The Happy Endings Book Club (13 page)

It started with her finger.

Tilda was putting together a bouquet of seasonal flowers, berries and foliage for a wedding order when she noticed that her little finger was missing. She blinked a few times, unable to believe her eyes. But there was no denying it. Her finger was gone.

She dropped the bridal bouquet on the bench and fell into a nearby chair. The room swam around her. She panicked. She could feel her heart racing.
Breathe … breathe …
How could she lose a finger and not know?

It took her a few minutes to calm herself. Once she was able to, she held her hand up in front of her face. Gone. But there was no blood. No sign of an injury. No pain. Simply no finger.

She tried to remember the last time she’d looked at her hand. She’d used her hand without concern all morning. It was her right hand, so she’d used it constantly.

She’d used it to wave to Paige as she passed by the Happy Endings Bookshop. She’d used it to find her keys in her bag and then to open the door of her shop, the Flower Pot.

She’d answered the phone, taken some orders, checked her emails and her online orders. Surely if her finger had been missing then, she’d have noticed it?

Tilda wiggled her fingers, one by one. Her thumb. Check. Her index finger and then her rude finger, as her niece had called it when she was little. All good. Her ring-less finger, as she called it. Check. And then … tentatively … her little finger. Check.

What?

She could still feel it. It was there. She hadn’t lost her little finger—she just couldn’t see it.

Tilda stumbled through the shop to the bathroom out the back. She held the sink basin and stared into the mirror, searching her eyes. Was there a problem? Was she crazy? Surely even asking that question ruled it out.

Was she going blind? She looked over at the far wall and could read the small print on the sign she’d recently pinned to the toilet door:
Please don’t use water from this bathroom for the showroom. You don’t like to drink from the toilet and nor do our flowers.
Her niece, Debra, was twenty-two and worked with her now, but sometimes she was still a big kid and needed reminding about this.

The fact that she could read the sign gave her some comfort. Her eyes seemed fine. She turned back to the mirror and stared into them. There didn’t seem to be any weird shadows or spots. Her eyes were as blue as ever. In fact, she’d forgotten how blue they were.

And then to her absolute horror … Tilda noticed that her right ear was missing. As if in slow motion, she raised her hand—yes, the one missing the finger—to the side of her head and touched the spot where her ear used to be.

She could feel it. She gave her ear a tug. It was definitely still there. Her ear was still on her head. She just couldn’t see it.

And with that, Tilda turned to the toilet and threw up.

*

Once she’d pulled herself together, Tilda closed the shop and walked the three blocks to her doctor’s office. She needed to seek medical advice. It might be something quite minor. There was no point getting all worked up until she knew. Tilda was practical like that.

She used the walk to calm herself. It was a beautiful winter day. Cold, but the sun was shining. Muswell Hill was buzzing. The shops were draped in Christmas finery and filled with people buying presents.
Take that all, you naysayers who were predicting economic doom.

She walked past a pair of young women in short skirts and long boots, talking a hundred miles an hour about their boyfriends. Heads turned as they passed, but they didn’t notice. They were probably used to it.

Tilda was pleased to find the doctor’s surgery quite empty. She waited at the front desk while the receptionist spoke to someone on the phone. Finally the receptionist hung up, but instead of turning to Tilda, she tidied up the paperwork in front of her. Eventually, Tilda coughed and the girl looked up.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

“I don’t have an appointment, but I need to see Dr. Majumdar. It’s quite urgent.”

The girl glanced over at the computer screen. “We can fit you in now. Quiet morning. Must be the weather.”

Tilda gave the receptionist her details and then took a seat in the waiting room. There was only one other patient before her: a man with a toddler strapped into his stroller. The father looked exhausted and didn’t even glance her way, but the little boy did. He stopped trying to break free and stared at Tilda. She waved and he smiled back. She played peekaboo behind her hands, which set the child into a fit of giggles. His father absent-mindedly ruffled his hair and mumbled, “What are you laughing at?”

Half an hour later, Tilda was seated in Dr. Majumdar’s office, trying to remember the last time she’d been there. Probably earlier in the year for her annual pap smear. She found those things dreadfully embarrassing, but they needed to be done. And she liked Dr. Majumdar. He always chatted to her about gardening or Indian spices, which took her mind off the task at hand. Plus he’d been the only doctor, out of three, who’d been able to diagnose her sesame seed allergy years ago, so she’d stuck with him.

“How can I help you today, Tilda?” His voice was like maple syrup and just as comforting.

“This is going to sound crazy but … I can’t see my little finger.” Tilda slapped her hand onto his desk.

Dr. Majumdar peered at her hand over the rim of his glasses. “It does seem to be missing.”

Tilda breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh thank god. Not that I’ve lost my finger. I’m extremely worried about that, but I’m so pleased you can see that it’s missing too. That would rule out my eyes or my mental health.”

“So it would seem.” The doctor reached over and took her hand. He checked her fingers one by one, just as she had earlier, and then when he got to her little finger, gave it a good yank. “It’s still there. Just invisible.”

Tilda allowed him to state the obvious because she figured he was as shocked as she’d been.

“When did you first notice it missing?”

“About an hour ago. I definitely used that hand to open my shop, and set up for the day. And I didn’t notice anything unusual then. However, I was working on a bridal bouquet, and that’s when I saw it was gone.” Tilda leaned forward and pushed her hair back off her face. “But that’s not all. My ear is missing too.”

Dr. Majumdar stared at the side of Tilda’s head. She could see his mind was ticking over, just as it had when he diagnosed her sesame seed allergy. He gave her ear a yank, and then made a
mmm hphh
sound. Finally he sat back in his chair and rested his chin on his intertwined hands. And he stared at her.

Tilda shuffled in her seat and pretended to be interested in his bookcase. Then her nails … on the nine fingers she could see.

“How old are you, Tilda?” The doctor grabbed his notepad and began jotting her answers down.

“Forty-five.”

“Married?”

“Divorced.”

“Children?”

“No, probably missed that boat, I’m afraid.”

“When was the last time you had a boyfriend?”

Tilda was embarrassed by the questions. “I dated someone for three months last year. But it didn’t work out.”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t keen on him dating other women, and he was.”

“Was he your last sexual partner?” His pen was poised.

“Yes, he was.”

“Are your periods regular?”

“I guess. A few days out either side.”

“Any hot flushes?”

“No.” Apart from now, with all these embarrassing questions.

“I see.” Dr. Majumdar stood. “Come over to the table, Tilda, and I’ll examine you.”

Tilda sat on the table while the doctor checked her reflexes, her heart, pulse and blood pressure. He did a breast check, and felt her glands. He looked inside her mouth and throat, and then her ears. He got her to stand and slowly turn around while he watched her. And then he led her back to her seat.

“Well, the good news is, you’re not dying,” he said.

Tilda placed a hand on her chest. “That’s a relief. And the bad news?”

“You have invisibility.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Invisibility. You’re becoming invisible.”

Tilda stared at the doctor, unable to speak. He continued, his voice kind but firm.

“It’s quite common in women as they get older. You’re a little young. Most women who suffer from invisibility notice the symptoms in their late forties, early fifties, but I had a patient recently who was still in her twenties. And that poor girl suffered a dreadful case of it. Woke up one morning and couldn’t see her own head.”

“I’m disappearing?”

“We don’t use that term anymore. Women who suffer from invisibility don’t literally disappear. That’s just media hype.”

“But people won’t be able to see me?”

“Correct. In most cases. Though recent research shows that even patients with full-blown invisibility are still visible to some people.”

“How can that be?”

“We don’t know.”

Tilda couldn’t believe this was happening. “Is there a cure?”

“I’m afraid not.” His tone was final.

“Any treatment?”

“There’s no magic pill, if that’s what you’re asking. There are some trials being run by pharmaceutical companies, but nothing I’d recommend.” He opened his desk drawer, shuffled through it for a moment, and then drew out a flyer. “There’s a local support group that meets every week. The details are on here. You just show up. At least you’re not alone.”

Tilda looked into Dr. Majumdar’s eyes. “What will I do?”

“You’ll find ways to live with it, Tilda.”

“I see.”

“Yes, you will.”

Tilda’s brow furrowed. Had she missed something? “Sorry?”

Dr. Majumdar smiled kindly. “When you say ‘
I see
’ … that’s the key. I’ve broken the same news to many patients. I’ve watched how they cope over the years. The ones who do well all have one thing in common.”

“What’s that, doctor?”

He looked at her over the rim of his glasses. “They all see things differently.”

*

Tilda made her way back toward the shop. Everything seemed very different on the return walk. The sun wasn’t as bright. People were rugged up and in a rush. She noticed now that a couple of the boutiques were empty. It was nearly Christmas but no one was spending money.
A sign of the depressed economy
, she thought.

Tilda’s steps slowed and a young woman passed, not a care in the world. Tilda wondered if she was cold in her flimsy clothes.

She caught sight of herself in a shop window and paused. She had to look hard to even see herself. A sob caught in her throat, and she turned and ran all the way back down Broadway, past dozens of people who didn’t notice her distress, and into the Happy Endings bookshop.

Paige saw her come in and immediately knew something was wrong. She called for her assistant Clementine to take over at the register and rushed straight over to Tilda, who was by this time sobbing into her hands. Paige grabbed Tilda’s arm and led her out the back of the shop and upstairs to her apartment.

“Where we can have some privacy,” Paige said.

Once inside, Paige held Tilda on the lounge while wracking sobs tore through her.

“Darling, has someone died?”

Tilda shook her head. “I’ve just been to see my doctor. I’ve been diagnosed with invisibility.”

Paige’s hand flew to her mouth. Her head shook in sympathy with her friend. “Oh, you poor thing. What a shock.”

“I’m so sorry, Paige, barreling in like this.”

“Don’t be daft. Thank god you did. I’d hate to think you’d just go home alone.” Paige handed Tilda some tissues.

“You’ve got enough on your plate with your mother,” Tilda said.

“So it’s nice to focus on someone else for a while.” Paige said. “How about I make you a cup of tea and you tell me what happened.”

Tilda smiled gratefully. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

So Tilda told Paige the whole story, while her friend made tea, and then they sat and drank it and talked some more.

“Tilda, I’m not saying you were misdiagnosed, but I can see your finger,” Paige told her.

“You can?”

“Absolutely. I’d never lie about something like that.”

Tilda pulled her hair back. “What about my ear?”

Paige’s face fell. “Oh … you’re right, that is missing.” She patted Tilda’s knee. “You’re strong, darling. You’ll get through this.”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“No, but you have support. Me, Eva … Let’s catch a movie this week.”

“I’ll see how I go, Paige. I might need a few days to absorb this.”

“You get two days,” Paige teased. “After that we’ll come and find you.”

“Not if you can’t see me.” Tilda gave Paige a wry smile. She could feel herself gathering strength, just talking to her friend. “I’m shocked at the moment, but I’m already determined to gather as much information as possible on invisibility. There must be some sort of treatment out there.”

“I’ve had a few customers with invisibility,” Paige said. “They come in looking for books on it.”

“Do you have any?”

“I have an excellent one. Apparently it’s the must-read book for sufferers.” Paige stood and took their cups back into the kitchen. “Come and I’ll get it for you.”

They returned to the bookstore and Paige found the book for Tilda.

The Invisible Women: From Cloak to Cape
, by Selma Nester.

“It’s a gift. You have it,” Paige said.

Tilda wouldn’t hear of it. “Absolutely not. I’ll buy it.”

“Rubbish, I was wondering what to get you for Christmas anyway. I saw a lovely pair of earrings—” Paige slapped her hand across her mouth. “Oh shit, I’m sorry.”

The two women looked at each other in horror, and then Tilda began to giggle. Eventually, Paige joined her. The laughter got louder until they were doubled over, in the middle of the Happy Endings bookstore.

“Oh, darling, at least you have your sense of humor,” Paige howled.

“I promise you, that’ll be the last thing that disappears,” Tilda said.