Tilda's Promise

by Jean P. Moore

  Facing each other now on the sofa, Tilly grabbed for the fabric to wrap it around her, as if to shield herself from what her grandmother might have to say.

  But Tilda thought it best to keep listening. “It’s okay, Tilly.”

  “And I don’t like boys. But I don’t like girls, in that way, either, I don’t think. I don’t know. I don’t like anybody in that way. What’s wrong with me?”

  Tilda slowly shook her head. “Nothing, Tilly. Nothing is wrong with you. It’s like we talked about at Thanksgiving. You don’t have to have all the answers now. No matter what, you’re okay.”

  “How can I tell Mom and Dad? I’m not even sure I should be talking to you about it,” she said, pulling back and pointing an accusing finger at Tilda. “You almost saw at the mall, but all you cared about were the cuts.”

  “Almost saw what?” asked Tilda.

  “They were cuts,” Tilly said, pounding her fists into her lap. “Kinda deep, too, and definitely not just scratches. Mom didn’t know because by the time I showed her, it had stopped bleeding. I used a razor blade and then a safety pin to make it clear, but it wasn’t.”

  Tilda remembered grabbing Tilly’s arm at the mall and then thinking she had seen something there. But she wasn’t sure, and the whole fucking mall day had gone so badly.

  “Tilly, I did care about your arm, about the cuts, and I also wanted to know more about what I thought I saw there, but you shut me out, remember? We hardly spoke, for a long time.”

  Tilly’s eyes brimmed with tears. Tilda wanted to reach for her again, but she waited.

  Then, lips trembling, Tilly continued, “But you didn’t even try. And Mom was sure it was just scratches. Even though you saw it was something more. I needed you. Why didn’t you try harder?”

  Tilda, now on the verge of tears herself, would not put her own grief on Tilly, would not say she didn’t have the strength for something so deep as cuts.

  “You’re right,” she said, her voice soft with regret. “I think your mom and I . . . I danced around how much you were hurting. I think I was afraid, maybe, to admit that my perfect Tilly was having problems I might not have been up to handling. I’m so sorry.” Tilly, whose chin was jutted out in defiance, pulled back into herself and looked down at the fabric she had let drop.

  “It’s not just you, Grandma. I wanted you to know how I was feeling; I wanted Mom and Dad to know, but also I didn’t. I was scared, too. That’s why I got so mad at you.”

  “If we could go back, instead of getting so upset at the mall, I would’ve asked if you had written a word. I would’ve asked calmly, not the way I did. I thought maybe I saw a word, but I didn’t know for sure, honestly.”

  “I tried to write Truth is beauty, but it was too long, so I quit after truth, but I couldn’t really make it clear. Mom couldn’t even tell what it was. She thought I just scratched myself with the pin.”

  “Truth is beauty? Is that what you believe. Do you know where it’s from?”

  “It’s Keats. We studied it in school, and I liked the ending because I think it’s true that truth is beautiful, but truth is also scary sometimes, and people hide from it. Did you know he died when he was only twenty-five? I wonder what I’ll be like when I get to be that old.”

  “You’ll be as extraordinary as you are this very minute,” said Tilda. “You know, Tilly, nothing you’ve told me is so terrible you had to run away, so it troubles me that you thought you couldn’t talk to us about it.”

  “Even if I want to be Harper?”

  “We will love you just the same, Harper.”

  Tilda watched as Tilly’s expression changed. The sadness, while not entirely gone, was eclipsed by the brightness, missing for so long, that now shone in her eyes.

  “I guess we should call Mom.”

  Tilda and Harper turned when they heard the front door open. Amanda came down the stairs and met Emile as he walked in. He looked in the living room and saw Tilda and Harper looking back at him.

  Emile was tall and muscular with blue eyes that complemented, in an unexpected way, his brown skin. Tilda met his extended hand with hers.

  “So, you have come to reclaim our houseguest,” he said with a warm smile, charm being an easy option for him, Tilda sensed.

  “Yes. As soon as I call her mother, we’ll be on our way,” she said, not yet giving in to her relief to be so near the end of this whole episode.

  But then Amanda broke in. “Tilda, please, stay for lunch. It would mean a lot to us. And Harper should eat something before she leaves.

  Tilda wasn’t sure why Tilly—why Harper—would need anything more than to get into the car and go home, but she agreed when she saw Harper smile at Amanda.

  “I’ll call Harper’s mother and let her know we’ll be home soon,” she said, trying to hide her anxiety. “Harper, why don’t you go in and help with lunch. I’ll be in in a minute.”

  Once alone in the living room to make her call, she focused on Harper’s smile, needing some encouragement. She dreaded letting Laura know where her daughter had found refuge.

  The call to Laura did not go well. She was confused and angry that so much had transpired without her knowledge, wanting to know how and why Tilly had turned up in Brooklyn with Amanda, how Tilda had known where she was, and, for that matter, how she had known where Amanda was, wanting to know if Darren knew. It was true she was relieved that Tilly was safe and would be home soon, but it was clear that she was also more than a little irritated at her mother’s role in the rescue, especially since she had chosen not to let Laura in on it. “I don’t know how you managed to get in the middle of this, but I guess you’ve thought it through, like how and when you’re going to talk to Darren, who apparently is in the dark as much as we were. This is really, really sad, Mom.”

  And I haven’t even told her about the rather definite name change or about the now out-in-the-open gender issues. “Yes, I know you’re upset with me, Laura,” she managed to say to her daughter.

  That aside, Laura had gone right to the heart of Tilda’s remaining troubles. She hoped that Laura would forgive her for the secrecy of the rescue operation once she explained she had been acting on a hunch. She had to be right before getting Laura’s hopes up. And she knew that Laura and Mark would know how to help Tilly—Harper; I’ll never get it right—get through her doubts and obvious fears. But Darren was different. He would have to deal not only with Tilda’s involvement in his family’s problems, but also, and more importantly, with what was sure to be his disappointment with Lizzie. Tilda had her own share of guilt to contend with, but in addition to that, she was troubled, still, by Amanda, who had drawn Lizzie into her domestic drama. This was unforgivable, as Tilda saw it. She was not looking forward to lunch.

  Soon the smell of onion and unidentifiable but slightly familiar things frying filled the downstairs room, where Harper and Tilda were waiting. Before long Emile walked into the living room and told them lunch was ready. Tilda and Harper followed him to the large wooden table in the dining area. As he walked into the kitchen, Tilda looked through the archway to see a bay window, outside of which was a small garden and a large shed, Emile’s studio no doubt.

  Amanda, wearing a chef’s apron, came in from the kitchen and placed a large green ceramic platter in the center of the table. Emile and Gregory followed her out. The hosts and guests sat on long benches on each side of the table. Emile stood between Amanda and Gregory on the side opposite Tilda and her granddaughter and began to serve as plates were handed to him.

  “It’s green fig and saltfish, in case you’re wondering. And there’s also coconut milk and spices in the mix,” he said of the colorful arrangement on the platter. “It’s a Saint Lucia specialty,” he added, passing Tilda her plate.

  “My mother used to make it when I was a boy. A little taste of home,” said Emile, smiling at Amanda.

  “This is the first time I’ve made it myself,” she said. “Usually it’s Emile who does the cooking.”

&n
bsp; Tilda took this in, noting the affection that passed between them.

  “Bacalhau,” said Tilda. “Well, it’s not the same thing, but it’s a cod dish. Portuguese. Harold’s mother used to make it. I tried, but not very successfully.”

  “It’s ancient, using salt to preserve fish. And then it becomes a favorite dish.”

  “Yes, as long as there are other things added, like fig? It looks like banana,” said Tilda, allowing the pleasure of the sweet yet spicy smell rising from her plate to momentarily distract her from her discomfit at having agreed to stay for lunch.

  Emile laughed. “You are right. It is banana, green bananas—not fig, just called fig.”

  “Well, it’s wonderful,” said Tilda to Emile but not to Amanda. “Do you like it, Harper?” she asked, rolling the name around in her mind, trying to see if she could ever make it stick.

  Tilly . . . Harper, who had been peeking at her phone, looked up.

  “Yes, Grandma, I do like it,” she said brightly.

  And so it was: sitting around the table and talking of food began to repair Tilda’s ragged emotions. After lunch, she helped Gregory clear the table while Harper went upstairs to get her few belongings. If I think of her as Harper it will stick, she thought, as the new name continued to plague her.

  “Tilda, sit with me a minute, please?” asked Amanda, seeing Tilda about to leave the dining area. They sat opposite each other at the table. Amanda said, “I’m sorry. I just don’t seem to get things right. I thought I was helping. She seemed so lost. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “I’m not going to say it’s okay, Amanda, because it’s not. You’ve put me in a bad spot. Now I have to face Darren—and Lizzie, too. But more important, what are you going to do?”

  Amanda looked agonized. “I don’t know. When I met Emile, Franklin, his son, had just died—killed on his motorcycle on this very street. Emile was shattered. Gregory, who was Franklin’s lover, tried to commit suicide. And in his grief, with his life in ruins, Emile took Gregory in, and he’s lived here ever since. I was so touched by his sweetness and his grief that I knew my place, maybe not forever but someday, would be with him. And over the next year or so we became very close, and before long, I knew I was in love with him. You think what I’m doing is some sort of irresponsible fling, but I truly have deep feelings for him.”

  Tilda listened to Amanda’s story with sorrow. Her empathy for Emile and Gregory was palpable—they were in her elite group, and she knew something of what they had suffered and would continue to endure—but her empathy did not extend to Amanda. Her compassion was admirable, but not the rest.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. What are you going to do about Darren?” she asked again, emphasizing each word.

  “If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll try to explain. I love Darren. I do. I was happy being home at Christmas. I miss my family. I feel that in consoling and being with Emile I’ve lost Lizzie, and I can’t bear that. I know something has to change. I just don’t know what to do or how to do it yet. At first I was blindly following my heart. I’ll admit, I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing. Not all of it. Not what maybe could never be repaired.”

  “But how did you bring Lizzie into it?”

  “I know you’ll find it hard to understand, but Lizzie knows me. She knew I wasn’t happy. I was able to talk to her about things in a way maybe a mother shouldn’t. But our relationship is different. In some ways, I’m not proud of it. Look, she’s wiser than I am. I think she wanted me to, I don’t know, just see if somehow I could be happy. And she was willing to take that chance. I know it’s unusual—but then, so is she.”

  Yes, she is that, unusual. “So she agreed to this?” Tilda asked.

  Amanda looked pained. “I’m not proud of what I’ve done. I know I put her in a terrible position. She was willing to take the brunt of it, for me. She said she would look after her father—and that I should go.”

  Tilda was astonished that this could ever have seemed tenable to Amanda. She listened but could not accept what she was hearing. Her place was not to judge, but she was judging, she knew. And yet, Amanda did appear to be having her doubts now, certainly some regrets, romantic notions at odds with the pain of her actions, like a prism refracting light at different angles.

  Tilda put a hand on the table, as though she were about to lay out a plan, but there was no plan beyond the small step she knew she had to take.

  “Well, Amanda, you know that I’m going back to explain what I can to Darren and to ask him to forgive me. And I want to talk to Lizzie and help her, too, but I’m not her mother. You are.”

  “I will deal with it.”

  “When? You told me the same thing back in October.”

  “I don’t know what more I can say.” Amanda put her hands in her lap, looking down at them.

  Tilda was suddenly weary. “You can say that you will tell Darren before I do, that you’ll pick up the phone and tell him soon, right away, as soon as I leave.” She paused to see if her words were having any effect. Amanda seemed pained but said nothing.

  “Look, Amanda, I can’t force you into anything. But I will tell you this: At some point in your life, if you’re lucky enough to get old, you may be left alone to grieve for someone. And the best you can hope for in life is that you are overcome with grief at that time, because you would’ve lived your life with the person you loved.”

  She knew she was talking about herself now, but so what. It was true, and maybe it could help.

  They both stood. Amanda stepped forward, holding out her arms. Tilda allowed the embrace as Harper walked into the room and quietly tiptoed back out.

  Chapter Ten

  TO THE NEW YEAR

  The afternoon sun was growing weak as Tilda and her granddaughter began their drive home to Connecticut.

  “Grandma, I know you’re mad at Amanda . . .”

  Tilda was on alert for anything Harper might say that could cast a favorable light on Amanda. She knew she was still harboring some resentment there and wasn’t ready to hear anything about how wonderful Amanda might be. “Why do you think so? Is it something she said?”

  “No, it isn’t that. It’s just that, you know, I could just tell. The way you looked at her and how you talked to her.”

  “Really? I wasn’t aware . . .”

  “Well, anyway, I just wanted to let you know, when she came to get me, to tell me you were there, she said some really nice things.”

  Eager as she was to hear more, Tilda wasn’t falling for it. “Like what?” she asked.

  “Okay, well, don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but I . . . well . . . I wasn’t sure what to do. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go home with you. Can you understand, Grandma? It wasn’t anything against you. It was just . . .”

  “It’s okay. I understand. You ran away, well, you went to Amanda, because you felt you couldn’t talk to us, so I understand if you weren’t sure you were ready to come home, but I’m so glad you talked to me, honey.”

  “Well, that’s just it. It was Amanda. She told me you wouldn’t be there if you didn’t love me, and that Mom and Dad love me, too, and that they’re worried, and it’s not fair to them. She said she was going to have to tell them where I was and that it was time to go home.”

  “She told you all that?” Tilda asked, genuinely surprised. Seeing an opportunity, given her granddaughter’s openness, she asked another question she’d wanted to know the answer to: “So you haven’t told me how it was that you went to her and Emile in the first place. I mean, I know you talked to Lizzie, but why Amanda?”

  After an awkward moment during which Tilda was certain Harper was searching for the right words, she began:

  “At Thanksgiving, you remember—it was hard—you know? And so I was talking to Lizzie and thinking she was easy to talk to, understanding, and that was good because it was hard for me to figure things out. I told her I didn’t know what was wrong with me, but I just didn’t want to be me anymore. I f
elt like I was someone else in my own body.”

  Harper paused and glanced at Tilda before continuing.

  “Maybe a boy, I didn’t know. I didn’t feel like a girl or a boy, really. I just felt all mixed-up. I told her I wanted to be called Harper so people would stop asking if I had a boyfriend, and my friends might leave me alone and stop asking when I was going to start kissing boys. Maybe they wouldn’t see me as just a girl. I could be a boy . . . or a girl, just a different kind of one.”

  Tilda nodded, and Harper seemed comforted by her grandmother’s willingness to hear her out.

  “She was cool and laughed and said she felt the same way sometimes and was glad to know she wasn’t the only one. That made me feel a little better, but I knew it wasn’t the same for her as it was for me. I mean, I couldn’t stand it anymore, how I felt. Then I told her I wanted to run away, and she asked where I would go. I told her I didn’t know. And that’s when she told me her mom was gone, and not to tell anyone, but that she knew where she was.”

  “Lizzie told you that . . . then, at Thanksgiving?”

  “Yes,” answered Tilly.

  Tilda had been right from the start, when she first suspected where Harper might be. She felt like a detective who had put the puzzle pieces in the right places. She was embarrassed by her satisfaction, but mostly she was gratified.

  “She said her mom was different and that she understood things that other people didn’t. ‘She doesn’t judge,’ she said. ‘And she lets you be you, so if you need someplace to go, you could go there.’ That’s what she told me. I said I’d think about it, and then things got worse. When I didn’t feel any better, I decided to do it. So Lizzie talked to her mom, and she said it was okay, but just for a day or two, so I could try to figure out what I wanted to do.”