Tilda's Promise

by Jean P. Moore

  “Breakthrough. That sounds intriguing,” said Bev. “Will Harper stay Harper, do you think, or might she someday go back to being Tilly?”

  “Oh, I think one thing is certain: she’s Harper, now and forever.” Hearing herself say these words she knew in her heart to be true, she felt a slight twinge of regret. Her namesake. No more. It’s okay, she thought, giving herself this brief moment of sadness.

  And then, as if Tilda suddenly remembered the purpose of the trip to the beach, she turned to Bev and said, “Okay, now for sure it’s your turn. What’s going on in your life?”

  Harper knocked on the door, and Dr. M said “Enter,” the way she always did in that funny kind of accent, as though she were asking Harper to enter some exotic, unfamiliar place. She explained it to Harper on the day of their first meeting: “I want you to knock each time you come because then I know you are asking to enter, that wherever our session takes us, you have willingly chosen to go there. It’s a kind of ritual that I think will be helpful.”

  Harper entered, took off her jacket and her backpack, and slowly took her place in the soft upholstered chair. She slipped off her boots and pulled her legs onto the seat, first hugging them to her, then gently swinging them beside her.

  “How have you been since our last appointment, Harper? Last week was probably a little difficult—you cried, but I think it was worthwhile. Sometimes when things are hard there can be a good outcome. Do you remember what I asked you to think about last week?”

  Harper shrugged her shoulders. “Not really,” she said. “All I know is I cried a lot. And I cried at home, too.”

  “That’s good. Sometimes crying is a good thing. It helps us to get things out of our system.”

  “All I know is that I can’t believe Grandpa is actually dead and never coming back. Sometimes it’s a shock all over again, like the first time I found out.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I don’t think it will be a shock anymore. Now I think I know it’s really true. I think I cried myself into knowing it.”

  “I see. Maybe that’s good, too, not having that shock every time, right? And what else about last week?”

  “Well, I was mad that I was going to have to accept getting my period.”

  “Are you still mad?”

  Harper shrugged again. “I know what you said was right. You told me from the beginning that the whole thing would take a long time.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, we talked about being afraid and loving our family and hating that people we love have to die.”

  “Uh-huh. I remember.”

  “Okay. I’m going to ask you a hypothetical question. Do you know what that means?”

  “Sure, it’s a question about something that’s made up. It can be a trick question that a good politician won’t answer. That’s what my social studies teacher said.”

  Dr. M laughed. Her head went back when she laughed sometimes. Harper liked it when she did that.

  “That’s a good teacher, I think. But this isn’t a trick question. Sometimes a hypothetical question lets us explore possibilities that haven’t or that won’t happen but that we can learn from just the same. Okay, here it is. I want you to imagine being very fond of someone, someone not in your family. Can you think of someone?”

  “Is it someone I know, or can it be someone I admire, like a famous person?”

  “No. Someone you know.”

  Harper thought about it. She thought for a long time.

  “I like my friends and some of my teachers, but I don’t know about ‘fond.’ Is that like love?”

  “Yes, like love. Someone you like to be with. Someone who makes you happy when you’re with them.”

  Harper thought of Lizzie and told Dr. M.

  “So it’s a good thing, being fond of someone. I mean, you like being with her. When you think of her you have a good feeling. It’s not scary, right?”

  “Sure. Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Okay, now imagine you’re older, maybe a few years from now, and you’re fond of someone else. Maybe very, very fond, maybe you love this person. Wouldn’t that be a good thing, to have those feelings for someone who isn’t in your family? Wouldn’t it be good to love someone?”

  Harper thought about this. She knew Dr. M was getting at something. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew the answer to the question. “Yes, it would be a good thing. I mean, to feel so strongly that you wanted to see someone, to spend time with them, and that that person made you happy. Yeah, that would be a good thing.”

  “You wouldn’t want to grow up and live in a world where you couldn’t feel that way, would you?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “You might even love someone as much as you love your grandpa, in a very different way, but just as much. And you wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?”

  Harper felt a place in her chest let go. It felt good.

  “No, I wouldn’t want to miss that.”

  Dr. M didn’t say anything for a long time. They both just sat there, and it was okay.

  “Harper, remember when I told you my mother died when I was a little girl, younger than you? Well, if I were afraid to ever feel that way about someone again, I would’ve missed out on my husband, who I love very much, and my two little girls. I wouldn’t have them, and they’re the world to me, the way you are to your mom and dad. It’s so worth it, Harper. Loving other people is so worth it. What do you think I mean by ‘worth it’?”

  “Worth possibly losing. Losing them, the way you lost your mother and the way I lost Grandpa.”

  “Hmm,” said Dr. M. She nodded, and they sat quietly some more.

  When they did begin to talk again, it was as though Harper could breathe more deeply—and it felt good. The world was big, like the heavens and the stars and the moon and the sun. It felt too big sometimes, but it was also good.

  “See you next week, then?” said Dr. M, rising.

  “Yes,” answered Harper.

  Their time was up.

  Harper walked into the waiting room and realized she had forgotten all about her decision not to see Dr. M again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  HER YEAR OF DISCOVERY

  April. The month of sweet flowers, with tender roots and leaves and young sun. April. The cruelest month, of memory and desire, dull roots, and spring rain. It was all this, new beginnings, the pull of the past, and more. This year as always there was Easter and Passover. But different this year would be Harold’s Yahrzeit, the observance of one year of mourning on the Hebrew calendar.

  Laura had taken care of all the arrangements for the unveiling, the graveside ceremony to be held on Tuesday. The observance would be a small family gathering, mostly, including only a few close family friends. Bev and George would be there, Darren and Lizzie, and several of Mark and Laura’s friends from the temple, but that was all. Laura had laid it all out during a recent phone call. She had taken care of the headstone, planned the ceremony, and made arrangements for a reception at her house afterward. “It will be catered. Family Fare will deliver before we get there,” Laura had explained. “My friend Madge has volunteered to set it up so everything will be ready for us when we arrive. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, Rabbi Hoffman will be out of town, so I called Rabbi Ross.”

  Tilda felt a flutter in her heart.

  “At first he said he had room on his calendar, but then he asked if you had suggested getting in touch. When I told him I was making the arrangements and that you hadn’t suggested anything, he said I should talk to you first. What’s going on? Dad liked him. Don’t you think he’s the right choice?”

  No response.

  “Mom?”

  Tilda didn’t know what to say. She had blocked the whole Rabbi Don incident out of her mind. She couldn’t even remember if she had told Laura about her encounter, and now it was apparent she had not. What to say? He had apologized. There was no real harm done, possi
bly not even any ill intent on his part.

  “You’ve caught me off guard, Laura, let me think. I mean, technically we don’t need a rabbi, do we?”

  “No, but . . . don’t you want a rabbi? I just thought it would be nice to include him because of his relationship with Dad, and I guess I thought Dad would appreciate having him there.”

  “And he wanted you to ask me, right?” Tilda sensed her daughter’s rising concern that something was up. Next she would ask if Tilda’s session with Rabbi Ross hadn’t gone well, and Tilda would have to explain or lie, and neither option appealed. “Well, I’m sure it will be fine. And you’re right, your father would be pleased,” she added quickly.

  “Good,” said Laura, sounding relieved. “Then it’s all settled.”

  Tilda did not respond.

  “Right, Mom? It’s settled?”

  Tilda exhaled into the phone. She took a breath and began. “No, Laura. Not exactly.” And she told Laura about the incident—about the wise words that had struck a chord, and then the leaning in, the cologne, the knee.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Tilda didn’t answer, and Laura went on.

  “I thought you had been comforted. You even repeated the things he said that had seemed right to you.”

  “I know, Laura. I guess a rabbi who does an inappropriate thing can still be a dispenser of wisdom. When is anything ever either completely black or white?”

  They both paused to contemplate the complexity of fallen man, so like an angel . . . and yet.

  Laura was the first to speak.

  “Even so, it won’t do to have him there. Dad liked him, but you’re the one who has to look at him. No, it won’t do. And Dad would’ve been horrified. No. That’s it. Leave it to me.”

  Tilda nodded and smiled. Laura was more often than not, unflappable. About his daughter, Dad would be proud. “Thank you, Laura, for understanding.”

  “Of course. So, everything is pretty much done. And George is picking you up at eleven, right?” Tilda pictured her daughter adding and subtracting from her to-do list.

  Tilda assured Laura that all her own plans were taken care of and not to worry. She hung up, once again marveling at her daughter’s tendency to worry being overridden by her capacity to get things done.

  Tuesday morning Tilda woke to the sliver of light peeking in through the night shades. She lifted them up and opened the bay window to reveal a day of sweet flowers, tender roots, leaves, and young sun, indeed. It was glorious. Mark and Laura both had been gardening for over a month, the fruits of their labor in full view. Under the two cherry trees were daffodils and patches of trillium. Along the property line were rhododendron and azaleas in shades of light to dark pink. The visual display was matched only by the scent now filling her room. Under her window were thick clusters of hyacinths, in animated colors, their sweet smell pleasantly diffused before it reached her sitting on the window seat. There was still a chill in the air. She closed the window.

  Her emotions were as mixed as the colors before her. It was almost too much, this awakening, this quintessential visual ode to spring. She was at war with herself. She wanted to throw off the dull remains of the past season, embrace the new life teasing her, but still she held back. This was, after all, a ritual day, a day of remembering, not forgetting. But it was also a day of unveiling. A lifting of the veil . . . perhaps of her own.

  She opened her closet and decided on her gray flannel dress because she would be able to wear it with the lavender cashmere cardigan Harold had given her for the last of her birthdays they had shared together. She dressed and waited for George, who had gone to the train station to pick up Bev.

  The unveiling wasn’t like the funeral. That had been a primal experience, as though she weren’t present in a world she recognized. She recalled it as dense and heavy, as though she were deep underwater, so deep the pressure constricted her lungs. There was no space for the force required by tears. Around her were people she knew and loved, but they were too far away to touch, floating near and then away.

  Today was different. She was present, standing by George, next to Laura, who was next to Harper, who was next to Mark. Bev, assuringly, was just a step behind her. She was in a familiar world, in the cemetery, standing near the plot of earth that held Harold, something she had come to accept. All was familiar.

  Rabbi Geller, who had been Laura’s teacher, spoke to each of them standing around the covered headstone. Tilda was first to put her hand out to her. “Thank you for coming,” she said. As soon as the rabbi took her place at the graveside, Tilda breathed more easily. This would be a day of remembering, yes, but only of Harold. Thanks to her ever-thoughtful and capable daughter, all would go well on this, Harold’s day.

  Rabbi Geller began, “The Lord is my shepherd . . .”

  When it came time for the family to speak, Laura, who had prepared a eulogy, found she could not speak and handed her pages to Mark. She pulled a tissue from her bag and turned to wipe away her tears. Tilda hadn’t been fast enough to offer her own, several of which were within reach in the pocket of her dress. Mark looked lovingly at Laura and made a brief apology for not being prepared and said he would read but that the words were Laura’s.

  He began, “Psalm 15 asks, ‘Who shall sojourn in Thy tabernacle? Who shall dwell upon Thy holy mountain?’ The language is archaic, but the meaning is clear. It asks, who is fit to be with God? The answer is clear. It is the decent man, not the rich and powerful man, but the one who speaks the truth in his heart, who doesn’t slander, who does no evil, who doesn’t cheat, who is good to others. My father was this decent man. In his goodness, he made life better for all whose lives he touched. As a husband, a father, a grandfather, he was that decent man who made our lives richer through his love, who kept us near and in his heart while he lived, and who continues to keep us, as we keep him in our hearts today, in this world without him.”

  Tilda heard Laura softly weeping and Harper, too, crying. Tilda’s legs began to weaken. She felt warmth coming up from her chest as her breath became labored. She needed to sit, but there was nowhere to sit. She remembered that she had brought a small bottle of water in her bag. As she fumbled to find it, George leaned in and held her while she extracted the bottle and handed it to him. He opened it and gave it back. She took several sips, remembering to breathe slowly. She pushed against George’s side, letting him take her weight. He braced, ready to receive her.

  Rabbi Geller came to the middle of the group again. “God, full of mercy, who dwells in the heights, provide a sure rest . . .”

  Laura passed out copies of the Kaddish. It was a rendering of the Sephardic, she explained; they all would recite the transliteration. Laura, now in control, read aloud:

  “Render greatness and holiness to the mighty name of God,” she began. “May the great name of God be a source of blessing for all eternity,” she continued.

  When she came to the end, all joined her:

  “May the One who creates harmony in all the worlds, in tender love create peace for each of us and for all the House of Israel, and for all of the world, and let us say, amen.”

  Rabbi Geller removed the veil. And there was Harold’s headstone.

  Beloved Husband, Father, Grandfather, it read. He lived justly. And in Hebrew at the bottom: ה”נצבת. May his soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.

  After the reception, after the ride home, after George had left her at the door on his way to take Bev back to the train, Tilda took off her dress and got into the bathtub. Retreat was what she wanted most. It had been a good day, a fitting end to her first year without Harold, but now she needed to be alone, to let it sink in. What did it all mean? That was the question. But meaning eluded her. She had come to not expect answers.

  After the bath, she snuggled into her robe and settled on the sofa with a light blanket and a cup of tea. And then the doorbell rang. Tilda thought first to ignore it. There were no lights on. Whoever it was would assume no one was home. But
she was home, and it might be important. She threw back the blanket and went to the door. It was Harper.

  In the doorway, without words, they clung to each other as the tears fell.

  Soon they were seated next to each other on the sofa.

  “Mom said she would drop me off but that you have to take me home. Is that okay?”

  “Of course. You don’t have to ask.”

  They took their usual spots on the sofa.

  “Grandma, I have something I need to tell you,” Harper began.

  Tilda thought she could not take a surprise today. She didn’t want to hear that Harper had decided to have her breasts removed, start on testosterone, grow a beard. Not today. Today she could not be that understanding and reasonable person she so wanted to be always for her beloved granddaughter. She held her breath.

  “I want you to know what you did for me.”

  “What I did?”

  “Yes. Our trip, what that meant.”

  “Okay.”

  “It made me not be afraid anymore.”

  “What were you afraid of?”

  “I was afraid of how big and unknowable everything is, everything—the universe, God. What does it all mean?”

  There was something different about Harper, something Tilda couldn’t quite name, this new questioning person.

  “But then I saw where the explorers stood. Where they left from, to discover how to cross oceans, how to read the stars in a new way, even. I saw the megaliths and realized that everybody has always tried to find answers to things they didn’t know. Then I saw where people died, thousands of people, for what they believed, their faith. So it all in the end comes down to discovering your truth. It could be about the universe or about God. In the end it’s the same thing. You helped me, Grandma, to see that truth really is beauty.”

  “I gave you all that?”

  “You and Grandpa. He always said I had to figure things out for myself. The starting gun is when you’re born, he said, and you have a lifetime to figure out your purpose before the finish line.”