keep hoping it’s about something else, getting it out of her system, her lost art or whatever. She was always talking about her art-school days. Christ, I’ve had it.”
Tilda needed to be done with this conversation; she felt she risked telling Darren everything she knew, and part of her wanted to so badly. When Laura appeared announcing dinner, Tilda was a little less apprehensive about her own family and its problems.
There were toasts around the table, a little formal, Tilda thought, but at least no one cried. Mark went first. “We are happy to have Darren and Lizzie joining us. Welcome to our home. Even though our hearts are heavy this year, let us be grateful for the love we have, and happy Thanksgiving to us all.” Then Laura said, “Welcome to our home. In the Jewish tradition, it is always a mitzvah to welcome others to share in whatever food and drink there may be, whether meager or bountiful. As much as we miss our father, grandfather, and husband, may we all be happy for our blessings.”
Having found the strength to say these words, Laura was about to sit down, only to rise again to say, “Lizzie and Darren, you knew my dad, and Mom says you had a warm relationship—as neighbors—over the years.”
Tilda nodded in agreement, not very forcefully, not sure where Laura was headed with this impromptu speech, but fairly certain it would end calamitously, no matter how much Tylenol had been consumed.
“So I want to share some things about this holiday and what it meant to my dad. Mom may have told you, Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday. He loved the inclusiveness of it. We often had guests he invited, people who, before he retired, came to him to do their taxes, who maybe had just lost a spouse or who were alone during the holidays. One year we set five extra places for these friends of my father’s. And, you know what? It was wonderful. We had the best time. Everyone was happy. There were jokes and stories. No one was depressed or sad that day. When everyone left, my father said, “That was a true mitzvah, Laura. Thank you.”
Darren and Lizzie looked up at Laura, and Lizzie smiled a little quizzically.
“It’s a long story, the meaning of the word, but basically today it refers to an act of kindness. In the best sense, as my father saw it—not necessarily as rabbinic scholars would see it—but to him a mitzvah should be freely given out of love and not out of a sense of duty. So coming from him that day, it was the greatest compliment he could have given me, but it was really him. He was the reason we had that wonderful experience.”
Now Laura sat. She reached for her glass and took a long sip of water.
Tilda raised her own. “Thank you, Laura.” She wanted to say more, but all she managed was, “You captured the moment beautifully.” She, in turn, took a big gulp of wine to calm the unwelcome swell of emotion that was brewing. She looked over at Tilly. Though her eyes were downcast, she was not crying. They were getting through it, this dinner, this day. Maybe these were the things to be thankful for this year, Tilda thought.
After what could have been a rocky start, the holiday meal went smoothly. There were no tears, no one was sullen, and all seemed to be on course for an uneventful conclusion to a day Tilda knew everyone around the table had been dreading. Lizzie seemed returned to her cheerful self, saying over her second helping of pumpkin pie that she was adding mitzvah (singular) and mitzvot (plural), additional information Laura had gladly provided, to her growing list of killer Scrabble words. Tilda challenged the word and its variants as foreign and therefore not acceptable, but Lizzie looked it up on her smartphone and found the words were indeed allowed. Even Tilly joined in the fun, saying her grandmother had finally met her match.
And so it went, as though a magic bubble had descended, if only temporarily, to protect the family and its guests from further sadness on this, Harold’s favorite day of the year.
After more helpings of pie and coffee, Tilly and Lizzie offered to clear the table. Tilda enjoyed a private moment of hope when she saw the girls deeply engaged in conversation in the kitchen. She couldn’t hear them over the clatter of dishes, but from her vantage point, it looked as though they had been close for years.
Later, when the dishwasher could be heard humming away, signaling the true end of the evening, no one seemed eager to have it end. One by one they found their way to the living room to engage in more after-dinner conversation.
Maybe it was inevitable that someone would go too far, push too hard. Maybe the bubble was more fragile than anyone had thought.
“Tilly, look what I’ve got,” said Mark, pulling the cleaned-up wishbone out from behind him. “Let’s make a wish. The way we always do.”
Tilly turned from Lizzie, seated beside her on the couch, to look at her father. “No, Dad, I don’t want to,” she said, turning back to Lizzie, but Mark persisted, saying it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving until she made a wish.
After two or three more of Mark’s attempts, Tilly again turned in his direction. “Okay, Dad. Here’s my wish. I wish you’d stop.”
Mark looked surprised at his daughter’s vehemence, which only made Tilly object more strenuously. “I said I didn’t want to. This was my thing with Grandpa, okay? I don’t want to, not this year. Or ever, probably.”
Everyone was quiet. The bubble had burst, that much was clear, and Tilly, probably sensing she was responsible, felt she had nowhere to go but away. She got up off the couch and ran to her room, leaving Mark fumbling for something to say. But it was left to Laura and Tilda to make the obvious excuses—emotions were still raw, holidays were difficult. The words sounded rote, yet true enough. After a few awkward moments, Darren and Lizzie said their thanks, their genuine thanks, and left.
When Mark said he was going up to talk to her, Tilda asked if she could. “Maybe it’s a grandma kind of moment.” After all, reasoned Tilda, it was Grandpa that Tilly was missing.
Chapter Seven
CLEAR ALL HISTORY
Tilda knocked lightly on the
door. There was no answer. She opened it a crack and knocked lightly again. She peered in the opening and saw Tilly rise up onto her elbow and turn in her direction, a look of disbelief clouding her face. Disbelief at her overreaction to the events downstairs, Tilda surmised. But more, disbelief at how her world had turned so suddenly from lightness and ease to darkness and pain—the stuff she had only read about in the books Laura had thought intense but age-appropriate: that stuff was now happening to her. It was beginning to make sense, all the troubling behavior, the cutting, the withdrawal. She began to see Tilly’s world through her own world of grief. She began to see that perhaps her granddaughter was avoiding her because she reminded her of her grandfather, whose death had brought down her carefree world.
Tilda had wanted to protect her granddaughter from life’s harm for as long as possible: no injury or sickness (please, God), no heartbreak (keep boys away as long as possible, she hoped), no major disappointments (she made the dance team, yes, thank goodness). But here her granddaughter was, dealing with the worst pain human life had to offer: death. Not the death of a long-lost, remote relative, or even of a loved family pet. No, this was the death of someone revered, who was a connection to a time long ago that made the past easier to understand and in so doing made life easier to grasp. All those stories her grandfather had told her had taught her that. And now that source of love and gentle easing into the ways of the world was gone.
“May I come in?” Tilda asked.
Tilly sat up on her bed by the window and folded her arms around her raised knees. “I guess so.”
As soon as Tilda sat down, Tilly embraced her and sobbed. “I’m sorry, Grandma. I’ve been a bitch to you, and I don’t even know why, really. And I don’t know why I was so awful downstairs just now. It’s just that nothing is the same anymore.”
Tilda stroked her granddaughter’s hair, released from its ponytail and hanging around her shaking shoulders.
“You know what?” she said. “You don’t even have to apologize. You get a pass because this is just so shitty. This bites. I mean it.”
Tilly pulled away to look at her grandmother.
“No, really, Tilly. We get to say what we never say, and the world will just have to deal with us because this is so different from anything we’ve gone through before, and so damn hard. Everyone will just have to wait until we either feel better or figure out what to do about how god-awful we feel.”
“It just doesn’t go away. Some days I don’t even think about it, but now with the holidays—everything is definitely not awesome. Everything is awful.”
“I wish I had a way to make you feel better, honey. I don’t. Everyone says what we’re feeling now will pass, but that doesn’t help, really, does it?”
“I don’t know anything anymore. I hate life. I hate myself. I don’t want to be me anymore.” Then she said, “I’m sorry about that day, Grandma. I was touchy about the scratches.”
Tilda knew to go lightly here. This was the territory that had led to their troubles in the first place. She didn’t say anything, waiting to see if Tilly wanted to talk.
“I don’t know. It’s all so confusing. I miss Grandpa so much, and I, I hate myself. I don’t even know why.”
Tilly looked at her, bewilderment in her eyes. Tilda wanted to hold her for as long as it took for this darkness to pass.
“But I haven’t done it again,” Tilly said.
Tilda took some comfort in this. Maybe Tilly was reaching bottom and would begin her climb back to her known world.
“I’m glad, Tilly.”
But then Tilly said, “It wasn’t just cutting.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, treading carefully. She knew this was a delicate moment, and she didn’t want to press her.
Tilly looked at her, held her gaze, not answering. She’s waiting, but for what? Tilda wondered.
“No,” Tilly said, and she turned away.
“All right, honey,” Tilda replied as she rose.
“Grandma, wait. I mean, do I have to know who I am . . . just now?”
Tilda wasn’t sure what Tilly was thinking, but she felt certain she knew the answer. “No, Tilly, you don’t, not yet,” she said.
“I love you, Grandma.”
“I love you, too.”
Tilda took her granddaughter’s chin in her hand, looked into her puffy eyes—more hazel than green today—drew her into her arms, and kissed her on the cheek, taking a moment before letting go.
She got up and walked out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.
Their love of Harold was their bond now, thought Tilda on the way home. It wasn’t that Laura wasn’t mourning, for surely she was, but if there was anything for the foreseeable future to bring Tilly to her grandmother, Tilda knew it would be her love for her grandfather. Just when Tilda thought her bruised heart could hurt no more, here it was aching anew when she thought of her granddaughter crying in her room, struggling to understand her own behavior. Surely just being an adolescent was challenge enough, but Tilly was coping with grief, too, so it was no wonder that she didn’t know who she was. And yet Tilda couldn’t deny that Tilly’s comments and her question had been troubling. There was a story there, but she wasn’t ready to tell it.
Tilda held the steering wheel tightly. Or was I not ready to hear it? she asked herself, remembering how Tilly had turned away. No, she thought. It was best to be patient. Tilly would talk when she was ready, and then Tilda would be there for her to help ease whatever was troubling her granddaughter, who was surely struggling with problems too big for her. One thing at a time, thought Tilda. She needs to get over her grief. We both do.
With Thanksgiving behind her, in spite of the way it had ended, Tilda felt some relief in knowing one holiday was done with, even though that left two to go. In fact, Christmas/Hanukkah and New Year’s looked like thick forests to lumber through before she could just hibernate the winter away. The only good thing about the season so far was that the Ebola crisis seemed to be easing and the media had taken a drubbing for its national fear-mongering.
Thanksgiving may have been Harold’s favorite holiday, but Tilda had always been like a kid during Christmas and Hanukkah. Getting to celebrate two holidays that kept the darkness at bay, both with wondrous light and song, both with baking and food preparation that kept the house smelling sweet and alive no matter how the wind might blow or the snow might fly—what could be better? When Tilda was growing up in Miami, she and Barbara used to dream about cold, snowy Christmases with carolers and hot chocolate, just like the commercials on TV, but once she actually experienced it she decided it wasn’t so enticing after all. Growing up in Florida had instilled in her a love of light and open space, of ocean breezes, and of sun coming up on the horizon.
But Harold had made it better. He put lights on the hedges under the window in front of the house, and they told themselves they were winter lights—and ecumenical—not suggesting any particular holiday at all. Inside, there was a small tree with twinkling lights of red and green and white by the fireplace and a huge menorah on the mantle—and white and blue lights framing the hearth. They listened to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on Christmas and played Hanukkah and klezmer music during Hanukkah. They cooked brisket and potato pancakes for Hanukkah and turkey for Christmas, the smells permeating every room.
This year the boxes with the lights and other decorations Tilda and Harold had acquired over the years, the dreidels and stockings with everyone’s names on them, even one for Bully that they still hung every year in his memory, all remained in the closet.
Laura had suggested that the menorah, little tree, and hearth lights might comfort her mother, but the effort seemed too much for Tilda. Laura tried to get her to read up on SAD. “It’s a real thing, Mom. It’s not just you. It’s called Seasonal Affective Disorder. You can even get special lights for it.” But Tilda hadn’t responded, and Laura, maybe remembering the deal they had struck about their year of mourning, had ba
cked down.
And so now, after Thanksgiving, at the true start of the holiday season, the house was dark: no lights, no tree, and no menorah.
She sat on the side of the bed. On the night table were a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol PM. She took a tablet with one long swallow, pulled the quilt up over her, and waited for sleep to take her away.
Her team was in the circle. The opposing team had the ball, a brown playground ball that hurt when it hit, when it was thrown with force, the way Danny Blix, her first-grade nemesis, threw the ball. It was so random, the ball coming at you, you trying to stay out of the way, trying your best to be the last one standing. Tilda ran and ran, from one side of the circle to the other, with no clear strategy guiding her. When the whistle blew, she stopped. She had made it, the last one on her team still in the circle. She let out a sigh of relief and was about to take her place on the outer circle, but before she could leave, she noticed that her teammates weren’t out of the circle at all. They were instead sprawled on the ground, arms and legs at strange angles. They weren’t moving, they weren’t breathing, and they weren’t her teammates anymore. They were older, grown. And then she was on the ground, kneeling over a body. It was Harold. Leaning over him and screaming, she had morphed into the young protester in the famous photo after Kent State. That was when she woke up.
She sat up and turned on the light. It was only a dream, she told herself, her heart still racing. She thought about how Kent State had led to her and Harold committing to being more active, and how Bev had offered her support as well. They had all written letters protesting the war and supporting the protests that followed. Harold even had a letter to the editor published in the New York Times. It had all been so upsetting, those unprovoked deaths. At least one of the students killed had been walking past and was not even part of the protest. Tilda hadn’t thought about Kent State in years.
She looked at the bottle of Tylenol PMs and thought of taking a second one but decided on something stronger. She went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom where she found the Ambien Dr. Willis had prescribed but that she had never taken. She popped one into her mouth, turned on the faucet, scooped up some water, and swallowed hard. Maybe I’ll wake up in an hour and start eating compulsively, or take the car for a spin. Whatever. At least I’ll get some sleep.
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