Today's Reading
"You're leaving?"
"Correct."
'Tom had responded "Correct" when she'd asked if he was leaving her. As if she'd repeated a phone number or was asking to confirm the time of an appointment. She stared at the man she'd been married to for seventeen years. "Correct"?
She noticed the new clothes. He had the usual three-day growth, but it was more manicured. This was not the result of simply forgetting to shave—this was a look that was crafted. Same brown hair, but his cut seemed more styled. The mess of waves she'd always loved and thought of as "wild and sexy" when they'd met was now tamed, and combed in a way that men believe covers the thinning of their hair. How could she have been so blind?
* * *
Five years had passed since then, and despite everyone talking about how time flies, those first years after he left had been built from countless protracted days. Heartbreak was heavy and slowed the march of time to a snail's pace. And yet Tilda's mind was now back on the tiles he hadn't wanted, contemplating how quickly the years had raced by. Perhaps Einstein was right and time was nothing but a stubbornly persistent illusion. She spread her arms out, embracing the warmth. Who would've thought that grey Moroccan Bazaar tiles could be so comforting?
Not Tom, that's for sure.
He also wouldn't know if she spent the day on them. No one would. But then she felt three eyes watching her. Buddy and Pirate were at the door, one with a look of worry, the other with weary disdain.
They needed her.
So Tilda pulled herself to her feet.
Again.
CHAPTER THREE
Nothing in life is to be feared, it is only to be understood.
—MARIE CURIE
"It's good to see you, Tilda."
Tilda almost laughed out loud at Dr. Majumdar's choice of words. Turned out her meltdown on the bathroom floor had lasted twenty-seven minutes, disproving her theory about time flying, because it felt like she had been there for hours. Once she'd fed Buddy and Pirate, she'd called her doctor. There was no point getting all worked up until she knew what was happening. Tilda had a propensity for fear. Tom always called her thinking black and white, but Tilda's mind was actually a complex palette of many shades, including deep anxiety azure. That, combined with a vivid imagination violet, meant that she was constantly worrying about something—her kids, the state of the world, the possibility of a zombie apocalypse. Age had, however, given her the experience to not let fear get the better of her, and to instead search for a solution. And that's what she needed now. Elucidation. Her missing finger might be something quite minor. Only recently she'd read online about an Irishwoman who'd hit her head and started speaking Polish, despite never having studied it. The internet was filled with similar stories, so there must be a reasonable explanation for Tilda's current situation. She had walked the three blocks to her doctor to find one, eyes downcast in case she ran into someone she knew.
She and Tom had moved to Middle Bay not long after the twins were born, when it was much cheaper to buy there. Life with kids was easier in the beachside suburb, so Tilda had talked her best friend into moving to the area as well. Once Leith and her husband, Ziggy, arrived, Tilda found herself putting down roots. Leith and Tilda then met Ali, and those early days revolved around her girlfriends and their young children. Tilda was enlaced in happiness and dreams of the future. And it had been good, for a while, but all good things come to an end. Tom left first, and then the twins moved back to groovier pastures, an hour away in the city. For Tilda, however, Middle Bay was home. It was where her dearest friends lived. It was where she'd built a business. It was where she knew people at the dog park and the local café, bookshop, and hair salon. It was where she knew her doctor by her first name.
Now she watched as Gurinder Majumdar brought up Tilda's records on the computer. She hadn't seen Gurinder since her pap smear eighteen months earlier. Just one of the many things in life she found uncomfortable but knew needed to be done. There was the added awkwardness that Gurinder's daughter, Prisha, had gone to school with Tilda's twins. Over the years, the two women had been on several fundraising committees together, and it always seemed strange to Tilda that the woman she was discussing the sausage sizzle with had seen her vagina.
Not that Gurinder was anything but professional. Every examination included a friendly chat about gardening or Indian spices. Tilda had tried another clinic once, but Gurinder was the only doctor who'd been able to diagnose her eggplant allergy, which is why Tilda had stuck with her. She was an excellent physician, and Tilda resisted change unless it was absolutely necessary.
...
