"You know," Tilly said, pointing at Bess, "we weren't this astute when it came to dating at your age. What are you doing, reading psychological dating books in your spare time?"
She shrugged. "Ursula said I have a gift for understanding people and their motivations, unfortunately mine is born from being abandoned by my mom at a young age, requiring me to grow up too quickly. And social media has made psychology bite-sized now."
The pain was honest and sharp. Tilly saw her indifference, a mask that was carefully adorned, but she could feel Bess's heart, a piece of metal piercing between ribs. She understood the mask, and while she wanted to offer comfort, she could also feel that's not what this young woman wanted, nor needed. Not right now.
"You're freakishly smart, you know."
"I know." The young woman glowed.
"What about you? Any guys in your life?"
Bess snorted. "Guys my age are idiots. Pretty sure everyone thinks their brains don't develop as quickly as women's brains, but I think that's just a cop-out excuse for letting boys be boys."
Tilly laughed at that. "You may be right. Alright," she said, looking at her watch. "I'd better go. Have dinner with him. Put up some heavy-duty walls."
Bess held up a sideways peace sign as she bit into her sandwich.
"I'm glad you're in our lives, Bess," she added as she took the porch steps.
The teen smiled and waved her off.
And then Tilly and a crow made their way to one of her favorite dinner spots.
12. No Show
It was twenty-five minutes past their planned meeting time and while it felt silly, she recognized a familiar pang. It hung low inside of her where disappointment liked to hang out until it grew into a large animal inside of her causing chaos.
Disappointment, she knew, could lead to a rolodex of questions about herself that she knew were not fair to be tied to someone else's carelessness, and yet were tied all the same.
Those questions could lead to anxiety about her life decisions.
And from there, well, it was like a ping pong ball bouncing along self-doubt, her age, where she was in life, what she valued about herself, the color she chose for her curtains.
Why she believed she was the kind of woman whom a man would show up for.
It was interesting, the mental gymnastics of a woman when she was disappointed; gold medal ability. To go from:he didn't showup toI am worthless.
She took her bagged food and looped it over her arm, deciding to take it to The Lost Souls Graveyard, where she could eat in peace and amongst the souls of women who understood being turned into ghosts.
It was there that she sat, the ground softened by thick Kentucky bluegrass and curling ferns sprouting up like lovers pressing themselves against the black gravestones.
She speared her fork into Greek chicken and roasted tomato, twisting warm cheese around the tines, watching the tomato bleed over the chicken. She felt that way sometimes, like her mind was being controlled by the turn of some invisible hand, wrapping it around and around until it was on its way to being taken; consumed.
How could one person, one flippant gesture of passivity, take her back to a place where she felt like she was losing the careful control she'd curated over the last few years?
A marriage that nearly wrecked her, she had survived. Sometimes she thought it had saved her. There had been something about sitting at the bottom of a well of pain where she felt everything too much. It was the catalyst for knowing that was no way to live.
That, and a gold and black tarot card she'd found tucked into the pocket of her jean jacket hanging in the closet where she had hidden that early morning, after she'd set him into a rage. Promises and threats had been hurled at her, and seeking a dark place of quiet where she could sit without his dark spitting rage, with nothing and no one to save her because he'd made sure of it, she'd whispered words of pleading. She hadn't been sure what she wanted to say or hope for. But there had been a spark of light, which had been quite like an explosion in that small space of darkness, and after a moment of gasped shock, she reached into the pocket to find the card.
She didn't know what it meant in that moment, but when in her palm, there was a feeling that surged through her. It didn't usually happen with inanimate things, mostly people, but in that little coat closet, Tilly felt a childlike moment of hope; it was getting cotton candy, bright pink sugar spun in a cloud and grabbing at it, fearing that it would disappear on her tongue too quickly.
She saw a cat with one golden eye and heard deep, feminine laughter that could only belong to a woman who had harnessed joy. A canopy of trees covered her in whatever place was in her mind, and she could smell woodsmoke, feel thick grass beneath bare feet, hear a screen door close, and smell cinnamon and apples. She couldn't explain it, but it all felt real and like the home she needed.
And the next day, she got a dove grey invitation on thick cardstock and blue glitter trailing over it like a starfall. On it was simply a place and time for an annual blueberry picking festival. She'd gotten it by mistake, surely. Her name wasn't on it. And yet, she thought of that cotton candy moment of joy in the closet and knew she had to go.
She ripped off a piece of croissant she'd made a snap decision to purchase as Michelle was closing up shop, and threw it on the ground where the crow was perched on Coraline's gravestone.
Tilly had become enchanted with trying to find everything she could once they had been able to identify each person buried here. For some, there was enough information that a small book could be written with blanks filled in for detail. Yet for others, they hadn't lived enough years in this world for their story to turn into more than a poem.
