The Happy Endings Book Club (15 page)

Patrick smiled. “Tilda, you’re not being rude. I understand you’re curious. To answer your question, I can see some light. Some shadows, too—but nothing defined.”

“Were you born blind?” Another question she wouldn’t ordinarily ask.

“No. I was diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa when I was seven years old. My sight got progressively worse. By fourteen I had tunnel vision and night blindness. By twenty, I was seeing the world through a straw.”

“I see.” Tilda could kick herself for her choice of words, but Patrick seemed to sense that and laughed.

“It’s okay, Tilda. I don’t get offended every time you use that word.”

“I feel like I make a fool of myself every time I speak to you.”

“Let’s work on that. Have dinner with me tonight.”

Tilda was shocked. No one had asked her out for ages. Did he feel sorry for her?

Patrick gave her a very sexy smile. “The benefit of being blind right now is that I can’t see the look on your face.”

“I’m sure it’s idiotic,” Tilda said. “Patrick, you might not ask me out if …” She paused. Could her foot be shoved any further down her throat?

“If I could see you?” He seemed more amused than offended. “Are you butt ugly, Tilda?”

Tilda had to laugh. “I … er … no. I mean, I’m no supermodel, but … I’m all right. It’s just you don’t know me.”

“The crazy thing about first dates is that it gives two people a chance to rectify that.”

“I’m forty-five and I look it,” she blurted.

“I’m forty-two and I have no idea how I look.”

Tilda had to laugh. He made her laugh. And he was nice. And handsome. She wanted to go out to dinner with him. There was absolutely no reason why she shouldn’t go out with him.

Tilda chose her words carefully this time. “I’d love to have dinner with you, Patrick. I close here at six.”

He beamed. “I’ll meet you here then.”

“I look forward to it.” And once again, the sight analogy made her cringe.

*

The meeting for the invisibility support group was held at the local community hall. Thanks to a rather complicated wreath for a funeral, Tilda was running a few minutes late. She entered the room and a woman missing the whole bottom part of her body floated over to her.

“I often wonder if Michael Jackson suffered it, you know.” The woman gave Tilda a knowing look. “It’s rare in men, but he had the signs.”

Tilda had no idea what she was talking about, and it showed.

“The glove,” the woman explained, and looked down at Tilda’s hands. “It often starts with the hand and we all wear gloves. As if that will make a difference.”

Oh right!
“I don’t want to scare my customers.”

“There’s no getting around it. You’ll eventually scare someone. Mine started in my hand as well, and now look at me.”

Tilda did as she was told, even though she found looking at the woman rather disturbing.

“If that doesn’t frighten people, what will?” The woman jutted her chin out to emphasize the point. “I’m Norma. Come and I’ll introduce you to the others.”

Tilda followed Norma into the room. There were about a dozen chairs in a circle. Some were taken. Other women milled around a table with tea and biscuits.

“Ladies, we have a new member today.” Norma turned to Tilda. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Tilda.”

The other women nodded and murmured their greetings.

Norma motioned for Tilda to join the circle. “We’re about to start, so if you’d like to take a seat.”

Tilda made her way over to the chairs. She was just about to sit in one when another woman stopped her.

“Carol is sitting there.”

The empty chair spoke. “Not a problem. Happens all the time.”

Tilda was aghast Poor Carol was completely invisible. She moved up a seat, next to a woman who didn’t have any specific limb missing, but just looked generally hazy. She introduced herself, but Tilda had to blink a lot to keep her in focus.

“I’m Sheila. Just diagnosed?”

Tilda nodded. “Yesterday.”

“I’ve been suffering it for fifteen years.”

Tilda looked shocked. “You don’t look old enough.”

“That’s very kind, but I’m forty-five.”

“Me too.” Tilda swallowed the urge to scream,
And that’s not old!
Instead she turned to the rest of the group, who were now seated.

Norma ran the group. Tilda had the feeling that Norma ran a lot of things. She looked efficient. She was rather stocky, with the kind of severe short hairdo that wearers often thought of as ‘practical’. Tilda made a mental note to wear her hair down more often.

“Perhaps we should start with Tilda,” Norma said. “She can share her pain and suffering and then we can go around the circle and share ours with her.” Norma gave everyone a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Tilda, all yours.”

Tilda disliked speaking in front of groups, but, remembering her decision to be proactive, she forged ahead.

“I’m still absorbing my diagnosis. It’s been a shock.”

Everyone nodded in sympathy.

“I’m trying to understand what it means for me.”

Another group nod. The sympathy was fairly dripping from the walls.

“But I intend to do everything I can to heal myself.”

There was an intake of air. The other members glanced at each other, then turned to Norma, who snickered.

Tilda fought the urge to slap her. “Did I say something funny?”

Norma spoke with patronizing concern. “Not funny, just uninformed. I hear this so often, just after diagnosis. Women who think they can somehow beat this.”

“You don’t think I can?”

“I have suffered this dreadful disease for many years now. I’m pretty sure if there was an effective treatment for it, I’d have heard about it.”

“I’ve been reading a book by Selma Nester—”

This time a few of the other women tittered along with Norma.

“That woman is a charlatan,” Norma said. “I went to her once and she barely even discussed my disorder. Instead we had a ridiculous conversation about my haircut.”

Tilda bit down on her lip to stop herself from smiling.

“I wanted to know if an antidepressant would help me cope. But she asked too many questions and never answered any. She was very rude.”

Tilda refrained from mentioning her own appointment with Dr. Nester and let Norma continue.

“You’re still reeling from the shock of diagnosis, Tilda. You might even be a little delusional.”

Tilda raised an eyebrow but kept her mouth shut. Her body might be disappearing but her mind was fine. Apart from the vision she suddenly had of pushing Norma into a vat of acid. Perhaps Norma was right and she was mad after all.

Norma had the floor and worked it. “This is the reality of invisibility. I have some lovely trousers, but feel extremely despondent because no one can see them once I put them on. I might as well be naked from the waist down.”

Tilda couldn’t help herself. “Are you?”

Norma looked horrified. “Absolutely not. I’m wearing classic cut navy trousers from Marks & Spencer.”

“I imagine it would be a bit nippy going naked, but you could probably get away with fleece tights and no one would know,” Tilda said.

“A woman must keep certain standards.” Norma gave her mustard-colored cardigan a little tug, as if to emphasize that fact.

“Why is it that I can see my glove but not your trousers?”

Norma nodded. This was evidently a much more appropriate question. “This is one of the mysteries of this insidious condition. Basically, invisibility affects the actual body first. Sufferers can get away with wearing clothes that mask the issue, as you’re doing today with your glove. Over time, though, some victims find that their clothes also disappear.” Norma waved a hand at Carol. “Carol favors tweed suits and gold jewelry but none of that can be seen.”

“I’m still in my pajamas today.” Carol’s voice came from nowhere. “What’s the point?”

Norma stared at the empty chair in frustration. “But I waited for you to get dressed when I came to pick you up.”

“I had a brandy instead.”

“Would you like to share your week with the group, Carol?”

“No … I have nothing else to say.”

Norma turned to the others. “Let Carol’s deterioration be a lesson for us all.”

Carol was silent, but the others couldn’t wait to tell their stories. Jenny could barely get out of bed, she was so depressed about losing her arms. Cath was inconsolable because the automatic doors at the supermarket wouldn’t open for her. Next came Lynda, who cried because she’d had to give her dog away. The poor animal couldn’t see her anymore and wouldn’t stop howling for her. Kate’s missing head frightened her grandchildren. Lisa was thinking of giving up her work as a bus driver because people were refusing to get on her bus.

“Everyone thinks it’s haunted,” she wept.

And the whole time Tilda clutched the edge of her plastic chair and fought the urge to scream at them. They were so negative. Was this her future? Wasn’t there a glimmer of light anywhere? Wasn’t there a positive story to share? Surely something funny had happened to one of them? If this was a support group, where was the laughter? Wasn’t
that
the best medicine?

But then, who was she to judge? Perhaps years of living with invisibility had worn them down. Tilda tried to have some empathy for these women, but felt suffocated by their lethargy and pessimism. They howled and moaned and cried and by the end of the meeting Tilda felt completely despondent.

After the meeting, Norma gave her an awkward hug. “Doesn’t it feel good to know that you’re not alone? We’ll see you at the next meeting.” It was a statement, not a question.

“That sounds great.” Tilda walked out of the hall vowing never to return.

*

Tilda went straight home and had a shower. She felt like she needed to wash the support group meeting off. Was she like those women? True, life had become rather beige over the past few years, but she didn’t see herself as a negative person. In fact, pessimism had always bothered her. So had optimism. She considered herself to be somewhere in the middle. She was pragmatic. Practical.

She soaped herself up as she always did: automatically. But something caused her to pause, and look down at her body. One of her breasts and part of her stomach were looking hazy. Were they disappearing now too?

Trying to look on the bright side, something she was determined to do after the meeting, she figured if her stomach disappeared that would at least help assuage her guilt every time she ate chocolate. She’d always been slim, but during the past couple of years a few extra pounds had crept up around her middle and it was impossible to lose them.

She felt much better after her shower. Despite the fact that she knew Patrick couldn’t see her, Tilda still wanted to look nice for their date, so she took the opportunity to change into fresh clothes. She chose a skirt, and a turtleneck jumper. It was hardly the height of fashion, but she looked nice. She left her hair hanging loose, something she rarely did anymore. She wrapped a scarf around her neck and put on her favorite boots. She gave herself a squirt of perfume and then checked herself out in the mirror.

To her absolute mortification her nose was missing.

She was about to fall into a sobbing heap when she remembered … Patrick wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t notice her nose, or her ear. He wouldn’t notice the grays that were sprouting up through her faded blonde locks. He certainly wouldn’t notice the worn cuff on her sweater, or the fact that her boots had seen better days. She stared at her reflection with a mixture of pity and loathing, before a glimmer of something else surfaced. Defiance.

“You will not cancel.”

She grabbed her bag and walked out the door.

“You will not cancel.”

She repeated this mantra to herself until Patrick picked her up from the shop three hours later.

*

Patrick arrived more handsome than ever in jeans, a black shirt and leather jacket. He was wearing tinted glasses instead of the other darker ones. Walking beside him, Tilda appreciated for the first time just how tall he was. She liked tall men.

They got off to a slightly bumpy start when she tried to help him across the road.

“Tilda, I can manage.”

Tilda pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry.”

“How about we walk together, rather than one of us leading?”

And off he went. Before long, Tilda forgot about his cane and concentrated on him. He knew where he was going: a little Italian joint up the road. He moved with ease. And the whole time he made comments about what was going on around them, the sounds and smells of the evening, trying to set her at ease too. “Beautiful twilight weather. I love this time of night. Can you hear the carolers?” (She hadn’t until he mentioned it.) They strolled on, and finally, as he held the door to the restaurant open for her, he said, ‘I love the shampoo you use, Tilda. Is that jasmine?’

Patrick seemed to be a regular at Villaggio Italiano. He knew everyone in the room. People called out to him and he greeted them all by name as he recognized their voices. He made his way to a table in the back corner, and once seated, passed Tilda a menu.

“I eat here a lot so they know what I’ll order.”

“Do you frequent the same places because of your disability?”

Patrick looked at her in mock horror. “Do I have a disability?” Then he laughed. “I come to this restaurant regularly for the same reason sighted people do. It’s good.”

Tilda buried her head in the menu and was grateful he couldn’t see her face burning. “The scaloppine ai funghi looks delicious.”

“Good choice.”

“Patrick, I just want to say that I’m very happy to be here with you and I hope I don’t balls it up by saying the wrong thing all the time.”

“Me too.” He laughed again. “Tilda, I have no problem with you being curious about how I get around. Often people never talk about it at all.” He leaned forward slightly, and spoke as though he was sharing a secret. “With some people I can almost hear them thinking, ‘Don’t mention the blindness,’ as though they’d be the ones breaking it to me.”

Tilda giggled.

He ran his hand across the table to the breadbasket in the center and took a piece. “Any other questions before we move on?”