Tilda's Promise

by Jean P. Moore

  “You’re welcome, Harper. You can make yourself comfortable in the waiting room until your mom gets here.”

  “Okay, and thanks again.”

  “See you next week,” said Dr. M.

  “I’ll be here.” Just then Harper saw through the window that her mom was pulling into the entrance. Better to be too early than to be even a little late, one of her mother’s favorite expressions. That’s Mom, all right, thought Harper.

  There was no way of avoiding it. Tilda’s six-month cleaning appointment had been put off for so long, it had now been eleven months. The last appointment was just before Harold died. Dr. Renu’s last message had bordered on incredulous. “I don’t know how you can think it’s okay to go this long, Tilda. But really, it’s time. Please call so Ruth can make an appointment for you.” Then obviously aware of her tone, she added, “I know this is a difficult time, but you have to take care of yourself.”

  Tilda wanted to make the appointment, but every time she picked up the phone, she had an image of her teeth, in her gums, in her skull. And the image was terrifying, so she hung up each time.

  Now, here she was sitting in the chair, Dr. Renu all but indiscernible with the exception of her lovely brown eyes, those perfect almond-shaped orbs, the ones Harold had always said relaxed him.

  But there was nothing relaxing about this venture—though it was just a simple cleaning, Tilda was tense. Dr. Renu, who always did her own cleaning, asked if everything was all right. Tilda, mouth open, made a guttural sound and nodded yes, certain her hands firmly grasping each armrest would give her away.

  Dr. Renu scraped while her assistant, Wilma, vacuumed. The scrapping reverberated in Tilda’s head, and beyond that was the background music of the office: oldies. She heard the hauntingly lovely Hawaiian version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” the strains of the ukulele softly crying, saying to Tilda, isn’t this the sad truth? That it’s somewhere over some rainbow, perhaps, where all this wonder is possible, but not here, not now.

  Maybe it was a combination of things: her anxiety, her first visit to the office since Harold, or the horrible morning news about the schoolgirls murdered by ISIS. But somewhere over the rainbow seemed so far away, so unreachable in this mutilated world. Without making a sound or moving a muscle, Tilda began to feel the tears streaming down the sides of her head, surely soaking the protective paper-wrapped pillow beneath her.

  Dr. Renu stopped scraping. Wilma stopped vacuuming.

  “Would you like a break, Tilda?”

  Tilda nodded yes and took a few minutes to collect herself in the empty examining room. The music had stopped, turned off, Tilda guessed, maybe on purpose to relieve her suffering. It was true that songs on the whole were taking her back, which in itself was not always a bad thing. There were times when Harold’s favorite songs, or theirs together, gave her the kind of pain that was comforting, but this one had for its own reasons been overwhelming. Over the rainbow was too far away, and without Harold, there was no real comfort in this world, just occasional reprieves from her grief.

  At the reception desk, after the completion of her cleaning, when Ruth asked if she wanted to make her next appointment, Dr. Renu came to the front and said not to worry about it now. “I’ll call soon, and we can make the appointment together.”

  “She must’ve thought I was too undone to put a date on my calendar. Oh God, I’ve become the stereotype of the bereaved widow, barely functioning,” Tilda told Bev, whom she called as soon as she had retuned home. “You know, the whole thing, lying there in that chair, masked people over you—the whole setup is designed to promote patient vulnerability,” she said. “And then there’s me. A little on edge, I guess.”

  “I don’t know. Ordinarily, I’d agree with you, the whole sad state of medical and dental care in this country today, none of it patient-oriented, but in this case, I probably would’ve cried too. A perfect storm for a meltdown, if you ask me. And the world isn’t going to give us bluebirds singing and that land of lullabies anytime soon. It seems the savagery just keeps getting worse. Don’t be so hard on yourself, but . . .”

  “But? I was just taking some comfort, and now I feel a dark cloud about to descend.”

  “Nothing like that. But it’s been almost a year now. How are you doing with those five stages?”

  “Well, I’m not at acceptance, if that’s what you mean, but I’m very familiar with the others, since I revisit them all the time.”

  “Meaning . . .”

  “Okay, yesterday for example, I was sure I heard Harold in the kitchen making coffee. Was that denial or a visitation? I like to think he visits from time to time. Then there’s anger. That happens every day. Sometimes I’m even mad at him for leaving me the way he did. That leads to guilt. I don’t think that’s one of the stages, but it should be. Ah, yes, those pesky, neatly packaged five stages.”

  “Hmm. I detect a little sarcasm. Not directed at me, I hope. I’m just a little concerned.”

  “No, not directed at you. I’m just tired of the whole five-stages thing. It’s so much more complicated than that.” Tilda cupped the phone closer to her ear, as though she were cupping a hand on her friend’s cheek.

  They were both silent. Then Tilda said, “Honestly, I don’t know. Some days I’m actually happy. Other days, I think I can’t get out of bed.”

  “Well, that sounds like depression. You still don’t want to take anything?”

  “If this goes on much longer, this roller coaster, I mean, I might. But mostly, I think I do okay. I stay busy, friends, family, you know.”

  “Meddling, yeah, I know.”

  “Meddling—mostly it’s worked out okay.”

  “By the way, what’s with Darren? Have you seen him since you’ve been back?”

  “No, but I do think about him. I know Harper and Lizzie have been in touch.”

  “Wow. So it’s Harper now?”

  “Yes, ever since Portugal. I finally realized how much it means to her.”

  “How is she doing, then?”

  “As far as I know, very well, and everyone seems to be adjusting.”

  “But to what? Besides the name change, I mean.”

  “I don’t think anyone knows just yet. But there’s nothing drastic going on; no puberty blockers or hormones or anything.”

  After she and Bev hung up, Tilda pulled the antidepressant prescription from Dr. Willis out of her file and stared at it for a moment. She thought about tearing it up, but then she put it back and closed the drawer. Who knows? Maybe.

  Harper went to see Dr. Miriam right after school for her regular Tuesday-afternoon appointment. She had news to share. She had just started her period.

  “How do you feel about it?” asked Dr. M. Harper knew this would be her first question, and she was prepared for it.

  “You know how I feel. I told you from the beginning of our sessions. I don’t want anything to do with it.”

  “You sound angry, Harper. It’s okay to be angry, but I’d like to know more about why.”

  Harper stopped to think about it. Yes, she was angry, at having her period, and maybe, yes, angry at Dr. M, too.

  “We talked about stopping it. You said there were ways of doing that, and now it’s too late. Isn’t that right? It’s too late?”

  “I see. Okay, Harper, let’s back up a bit. I understand that you may have wanted me to help you with stopping it if that were possible, but we also talked about the process, right? That it would take a long time, maybe years, before I could be sure what we should do. And that in the meantime, you more than likely would begin menstruation. Do you remember?”

  It was true. Harper did remember, but somehow she had hoped that when she became Harper, she would be able to leave it all behind, the periods, the breasts, the boys, the sex and doing it, like Sage. She could go back to the way it was before.

  It was the before part that Dr. M wanted to talk about today.

  “What about before?” she asked.

  H
arper told her, “It’s just like I said, before I had to do all the stuff I didn’t want to do.”

  “What ‘stuff,’ Harper?”

  “It’s like when all the changes happen, you know, physically, everyone expects you to start thinking about things differently. Like all the makeup. What’s that about, anyway? Okay, it’s about boys, right? So you’re supposed to like them and get them to like you, and to kiss them, and fall in love. I don’t want to be in love.”

  Harper stopped and brushed away imaginary lint on her jeans.

  “It’s not like you don’t love people now, though, right?” Dr. M said.

  “That’s totally different. It’s easy to love your family. You have to love them, of course, but grown-up love, that’s way different. It’s weird and funny, even to think about it.”

  “Why ‘funny’?” Dr. M asked.

  Harper hesitated. She cast her eyes down and shut her lips tight.

  Dr. M waited for a response.

  “I don’t know. With your family it’s different,” Harper said. “You’re born loving them. You don’t have a choice. You love them, even though you know it can hurt you, but you have to love them.”

  “Has loving your family hurt you, Harper?”

  “Well, no, they haven’t hurt me, not really.”

  “What about loving them has hurt you?”

  Harper felt her eyes begin to burn and her nose tingle. She didn’t want to answer.

  Dr. M moved up in her chair and asked softly, “Does loving them hurt now?”

  Harper felt a huge swell in her chest that went up to her head. She started crying so hard she couldn’t stop.

  “Grandpa. He died,” she said. “We didn’t even say goodbye. He was like a friend. He was my best friend.” She couldn’t talk anymore.

  Dr. M rose from her chair to sit next to Harper. She patted her hand without saying a word. They stayed that way for a time, Harper crying.

  When the tears began to dissipate, Dr. M handed her another tissue, and Harper wiped her face and blew her nose.

  “Grandpa and I were ‘pals,’ that’s what Grandma used to call us. And it was true. We hung out together. He told me everything. I learned more from Grandpa than my teachers, practically.”

  “Oh, Harper. That makes so much sense. You really miss him. You loved him and he left you and that hurt. And so maybe in the future you could make it hurt less somehow.”

  “I don’t know how I could make it hurt less. I’m going to lose Grandma and then my parents. Everyone I still love is going to die. Just like your mother did. How can I make it hurt less?”

  “What was it you were thinking about grown-up love when you said it was funny? It isn’t really funny, is it?”

  “Funny, like weird. I mean, all of sudden you love someone new?”

  “Well, it’s not that easy, it takes time to know someone, but maybe it has to do with . . . when you’re grown, you have a choice. You decide to let someone into your life. You’re not born loving anyone but your family. But grown-up love, as you said, is different.”

  “Right, so maybe I won’t love someone new.”

  “Maybe the difference is you can make it hurt less by choosing not to love anyone new.”

  Harper pulled her knees into her chest.

  The two sat quietly, and then Harper said, “I don’t know. My head hurts, maybe from crying so much.”

  “It’s okay, Harper. We can leave it here for now. We’ll talk some more next week. But I want you to think about our conversation, about love and choosing to love. Okay? Will you do that?”

  Harper blew her nose again and nodded yes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THIS WHOLE EXPERIMENT IN GREEN

  Was it possible? Tilda wondered on her way home from Saturday grocery shopping. She had been angry with herself for going out on a busy Saturday instead of during the week when she noticed the forsythia bushes beginning to bloom along Old Church Road. It was March, and they did appear to be peeking out from behind the berm by the church. They were not in full bloom yet, but the flash of yellow caused her heart to leap. The first signs of spring had always shaken her out of the dull mood she fell into from the autumnal to the vernal equinox. She immediately thought to tell Harold as soon as she got home. Oh, how Harold loved the forsythia, especially in full flower when the sun shone on them, turning them into beacons of light. He would not be home when she arrived, but still she would share this moment with him. She spent a lot of time talking to Harold these days. And it was comforting, but was this denial or acceptance—or something worse? She wasn’t sure it mattered.

  Pulling into the driveway, Tilda spotted Darren and Lizzie getting out of their car. She lowered her window and waved, but Darren turned away. Not Lizzie, though. “Hi, Mrs. Carr!” she shouted, waving her arms. “Welcome home from Portugal.”

  She was a bit taken aback to realize that this was the first time she had seen them since she and Harper had returned from their trip. Tilda had been waiting patiently for some sign from Darren that a friendship between them was still possible, but he continued to avoid any contact with her—apparently even eye contact, Tilda thought as she gathered her bags and went into the house. At least there was Lizzie to keep the connection alive. And Tilda knew from Harper that she and Lizzie were spending more time together.

  After putting the groceries away, she took a newly purchased box of crackers with her and wandered onto the porch. Remarkable Flavor and Intelligent Snacking, the package read. Tilda had always eaten rice crackers, even though the flavor wasn’t all that “remarkable.” And she supposed they now made for “intelligent snacking” because they were gluten free, also prominently featured on the label. Almost all food packaging these days, it seemed, included something about gluten, whether people seriously needed to avoid it or not. Faddish marketing had always annoyed Tilda, but she pulled out a cracker and began to munch, intelligently, nevertheless.

  Mark would be calling before long about taking down the storm windows, she thought, looking outside. The crocuses were blooming in the backyard, although she had hardly noticed till now—white, purple, and her favorite variety, the silvery ones with the fine and bold lilac stripes, made all the more lovely because they would not last. Not only was their time fleeting; there were other perils to shorten their season. Even now she saw a fat gray squirrel holding an entire crocus, flower and bulb, in his tiny paws, more like little hands, nibbling furtively, as though he too knew it was sinful to be consuming such beauty, but survival was survival after all. And sometimes there was more to eat than dry grainy acorns. Sometimes, for a short time, there were succulent petals, stems, and roots to provide sustenance. Tilda wanted to shoo the squirrel away. They bordered on being a nuisance, but there was nothing to be gained from interfering with a squirrel being a squirrel. Maybe she had finally learned a thing or two as well about undue interfering, she thought. She was putting the box of crackers away when the doorbell rang.

  It was Darren. After looking through the peephole, her hand floated up to her chest. She took a minute to collect herself before opening the door.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  Tilda opened the door wide and had to restrain herself from opening her arms as well. She didn’t want to scare him away with too much emotion, but by God, it was good to see him.

  She offered coffee, tea, soda, all to no avail. He couldn’t stay long, he told her, as he sat on the edge of the sofa. He looked thinner, Tilda thought, his face more drawn than when she had last seem him in this room. She sat on the other side of the sofa, facing him.

  “First, I want to say I’m sorry for . . .”

  Tilda put up her hand as if to put an end to his forthcoming apology. “There’s no need, Darren. I may have been well-meaning, which I hope you know I intended to be, but I . . .”

  Now it was Darren’s turn to interrupt.

  “Mrs. Carr, Tilda, I came over to tell you I appreciate what you’ve tried to do for us. And I know you m
eant well.” He looked down at his folded hands, his elbows resting on his knees. “I’ve been in my own world and not very nice to you, I know.” He looked up and said, “That’s why I owe you an apology.”

  “Not necessary, but thank you. And I know, I think I know, how hard this has been on you.”

  He nodded and said, “There’s more. Amanda has been in touch with me. I know she talks to Lizzie, but after what happened with Tilly, I didn’t want to talk to her anymore. And I haven’t until recently.”

  Tilda looked into his blue eyes, ringed with worry.

  “I don’t know what to do. She wants to come home.”

  “Stay right here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Returning quickly, she handed him a glass of sparkling water and put a plate of cookies on the table in front of him. He politely picked up a cookie and began to fill in the details. Although Amanda had been calling him and texting, asking for some time to talk, he had not responded, but in one of her texts she said she wanted to see him and that it was important. He thought she wanted a divorce, and if that was it, he would be ready to give it to her. So he had agreed to meet her at the diner in town.

  As it turned out, she didn’t want a divorce. She wanted to come home. He was furious and was about to tell her to go back to her lover, when she said plainly it was time to let him go.

  “Did she think that would make me want her more?” Darren asked. “I got up to leave, but she pulled me back. ‘I won’t lie to you,’ she said. ‘I love him.’ I swear I wanted to hit her, honestly. I know, terrible, right? But what did she think? That I would just take her back like nothing had happened? That she had done nothing? Then she said, ‘But I love you and I love Lizzie, and I need to come home.’ I said I didn’t care what she needed. It wasn’t going to be about what she needed.”

  Tilda remembered her conversation with Amanda, when Tilda told her this day would come, when she would have to decide, and apparently she had made her decision. Now it was up to Darren.

  Amanda had told him about Franklin, about Emile’s grief, and how all of it had played a part in her decision to be with Emile. None of her explanations had caused Darren to relent, but Tilda acknowledged to herself at least that Amanda had decided to be brutally honest, leaving herself open to almost-certain rejection. But she was taking that chance, apparently.