The Happy Endings Book Club (14 page)

*

Tilda couldn’t face going back to her shop. She decided to take a few more hours off, so called Debra to keep an eye on things.

“Deb, where are you?”

“I’m just pulling up at the shop. Where the hell are you?”

Tilda was a bit thrown by Debra’s intensity. “I have some business to take care of.”

“The same business that would have you sobbing down at Happy Endings? Clem called and said you were hysterical. What’s going on?”

Tilda sighed. Clementine and Debra shared a flat and were best friends. “I’m fine. I just need a few hours off.”

“Do you have cancer?”

“I don’t have cancer.”

That seemed to appease Debra. “Okay. I’ll see you when you get back.” And she hung up.

Tilda never took time off, so it was no wonder Debra thought something was wrong. And then Tilda remembered something
was
wrong. She was becoming invisible.

She went into her favorite cafe, found a vacant table at the back and ordered a flat white. Then she opened the book Paige had given her.

So you’ve been diagnosed with invisibility. You’re not alone, it’s just you can’t see the others. Invisibility is more common than we realize. Statistics show that 70 percent of women over fifty suffer some form of invisibility. While a small percentage of women have appendages, limbs and sometimes their whole body vanish, more often than not they only suffer from mild symptoms, which go undiagnosed. Many women remain completely visible physically, and yet spend years missing out on career and social opportunities because of the emotional impact their mild invisibility has on them.

This insidious disorder is not a modern-day dilemma, as most in the medical profession would have you believe. It has been around for centuries.

Leading invisibility academic Olivia Lurkan spent her career deciphering coded mentions of the disorder in the Bible, and later wrote about it in her bestselling book
, I’ve Got No Limbs.

I too was diagnosed with invisibility. I lost the whole right side of my body before I discovered the key to beating this horrible disease. Since then, I have dedicated my life to helping other women beat it. Because here’s what no doctor will tell you: Invisibility is a curable condition. And you can start right now.

Tilda flicked over a couple of pages. Who was this woman? Dr. Majumdar had told her that there was no cure for invisibility, and she certainly trusted him. She found the author biography.

Selma Nester has a PhD in psychology from Wroclaw University. Her work in the field of invisibility and female disappearing disorders is renowned. In 1997 she was awarded the Eastern European Prize for Women’s Health. Selma has a private practice in Hampstead, London. She was diagnosed with invisibility in 1987. By 1992 she was completely visible again.

Tilda stared at the photos attached to the biography. One photo was taken in 1989 and was of a rather mousy-looking woman with one side of her body missing. The second photo was from three years ago. While much older, the woman in that photograph was clearly visible.

A ray of hope! Elated, Tilda slammed her book shut. She needed to absorb what she’d read.

“Quite a book, eh?”

Tilda realized the man at the next table was speaking to her.

“You slammed that book shut like someone who just made a wonderful discovery in it,” he said. “Next you’ll drink your coffee and think about it.”

Tilda politely smiled. “You can tell all that just from how I closed my book?”

“I like to read between the lines.”

Tilda looked at the stranger for a moment. He was about her age, perhaps a little younger, with tousled brown hair and a pleasant face. More than pleasant, although that was difficult to tell at first glance because he was wearing sunglasses.

Probably trying to be cool
, thought Tilda. Although he didn’t look like someone who would try to be cool, or anything else. He was friendly, and eager to chat.

“Do you come here a lot?”

Tilda’s eyes narrowed. “This is a cafe, not a bar.”

The man laughed. “Does that mean I won’t get that whiskey I just ordered?”

Tilda smiled. His warmth was disarming. “To answer your question, yes, I do come here a lot. I’m a regular. I own the florist next door.”

“That would explain the smell of snowdrops when you walked in.”

Tilda was completely taken aback. “Are you a bloodhound?”

“Only when there’s a full moon.”

“I just received a large order of snowdrops this morning. Are you a gardener?”

“No, just a loyal grandson. My grandmother is obsessed with her garden and I do my best to appear interested.”

“I suspect you do a good job of it.”

Tilda felt her guard coming down. This man was not only handsome, and nice … but he was talking to her. He’d instigated a conversation with her.

Take that, invisibility!

“How about you? Do you work around here?” she asked.

“Not far from here,” he said. “I’m a music teacher.”

“What do you teach?”

“Piano, viola, and violin. A little piano accordion.”

Tilda was impressed. “You’re so lucky. I always wish I’d learned to play an instrument.”

“It’s never too late.”

Tilda shook her head. “At my age … I couldn’t.”

“What’s age got to do with it? I have a new student who just turned ninety. She’d always wanted to learn piano and figured she’d better get to it before she got too old.”

Tilda glanced down at her missing finger. Hardly a good time for piano lessons now. “Well, I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Things never get done when they’re kept there.”

He’d lost her. “Kept where?”

“In mind. When you say, ‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ that’s usually where it stays.”

Tilda was a little uncomfortable with the conversation she was having with this stranger, so she turned the talk back to him. “Do you also work as a musician?”

“I do. Session work mainly. I’m in a band, but that’s for love, not money.” He smiled at her and Tilda noticed how lovely his teeth were.

“You should come and hear us play sometime,” he said.

“I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

“Or an ear.”

“Right.”

He reached his hand across the table and without hesitation Tilda thrust hers out and took it. His finger were long, his hand smooth yet strong.

“I’m Patrick.”

“Tilda.”

“What a great name.”

Tilda blushed. It had been quite a long time since a man had paid her a compliment. She suddenly felt warmer than she’d felt all winter.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed chatting, Tilda, I have a lesson to get to.” Patrick stood and gathered his bag. Then, to her horror, he picked up a white cane.

“I’ll be seeing you, Tilda.”

It was as much as she could do to stutter out, “Nice to meet you, Patrick.”

And with that he made his way over to the register, where Tilda watched him chat to the waitress and pay for his drink. Then, tapping the cane in front of him, he turned and left the cafe with more grace than she’d ever been able to muster despite having full sight.

Tilda sat quietly for a moment. A painful knot had formed in her gut. She felt so stupid. She thought he’d seen her and had found her appealing enough to talk to. But no, he was no doubt the type of man who struck up conversations with strangers all the time. Didn’t blind people have heightened senses? He could probably smell her desperation, along with the snowdrops, and was just being nice.

The waitress appeared and started wiping down the table. She stopped mid-wipe. “Oh, sorry, love, I thought you’d left.”

“I’m just coming to pay now.”

“No need. Patrick paid for yours.”

Tilda blanched. Would he claim that on his tax? Annual charity contributions: Bought a coffee for an invisible woman. “Does he do that a lot?”

“Nope.” The waitress gave the table in front of Tilda a quick swipe and walked off.

*

The following morning, Tilda’s whole hand was missing. She was still able to use it, but she couldn’t see it. Aware that she couldn’t take more time off, and conscious of frightening her customers, she dug some gloves out of her drawer and wore them.

Once in the shop she opened
The Invisible Woman
again.

There are many physical, emotional, intellectual and spiritual reasons why a woman will manifest invisibility, and these reasons will determine the type of treatment she receives. There is no truth to the information out there about the link between invisibility and dairy products. In all my years of studying this disorder, I have seen no evidence that it is linked to diet.

All the evidence I have gathered points to one factor first and foremost: every woman who has beaten this disorder has been proactive. Everyone has the desire to heal, but that’s not enough. Motivation is the key. Every single woman I have treated and cured of this condition has been proactive right from the start. Are you?

Proactive? Was she proactive? The invisibility disorder was recent, so she hadn’t yet had time to be proactive. Whatever that meant. It was one of those words bandied about at corporate motivation seminars. If she needed to be proactive, first she’d have to find out what that meant. She jumped online and did a search.

Proactive: Initiating change rather than simply responding to events after they have occurred.

Right. That’s what she thought it meant. It’s just she’d never thought about it in connection to her life, or the way she lived her life. When had she been proactive about anything?

Perhaps her divorce. She’d instigated that, although it hadn’t been hard. She’d married too young and it simply hadn’t worked out. The end was more relief than heartache, for both of them.

When had she initiated change? She’d taken over the Flower Pot when the original owner retired. Although that also didn’t take much effort. It was where she’d trained and worked for years, so all it took was a small bank loan and some courage. It had been a practical move. She loved her work and it provided a decent enough income that she had been able to not only survive but also stash away a nest egg for retirement.

Perhaps her nest egg was proactive. It was certainly sensible.

What else? She took a daily multivitamin. Did that count?

She wasn’t much of a go-getter, but was that wrong? She had her routine, but wasn’t unhappy. Was she? Tilda couldn’t ever remember asking herself that question. She just got on with life.

Tilda turned back to the computer and did a search for Selma Nester. There were thousands of pages, but right at the top was her website. And what a website it was. There were YouTube clips of Selma on
Oprah
. There were testimonials from Deepak Chopra and Trinny and Susannah.
Time
magazine once had her on the cover.

She must be doing something right.

Tilda found the office contact, and without thinking it through too much, she dialed the number.

“Visibility Centre.”

“Hello, I’m calling to make an appointment with Dr. Nester.”

The receptionist was brisk and efficient. “Have you seen her before?”

“No.”

“We’re currently taking appointments for November next year.”

So much for being proactive. A sob caught in Tilda’s throat. “That’s nearly twelve months away. I might be completely invisible by then.”

The receptionist paused for a moment and then in a kind voice asked, “Have you just been diagnosed, love?”

“I have, yes.”

“You sound quite young.”

“Forty-five.”

Tilda could hear the receptionist tutting to herself.

“Look, I’m not meant to do this, because there’s a wait list, but there is a cancellation for tomorrow morning at nine. Want it?”

“You would do that for me?”

“My dear, be grateful for these moments, but not so surprised. Not if you want to heal.”

Tilda wasn’t quite sure what the woman meant, but she couldn’t deny how relieved she felt. “I’ll take it. Thank you so much.”

The receptionist gave Tilda the appointment details and Tilda hung up feeling incredibly proactive. Next, she grabbed her bag and pulled out the flyer for the invisibility support group.

Have you been diagnosed with invisibility? Feel all alone? People might not be able to see you, but this group of people will hear you. Come and share your story, your pain, every Friday at 1 pm. We are “
hear
” for you!

Friday at 1 pm? That was today. Tilda glanced at the clock: the meeting was just three hours away. She could close for lunch and go along. She already felt a lot better—like she was in charge, not her disorder. It was going to be a good day, she knew it.

Right on cue, the door jangled and in walked Patrick. In one hand he had his cane, in the other a beautiful bouquet of white orchids.

“Patrick?”

“Hi, Tilda. I thought you’d like these.”

Tilda felt stunned and was grateful he couldn’t see that. Was he nuts? “You brought me flowers?”

“Being a florist, I figured you must like them a lot.”

Good point. “I do.”

“Then you’ll love these.” Patrick thrust them toward her. “Smell them.”

Tilda did as she was told.

“Aren’t they glorious?”

She had to agree. “Where did you find them, Patrick?” She felt a stab of jealousy that she wasn’t the one selling them.

“They’re from my grandmother’s hothouse.”

“They’re beautiful. I’m touched.”

Tilda and Patrick stood and looked at each other for a moment. Or rather, she looked at him. She had no idea what he saw, if anything, and would never dream of asking. She had a tendency to skirt around issues or pretend they didn’t exist. She’d never been the type to just confront something.

“Are you completely blind?” What had come over her?

“I’m legally blind, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“So you can’t see anything at all?”

“That’s not the best question to ask. Why don’t you ask what I
can
see?”

Tilda wished the floor would swallow her. What had gotten into her? “I’m so sorry, Patrick. It’s dreadfully rude of me.”