by Jane Tara
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?”
She did have one. “Yes. How do you manage to look so … handsome?”
“You think I’m handsome?”
Now she was really embarrassed. “I mean your clothes.”
“So you don’t think I’m handsome?”
Her cheeks burned. “I … well, yes, you are very handsome.”
“That’s good to know. I haven’t seen myself for years, so things might’ve changed.”
Tilda laughed. “What I’m trying to say, rather inarticulately, is how do you know what to wear? You look very put-together.”
Patrick cocked his head to one side, amused. “You want to know how I can leave the house wearing something reasonably coordinated?”
“Yes. I find that difficult and I can see.”
“I stick to certain styles. I have labels attached to my shirts, so I know what color they are. I wear these glasses at night, because I don’t need as much protection from light then. And I’m told they look trendy.”
Tilda laughed. “They’re very stylish.”
“I’m flattered.” He gave her one of his sexy grins. “I think you’re gorgeous too.”
“Oh, that’s … well …” Tilda wiped some imaginary crumbs off the tablecloth.
“You don’t believe me when I compliment you because I’m blind?”
“Patrick, it’s clear that my foot-in-mouth is more of a problem than your blindness, but still … you don’t know what I look like.”
“True. But you’re wearing a skirt tonight, and shoes with a heel. You’re probably blonde, with shoulder-length hair. I know you’re shorter than me. And slim.”
He was very astute. Although he hadn’t picked up on her invisible nose or ear.
“Why did you ask me out, Patrick?”
“For the same reason anyone asks anyone out.”
Tilda was stumped.
“Because I find you attractive, Tilda.” He shook his head, amazed she didn’t get it. “Apart from the picture I have of you in my mind, I also liked the way you slammed that book shut. I liked the sound of your voice the first time we spoke. The slight scent of flowers that surrounds you.”
Tilda was grateful he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes. “But you can’t see me.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “I see you clearly.”
*
Tilda sat in Selma Nester’s empty consultation room, tapping her foot nervously. The receptionist had told her that Dr. Nester wouldn’t be long. The room was bright and airy, filled with photos of Selma with various female celebrities and politicians. There was a photo of her with Hillary Clinton, another with Madonna and Margaret Thatcher.
Tilda took the time to rewind over her date. Once she’d gotten over her fear of offending Patrick each time she opened her mouth, she’d enjoyed every minute of it. They’d talked and talked and Patrick had her in stitches over some of his stories about his students.
“How do you read music, Patrick?”
“Louis Braille also created a Braille system for notes. That’s what I teach to students at the school I work at. But I use that as the foundation of my teachings. Music is something you feel and hear, not something you see.
It’s an invisible art form.”
Tilda found him so attractive. He was well educated, well traveled, and … well, sexy. She forgot all about his blindness until he pulled out his wallet to pay for dinner, and she noticed how the notes were folded, each one in a different shape so he knew what it was worth.
Afterward, he walked her back to her shop.
“Next time, I’ll walk you home, Tilda. I’ll just need to get my bearings beforehand.”
“I’m not far from here anyway.” Tilda was fine with this arrangement, as she didn’t want to be in a situation where she felt obliged to invite him in. She’d had a confusing week, and her growing feelings for Patrick only added to that.
“I had a great night, Tilda.”
“So did I, Patrick.”
“Can I see you again?” he asked. “How about tomorrow?”
And so they made plans for a second date. And then … he reached out and touched her face. It was such a tender gesture that Tilda almost cried. He seemed to sense this, and pulled her in close for one brief but delicious kiss. For a few seconds she forgot that she was disappearing, and thought she might disappear into him instead.
She drew breath. She could smell the faint traces of wine and an after-dinner mint on him … and something else on his breath. Something familiar. Something she wanted to deeply inhale, over and over again.
Suddenly the door swung open and Tilda slammed back to reality as the most vibrant-looking woman Tilda had ever seen marched into the consulting room. She was short, with bright red hair, striking clothes and intense dark eyes.
“Tilda … sorry to keep you waiting. Although you’re probably used to it at your age.”
Tilda nodded. She was right.
“I’m Selma, but you already know that.”
Selma seated herself in a red chair opposite Tilda. Her head tilted to one side while she looked Tilda up and down. “My dear girl, when were you diagnosed?”
“This has all been rather sudden.”
“Bad news always is.”
“True.”
“You’ve lost your nose.”
“Yes,” Tilda said, “and my hand, my ear, and now this morning my left foot has gone.”
Selma’s eyes shot down to Tilda’s feet. “Well no wonder, in those shoes.”
Tilda opened her mouth to say something, but stopped. Instead, she glanced at her shoes. They had seen better days, but they were comfy.
The intense eyes locked on Tilda. “So what’s going on?”
Tilda had a feeling Selma was not interested in the long version of events. “I was diagnosed a couple of days ago. I’ve started reading your book. I read the chapter about being proactive, so I made this appointment.”
“That’s a step forward.”
“I also went to a support meeting in Muswell Hill.”
“And three steps back.” Selma gave a snort. “Is that the one run by Norma?”
“Yes.”
“Sweet Jesus, did you feel like throwing yourself under a bus afterward?”
Tilda liked Selma already. “It crossed my mind.”
Selma leaned forward slightly in her chair. “You get what you focus on, Tilda. Those women focus on the invisibility. It’s no wonder we can’t see them.” Selma took a notepad and pen off the table beside her. “Do you ever wear make-up?”
“A little. When I go out.”
“How would you describe your wardrobe?”
“I used to be quite quirky, but I don’t think that’s appropriate over forty, so I’m a bit lost at the moment.”
Selma’s eyes flared at her. “Who says it’s not appropriate to be quirky over forty?”
“I don’t know. Magazines. My mother.”
“Is your mother a frump?”
“Er … she’s conservative.” Tilda wasn’t sure where this line of questioning was headed.
“So you ditched your old style when you turned forty, but still haven’t found the new you?” Selma glanced at her notes. “It says here that you’re forty-five. That’s a long time to be in limbo, with no outward way to express yourself.”
“Are you suggesting appearance matters?”
“Of course it matters.”
Tilda had always prided herself on not getting caught up in all the propaganda pumped out by women’s magazines. “Don’t you think it’s unhealthy to focus on appearance?”
“No, I don’t.” Selma stared at Tilda as if to challenge her. “It’s unhealthy to focus solely on appearance. It’s unhealthy to dress for others. But, my dear girl, it’s extremely healthy to do what it takes to feel good about yourself. And you can choose how you do that. I have a lot of clients who are beating this disorder. One of them couldn’t give a rat’s arse about nice clothes. She looks like a bag lady. But she values a good cut and color. Another client has regular massages. Another has a weekly manicure. None of these women are superficial. But they feel good about themselves on a superficial level. And that’s an excellent place to start.”
“I see.”
“What do you see?” Selma raised her pen, ready to jot down Tilda’s answer.
“I see that I have got rather complacent about how I look.”
“It’s not an easy age, Tilda. The symbolic annihilation of women by the media is so complete that the media’s not even the enemy anymore. We are our own worst enemies.” Selma sniffed, showing her distaste.
Tilda stared at Selma wondering how old she was. She had wrinkles, and creases, and lines. But she was beautiful. Her eyes sparkled, and her face had life and laughter written all over it. Her zest for living was clearly apparent. Tilda figured she must be in her seventies or even eighties, but she seemed ageless.
“So what do you suggest?” Tilda asked.
“Women need to stop clutching at the remnants of their youth and fully embrace ageing.” Selma waved her arms around theatrically. “We should welcome ageing. It’s a privilege denied to many.”
“I don’t understand. On the one hand you’re saying I should accept growing old, on the other hand you’re saying I need a makeover. Perhaps I need Botox too?”
Selma looked like she’d been slapped. “There’s a difference between being in denial about your age, and embracing it with some fabulous clothes and a great haircut.”
Tilda touched the side of her hair. She couldn’t deny feeling great whenever she did take time to get a cut and color.
“Growing old doesn’t mean giving up,” Selma said. She looked back down at her notes. “Do you work?”
“I’m a florist. I have a small store.”
“Like it?” Selma asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Kids?”
“No. Is that common with women who have invisibility?”
“I’ve seen a few, but I see way more women in here with kids. It seems to be especially prevalent in women with teenage daughters.” Back to her notes. “Do you exercise?”
“I don’t go to the gym or anything, but I walk a lot.”
“Any hobbies? Any interests.”
“Ah … I like reading.”
“What type of books?”
“I read a lot of books on gardening, and I have a soft spot for romance. In fact I belong to a book club. We meet regularly and I enjoy that.”
Selma nodded her head approvingly. “How do you treat yourself?”
Tilda thought for a moment. She used to enjoy treating herself to weekends in Paris, but it had been ages since she’d done that. Certainly not since she’d taken over the business.
“I don’t.”
“You don’t?” Selma looked at Tilda as if she was speaking Swahili.
“Perhaps I used to treat myself when I was younger. Trips away. New clothes. I don’t know. I just haven’t thought about it for a long time.”
Selma drew back in disbelief. “It’s time you did. Don’t you agree?”
“Does it help fight invisibility?”
“Have you read my whole book?”
“Not
yet, but I will,” said Tilda apologetically.
“If invisibility were a color, it would be beige. To combat it, we must color the world around us.” Selma’s voice lowered slightly. “Do you have a partner?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you had sex?”
Tilda tried to remember. “It’s been a while.” She thought about Patrick. She’d like to have sex with him. “I’ve just met someone. We went out to dinner last night.”
Selma flashed her a smile. “Lovely. Is he nice?”
“Very.”
“Excellent.”
“But he’s blind.”
“In what way?”
Tilda was a bit thrown by Selma’s question. “He can’t see.”
“Oh, is that all? I thought you meant really blind.”
“He is really blind. He can’t see.”
Selma appeared frustrated by Tilda. “What does it mean to see? To truly see? Look at this world we live in. Everyone is blind. Dear girl, you’re as blind as a bat or you wouldn’t be here.”
“What do you mean I’m blind?
“You’ve lost sight. Of yourself. And if you can’t see yourself, how will anyone else?”
*
Tilda could barely concentrate on work after her session with Selma. It had stirred up more questions than it had answered, mostly about her appearance.
“I’m not one to obsess about clothes or fashion,” she’d told Selma.
“This isn’t about fashion. Fashion isn’t important. Personal style is.”
“Fine, then my style is to ignore … style.”
Selma gave an amused snort. “Oh, you’re such a rebel. If that was the truth, then good for you, but we both know it’s not. Helena Bonham Carter carries that off. You, my dear, are lost.”
Tilda stared straight ahead. She had nothing to say to that. It was the unfortunate truth.
“Make clear sartorial choices,” said Selma. “Style is not about following trends, or even starting them … It’s about being yourself. And for god’s sake, dear, don’t listen to your mother, or magazines, or anyone else, about what is appropriate to wear at your age. There are no rules. If you find yourself following some, then you’re way off track.”
