Tilly
August 1, 1990

It wasn't the screeching halt of the train as it pulled into Grand Central that woke me up from my red-wine haze, but rather an elbow to the rib from my neighbor. If I recalled correctly, he was continuing on to Washington D.C. for some sort of political rally, and wasn't sorry to see me go. I had been on the train since Kennebunkport when he got on in Boston. What started as a pleasant exchange soured around my fourth glass, when he realized that despite my well tailored clothes and Louis Vuitton luggage, I was no lady. The exact memory of what I had done or said that soured the relationship evaded me, but I was too tired to care. I lumbered out of my seat and struggled to get my bag from the overhead compartment. He looked intensely ahead, clearly conflicted between the etiquette and his distaste towards me.

Finally getting the trunk down and in-tow, I spat over my shoulder "Who needs you anyways, you fat old ratbag," and disembarked.

The smell of New York City in the summer hit me in the face and made my stomach turn. You can live in a place for your whole life and never get used to that stink. I rubbed my forehead, vaguely regretting getting so drunk on the train, but I couldn't imagine facing the rest of this day sober.

My parents or someone on their staff was supposed to be here to pick me up, but I didn't recognize any of the faces in the crowd. The train had been routed from Track 8 to Track 26 at the last minute, and I wandered over down the wall, skirting the crowds, keeping an eye out. They wouldn't have forgotten, would they? Sure, I don't think I was anyone in the Harvey house's favorite individual these days, but they wouldn't really leave me, right? The faint prickles of anxiety built as I looked around at the mezzanine, taking note of the ratty street kids careening through the crowds.

"Tilly?" A voice I knew called out from the mass of bodies. "Tilly!" My mother cried again, finding and embracing me. I was not expecting that warm of a reception, but it was a relief. My older brother, Will, trailed behind, a bit more sheepish.

"Look at that beard!" I cried out after my mother and I separated. "You look like, like," I stuttered.

"A man?" He laughed, and pulled me in for a hug. The warm receptions were taking the edge off in a serious way. I guess eight months can really ease the tension.

"How was the trip? How was Maine? Is Aunt Gertie doing well?" My mother asked the questions rapidfire.

"I don't know if Aunt Gertie has ever done well," I joked. I had been staying with batty old Gertie for months, and learned more about the comings and goings of a little old spinster living on a secluded lake in the woods than I had ever cared for. Fine enough that I was probably heading for spinsterhood myself, but I'd be damned if I had to ever chop my own firewood and clean up another dead mouse proffered by a patchy barncat ever again.

My mother frowned at me, clearly disappointed my time in the woods hadn't softened my too-sharp tongue. "Oh, come on," I protested. "You banished me to the woods with a crazy old lady, the least you can do is let me have a bit of fun."

My mother, bless her, did not deserve a problem child like me. She should have had a whole brood of Will's. He was sweet, driven and a rule-follower to a fault. Still, she doted on me and up until last year, forgave my myriad trespasses. Even now, in the warm glow of Grand Central Terminal and a family reunion, she smiled at my barbs, shaking her head in mock horror. Whenever my father was away, as he so often was, she softened and laughed with us, more like a friend than the much-younger, much-lovelier, and oh-so-quiet wife of a railroad tycoon she had to be in public.

"Where is Father anyhow?" I questioned, careening to look for him.

Will and my mother threw furtive glances between each other. I instinctively rolled my eyes, of course he wasn't here. "He really wanted to be here," Will started, but I met his uneasy gaze with a challenge on my face. "Really he did, Tilly."

Skittery
August 1, 1990

When I saw her across 42nd Street, walking with her mother and brother, my jaw just about dropped off my head. I hadn't seen her in months, and here she was, walking out of the train station with one of those fancy trunks in tow. I used to see her everywhere, and had spent the last 8 months trying to puzzle out where she had gone. She looked angelic as ever, but somehow different. The way she was carrying herself, somehow more defensive, on alert.

I couldn't believe it, but it was time to switch back to my old selling spot.