The Happy Endings Book Club

by Jane Tara

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.”

  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 h
orrified. “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.