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TANDY
Eighteen Months Later
“I’m so nervous.”
“Don’t be nervous,” I say. “This is your night.”
Bliss looks into my eyes. “Our night,” she says. “It’s our night.”
Almost a year ago, I took a box of Bliss’ dolls to a friend of mine who runs an art museum. His reaction was not unexpected. He said he’d never seen anything quite like the outfits.
I picked Bliss up from her job at the garden center that afternoon. I had to wait; her position as manager was keeping her busy. I told her I had a surprise and, on the way she needled me in that way Little ones have when they want to pry information from their Daddies. In the museum, she was back in adult mode as we sat down with the director. That’s when I told Tandy what I’d done. The director asked her how long she’d been an artist. She looked at the both of us as if puzzled.
“These are amazing,” he said. “Simply amazing. I’d like to arrange an exhibit.”
“She’s been working on dioramas,” I told him. “The dolls now have their own settings. I’ve been telling her they’re too good not to share.”
The director had insisted on seeing the dioramas. A week later we’d brought in three. He asked Bliss how she’d feel about having a showing of her work. It has been so satisfying to see the confidence she’s gained as she’s worked with the museum. The director consulted with her every step of the way. Bliss signed off on all the publicity, press releases, everything. The first exhibit sold out. She couldn’t believe it. I never had a doubt that it would be a hit.
Now as we walk onto the landing, Bliss tells me it still doesn’t feel real. This is the fourth exhibit, but this time it’s in a larger venue. Below us a crowd of people mill about. I glance over at the woman I love standing there in her elegant sapphire blue dress. I put my hand on her lower back. “Ready?”
She takes a deep breath. “Ready.”
We descend the spiral staircase into the crowd of people, passing a lighted rectangular column with Bliss’s picture above a short quote about her work.
She’s instantly recognized, and I move away as people stop to talk to her, pausing at my favorite diorama based on our early life. It’s a model of the little kitchen of the rental house she lived in before moving in with me. The Barbie based on her is arranging flowers in a vase and the one based on me is sitting at a table working on tattoo art. It makes me smile.
An hour later, the crowds still haven’t thinned. The curator comes over to tell us how pleased she is with the show and as she walks away someone call’s Bliss’ name. She turns and instantly the color drains from her face and she reaches for my arm.
Two women are walking in our direction—a curvy brunette and a willowy African American.
“Oh my god.” Bliss is looking at the brunette who stares at her with tears in her eyes. “Selma?”
The two women embrace and begin to sob. Selma’s companion and I exchange knowing looks; it’s apparent she’s also aware of their shared history.
“I saw your name in the paper and when I did, I told Marisa we had to come,” Selma says. “This…this is wonderful!”
“I know, right? I can’t believe this is my life now. I pinch myself every day.” She turns and takes my hand. “Selma, this is my wife, Tandy.”
Selma smiles and introduces us to her wife, Marisa. There are more tears, more embraces. I can feel the happiness radiating from Bliss at seeing Selma again after all this time. We learn that both women are programmers and have a two-year-old son named Cal. Marisa asks if we have kids and I smile; for now, I’ve got just enough time for one Little girl and she’s standing at my side, but who knows, I think. The future is wide open, and it’s beautiful.
The End
