Tilda's Promise

by Jean P. Moore

  “And do you know,” asked Tilda, “what you want to do?”

  “Lizzie asked me that same question today at lunch. We were texting.”

  Harper paused and Tilda wondered why at first, but then a great sadness overcame her. She thought her hands would fall from the steering wheel. It was as though she could climb inside Harper’s skin and feel her great confusion. How awful for her to feel so out of herself. To be so confused, not knowing what to do next, not knowing who to be. Literally not knowing who she was. And then to be so alone in her confusion, like stumbling in some great fog, with no one to guide her. Tilda wanted to pull over and explain that she finally and truly understood, but before she could, Harper spoke.

  “I want to go home,” she said. “That’s what I told Lizzie. And I do, Grandma. I want to talk to Mom and Dad. Do you really think they’ll understand?”

  “Yes, I do. And I’m so very proud of you, because I know this is hard, and yet you’re willing to face it and try to sort things out. So if it took a few days away from home to figure that out, then I think it must’ve been worth it.”

  Tilda took her eyes off the road just long enough to look at Harper and to see the corners of her lips turn up ever so slightly into a smile.

  Laura and Mark were at the door, appearing to Tilda as though they hadn’t left that spot since she’d last seen them. They opened the door and their arms wide, embracing their errant daughter. After Harper went upstairs and Mark had quietly left Tilda and Laura alone over coffee in the kitchen, Tilda waited nervously for Laura to voice her anger. But Laura, more thankful than angry, welcomed her mother to stay awhile before heading home.

  Tilda, taking comfort, began to fill Laura in on some of the missing details and to let her know that Harper was ready to talk to them, to take them into her confidence about all she was struggling with. They both agreed it was time to listen, to really listen. Tilda offered that it may be time to broach the subject of outside help again, to see how Harper might react to the suggestion of counseling. Laura, who had raised the subject at the beginning but who had let it drop when Harper balked, agreed. Tilda, happy that Laura was once again in charge—making plans for her daughter’s future—nodded in agreement and soon went home.

  She had ignored George’s texts and calls to her cell phone, and now her home phone was twinkling like a Christmas tree. He had left no fewer than seven messages, the last one reminding her that she had promised to call as soon as she knew something, which reminded her that she hadn’t. His voice was not angry or nagging. Maybe worried with a dash of hurt feelings. “It’s New Year’s,” he said, for no particular reason, and yet there was an implication, and it stung. She had left him in the dark without explanation. He wanted to know everything was okay, maybe to see her on New Year’s Eve. Tilda felt terrible, but more tired than anything. She thought she might lie down for a minute, a little power nap, and then call.

  When the doorbell sounded, she fumbled in the dark for her phone to check the time; it was 11:30 p.m. Could she have slept for nearly six hours? It was George, of course. She backed away from the peephole, smoothed her hair, and opened the door.

  She hadn’t expected to spend New Year’s Eve with George, but as they listened to the countdown and watched the ball in Times Square drop, she did indeed usher in the New Year with him. And now, in the morning, there was what remained of his gift to her: a bottle of champagne, empty, on the side table by the sofa.

  She tiptoed into the living room from her bedroom, and there he was still, sleeping. Once again there had been the intimacy of a night between them without sex. She wasn’t ready yet, she had told him so. But then after the glass of champagne and their quiet celebration, as he was moving toward the door to leave, she asked him to stay. “I guess I don’t want to be alone,” she had said. They decided on a fire. Tilda watched as George opened the flue and put on the firewood. She was thinking of Harold and having misgivings and doubts, but also knowing she wanted George with her on this, the beginning of a new year. They sat quietly together drinking the rest of the champagne and watching the fire. When the flames began to turn to embers, Tilda made a bed for him on the sofa and said goodnight.

  Now he turned toward her, squinting a little as he opened his eyes to the morning light.

  “Breakfast?” she asked.

  “Well, I never expected to start the New Year like this,” he said, pushing the blanket aside and sitting up. “But don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to see you first thing in the morning, especially today. Happy New Year. And yes, breakfast would be great. Can I help?”

  “You just get yourself together and meet me in the kitchen.”

  They sat at the kitchen table, ate their scrambled eggs and toast, drank their fresh-squeezed orange juice and their coffee, and talked again about the “Tilly Rescue,” as they began to call it, Tilda’s siege on Brooklyn to reclaim her granddaughter. By the end of the conversation, the venture had become the “Harper Rescue,” George raising his glass of orange juice to acknowledge her new name and her courage in facing her doubts.

  The sun was streaming in the window, casting a soft light on the table, glasses gleaming, plates shining. It was the kind of morning that had always filled Tilda with hope—a whole day lay ahead, with possibility, even if there was nothing more to look forward to than a winter walk on the beach, the kind of thing she and Harold had done most New Year’s Day mornings. Now she sat in her sunny kitchen with George—and it was okay, more than okay—but the conflict between hope and sadness competing for space in her heart continued, as it would, Tilda surmised.

  “It’s not a happy ending yet,” said Tilda, getting back to the topic at hand. “So I’m not getting too excited. She still has a long way to go to find out what’s going on with her. I’m hoping counseling is the next step, and I’m sure it will be. Laura and Mark will see to it.”

  Tilda looked away, staring intently, as though peering through the kitchen wall to the house next door.

  “And I still have some unfinished business I have to take care of.”

  “Ah, there’s still Darren, isn’t there?” said George. Tilda nodded, answering his question and suddenly realizing how much she had shared with George the night before. Had it been the champagne, or was he slowly finding his way into her heart?

  After George left, after the sweet parting kiss on the cheek had turned into an embrace and a proper kiss on the lips, Tilda was left sorting out her feelings. There was no doubt the kiss had opened up a desire to pull George back inside, to take comfort in his arms. But she resisted, and he had left. She wasn’t sure if she put him off because of the “unfinished business” next door, or because of her resolve that she was not ready for George or for anyone, now or ever. She soon put her personal dilemma aside to face the more easily managed dilemma of Darren and Lizzie.

  Tilda looked through her cupboard to see what ingredients she had on hand, decided on brownies, baked a dozen, and was soon standing on the Esmond doorstep, ringing the bell.

  She heard steps inside. No one came to the door. She rang again and waited. When the door eventually opened, it was Lizzie who asked her in.

  “Thank you. These look delicious,” she said, taking the tin from Tilda’s hands. “It’s lunchtime, though, Mrs. Carr. So before we eat the brownies, want some salad? I made one. There’s enough to share.”

  “Thank you, Lizzie, but I was wondering if your dad was home,” said Tilda.

  Lizzie leaned in to speak quietly. “He’s here, but he doesn’t want to talk right now.”

  Tilda paused a moment, lifting a hand to press a finger on the spot between her eyebrows. It’s done, she thought. Amanda has told him. She patted the spot and put her hand down.

  “I think I’d better go. Maybe later.”

  Continuing in a soft voice, Lizzie said, “Don’t go. C’mon. Let’s go in the kitchen.”

  There, Lizzie put the brownies on the table and began to set out two placemats, bowls, and the rest of the settin
g for a lunch of salad and lemonade.

  And so, against her better judgment, soon the two were eating. Tilda decided not to mention Amanda, but soon it was Lizzie who did.

  “Mrs. Carr, I don’t know what to say to you except that I’m sorry. I think it was a mistake to tell Tilly, Harper, she could go stay with my mom.”

  Tilda didn’t know where to begin. She did not want to be in the kitchen with Lizzie apologizing for what Tilda thought was not her fault. And yet she didn’t think she should be telling Lizzie her mother was the one to blame.

  As though reading her mind, Lizzie continued, “My mom. I know you think she’s wrong, and my dad, he’s super mad at her, but I know my mom. She’s doing what she has to do. It isn’t all selfish on her part. She couldn’t stand to see the way Emile was suffering after Franklin died.”

  “You don’t have to apologize or explain to me, Lizzie. But I am worried about how you’re doing, how you’re handling all this, and I hope your dad isn’t super mad at you.”

  The light in Lizzie’s eyes shone less brightly when she talked about Darren. “He’s having a hard time with it, with me, about me knowing and not telling. I’m sorry about that, too, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Have you tried to talk to him? Can I help?” Tilda offered, knowing there was little she could do, since Darren wouldn’t, apparently, even be in the same room with her.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Carr, but there’s nothing to do, I don’t think. And I have tried to talk to him, to explain that Mom’s different and needs time to do this. I think she’ll come back, but Dad, I don’t know. He may be too hurt to even want that. But I think he understands about me. He’s coming around.”

  Just as Tilda was rising to leave, Lizzie said, “Oh, I want to tell you, I have a great new Scrabble word for you. I hope we can play again soon, maybe you, me, and Harper.”

  “I’d like that, Lizzie. Yes, soon. You, me, and . . . Harper.”

  Tilda went home, comforted somehow by Lizzie’s calm in the middle of the domestic storm around her. Her parents seemed to recognize how remarkable she was and maybe relied on her strength a little too much. At any rate, so far at least, Lizzie could handle it—and them.

  Since Darren wouldn’t see Tilda—and who could blame him?—she decided to write him a letter, which she did and which she slipped under his front door the next morning. Her concluding words were:

  I think now it was a mistake from the beginning to involve myself the way I did. I thought I could help, but I wound up only making things worse—the law of unintended consequences, maybe. All I can do now is say I’m sorry. I wish the very best for you and Lizzie.

  She wanted to add how fond she was of Lizzie, how special she was, but decided it best to be brief. She wanted to say she hoped he would be able to forgive Amanda, but decided against it. Who was she to preach forgiveness? She still saw Amanda as the root of her family’s problems, of Darren’s despair, and of Lizzie’s fledgling forbearance.

  On a brutally cold day in January, Tilda was regretting her decision to meet Bev in the city for lunch. As she walked to the train, the cold Connecticut wind found every inch of exposed skin around her nose and eyes, causing a torrent of tears that Tilda began to fear might actually freeze on her face.

  Lunch was at an East Side restaurant they could both reach without having to venture far from the subway. By the time Bev arrived, Tilda had already shed her coat and had ordered a glass of wine.

  “Why do we do this to ourselves?” asked Bev, removing the rings of fabric she had wrapped round her neck for extra warmth. “Where do I put this thing, now that it’s off?” she asked, before deciding to wad it up and stuff it in the sleeve of the coat she had hung over the back of her chair.

  Finally settled, she wiped her eyes and let out a lingering sigh. “I feel like Nanook of the North,” she said. “And what’s up with all this tearing? Dry eye, the doctor calls it. Counterintuitive, isn’t it, dry eye, and all your eyes do is run like you’ve sprung a leak? I tell you, I’ve had it with getting old, and this is only the beginning, I’m told.”

  Tilda looked on patiently as Bev vented her dissatisfaction with the weather and the aging process, winter’s double threat to one’s comfort and safety, as Bev saw it. “Next the snow will come by the truckloads and then ice, and then living every day with the dread of the false step, the broken bones. Or worse, brain injury, if you smack the back of your head on the pavement when your feet fly out from under you.”

  Bev had become more and more sensitive to the perils of falling since her arthritis and added weight had made her less steady on her feet. Tilda had tried to get her to consider joining a gym, but Bev had countered that if she felt better she’d join. When Tilda pointed out the circularity of the argument, they just laughed, but Bev never truly considered exercise. “I was never much for it,” she explained. “Remember Kennedy’s Physical Fitness Program? We had to do all sorts of things—run, jump, do pull-ups, sit-ups, remember? All the while in those silly white gym suits? I think those sit-ups were the beginning of my back problems. Anyway, winter, yes, it’s going to do me in one of these days. I have three words for you: Flor-I-Da. Do you see our waiter?” asked Bev, turning to look.

  Tilda and Harold had talked about getting a place in Florida for the winter but had never reached a decision. Never had the time to make a decision, Tilda thought. But not now, anyway. Not now. She would never leave Laura and her family behind. They were her only comfort, they and Bev, of course.

  They decided on chili, two steamy, meaty bowls of it. That and the two glasses apiece of red wine had taken their minds off the cold and their own vulnerability to it. Hesitant to leave, they decided on two cappuccinos. “You know the Italians never drink cappuccino in the afternoon—and never after a meal,” said Bev, wiping the foam away from her upper lip with her napkin.

  Tilda nodded at this bit of trivia and took a sip, holding the large cup with both hands. It was good, this afternoon with Bev, this time to be with a friend whose faults and foibles were comforting, Tilda having learned to accept and to take them in stride years ago. And comforting, knowing that the same was true for Bev as well, Bev, who knew every angle of Tilda’s personality, better than she knew herself, most likely.

  Bev put her cup down and said, “So we’ve talked about George and your New Year’s platonic sleepover. You’ve told me about the continuing Esmond family domestic drama, but we haven’t talked about Tilly. What’s going on?”

  Tilda hadn’t been avoiding the topic of her granddaughter exactly, but she also hadn’t brought it up. Why, she wondered, before determining that she was enjoying an afternoon away from worries—and Tilly was a still a source of worry.

  “Harper,” said Tilda. “She’s Harper now. We all call her that. Laura and Mark, her friends, even her teachers, at the behest of her friends, so I’m told.” Tilda knew a note of disapproval had slipped into her tone, but she didn’t intend it. She wanted to be fully supportive.

  “Wow. Things have moved rather quickly, haven’t they? You sound unsure of the Harper business. What’s the deal?” asked Bev, taking another sip.

  Tilda paused for a moment. “The deal, hmm. I don’t know. I’m just a little worried about where all this is headed. Is it just a phase? Is it for real? Laura and Mark have gotten Tilly into therapy sessions with someone they really like, who Tilly is responding to very well, they tell me.” Tilda paused to clear her throat before continuing. “They’re talking about hormone therapy. Well, hormone blockers, to put off puberty. Tilly . . . Harper . . . isn’t fully pubescent; she hasn’t started her period yet, late for her age, but she’s starting to develop, and apparently, she should be at the earlier stages of puberty anyway to be on blockers, so depending on how her sessions go, she may start on them, but it’s early yet. The therapist has gone over the options with Mark and Laura, but no one knows what exactly is going on with Harper, including Harper, I think.”

  “So is she identifying herself as m
ale, then? You know, the way she dresses, no makeup or whatever?”

  Tilda noticed the young couple just in from the cold, hanging up their jackets and waiting for a seat. For a minute they held hands before hugging themselves against the cold as the front door swung open again. They looked like any other boy and girl out together, grabbing a bite, but who could know for sure anything about them?

  “Harper . . . oh, look. I’m just going to call her Tilly with you. I’m still finding it hard . . .” Bev reached a hand across the table toward Tilda, but she pulled away. “No, it’s okay, really. I’m fine, mostly, but I am finding it difficult to deal with in some ways, when you start talking about medicating against puberty. I have to wonder . . .

  “Anyway, she’s never been a frilly girl, ever since she was small. She’s always been more comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt, and she’s never been all that interested in makeup. She wears none now. Now that her friends are all behind her on the Harper business, it’s applying some pressure, I think, to stick with it. Or maybe that’s just my interpretation. I don’t know. I really don’t know. I don’t know if she’s identifying as male or just doesn’t want to be either. That’s what she told me anyway, when we last talked bout it.”

  “Well, there must be something, some indication, one way or the other, no?”

  “When I think back, I guess there were some hints . . . that she wasn’t your ordinary girl. She never liked dolls, for instance. And she loved tinkering around with Harold in the garage, with his old tools and his collections. She loved his old stereo system and all his 45s. She’d rather be with him and all his old stuff than with the neighborhood kids any day. Oh, whatever,” she added glumly. “I know none of this means anything, putting my gender labels on things.”

  Then as an afterthought, providing some hope, Tilda added, “But she has always and still loves to dance. She’s on the team—and she’s really good.”

  She turned her gaze directly to Bev, who looked back at her, her eyebrows raised a millimeter higher than usual. Tilda knew the look. Bev wasn’t buying it; she was just letting her friend talk. Tilda lowered her shoulders and bent over her bowl. “Oh, I don’t know, none of this really means anything, does it?”