Invisible

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  I take a deep breath and pick up the fork again and take a bite of the salad. My stomach protests, but that’s okay. I eat one slow bite after another until the bowl is empty and my stomach is full.

  Just as I’m getting up from the table, my cell phone rings. I look at the screen and recognize the number I called earlier. Before I answer, I take a deep breath and make a decision.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey gal, it’s Miles. I have a message that you called. This number must be your cell phone?”

  My stomach cramps around the food it still holds. “Yeah, that’s my cell number.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Um, I have a customer from the store who told me she was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. I’ve done some research, but I was wondering if you could tell me more about it. Would you mind? I want to understand the condition.”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all. I’m not an expert on the syndrome, typically fibromyalgia is treated by a rheumatologist or a neurologist, but I’m happy to share what I know. And if you’d like more information, I’ll contact one of my colleagues who is a rheumatologist and we can meet with him together. How does that sound?”

  “That would be great. I was thinking maybe you could just tell me what you know over the phone, but then today I decided I might want to talk to you about something else too.” I pause. “So, maybe could we meet somewhere? I mean, if you’re open to that?”

  “I’m open to it. How does tomorrow afternoon work for you? I could come your way and meet you at Thanksgiving’s, say 4:00?”

  “That works. Thanks.”

  “I’ll look forward to it, Twila. Do you mind if I put your cell number into my phone? I’ll give you mine too, that way we can call or text if something changes.”

  “Um, sure.” I grab a pen and scratch paper from a drawer in the kitchen and write down his number. “Okay, got it.”

  I hang up the phone. Talking to Miles in person, even though my stomach is still cramping at the thought, is a good decision. I learned in treatment that confronting my triggers is healthy. It takes the power out of the fear or trigger.

  And I need them as powerless as possible.

  What was I thinking?

  By 3:00 p.m. on Friday, the emptiness inside me feels like a dark womb I could crawl into and hide. It’s as bad as it was before I started treatment. I want the emptiness to grow, to engulf me.

  It’s hard to explain.

  I can’t meet Miles at Thanksgiving’s. What if he offers to buy me a latte or something to eat? I don’t want to eat—not with him. I need to face him, face the fear, and ignore the emptiness, but I can’t do Thanksgiving’s.

  I make myself go to the kitchen and take a handful of raw almonds out of one of the canisters on the countertop. I count out ten of them and eat all of them, but each almond takes a huge effort. I make a deal with myself: I can’t change plans with Miles until I’ve eaten all the almonds.

  I chew and chew and chew before I can swallow the last almond. But once it goes down and I’m sure it’s not coming back up, I pull my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and text him.

  Can we meet at the picnic tables by the cypress grove instead of Thnxgiving’s?

  I push Send. Within a few minutes he texts me back.

  Sure.

  Good. That’s better. Safer.

  Thnx. C u at 4.

  Miles is already sitting at a picnic table when I get there. This is one of my favorite places on the headlands—a grove of cypress trees overlooking Agate Cove. If you walk inside the grove, there’s a large clearing and one picnic bench out on the point on the edge of the cliff. When you’re out there, it feels like you’re on the edge of the world.

  But today, even though the sky is crisp and clear, the damp breeze goes right through me. I pull my jacket out of my car and put it on over the long-sleeve T-shirt, sweater, and hoodie I’m already wearing. Even though I’ve gained some weight back, I’m still always cold.

  I walk over to the table, hands stuffed into the pockets of my jacket. Just before I’m there, I hear his usual greeting.

  “Hi, gal.”

  “Hey.” I sit on the bench across the table from him. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

  “Sure. Are you warm enough.”

  I nod. “How about you?”

  “I am. I came a few minutes early and took a brisk walk. Sarah and I used to walk out here. There’s no place like it.”

  “I like it here. I come here a lot, but on warmer days.” I look around me. The huge cypress trees remind me of mythic creatures—bent, with sharp edges, silhouetted against the blue sky. The prairie grass waves in the breeze. You can’t see the ocean from the picnic tables, but you know it’s there—you hear it crashing.

  “So, um—” I know what I need to say, but . . . I push myself to keep going. “Before we talk about medical stuff, I have something else I want to get out of the way, you know?”

  “Sure. Shoot.”

  “Okay, well, I hope you’ll get that this isn’t about you, because, it’s not. It’s me.” The lump in my throat catches me by surprise. I clear my throat.

  “So it’s the old ‘it’s me, not you’ line.” He chuckles.

  I just nod, afraid that if I smile or talk, he’ll see what I’m feeling. Whatever that is. I turn and look around again until I sort of get hold of myself. When I turn back toward him, he’s watching me. His blue eyes shine in the sun, and the wrinkles around his eyes make him look wise, and kind.

  “Twila . . .” His voice is serious. “Whatever you have to say is okay. I’m listening.”

  I nod and swallow. “Okay . . . so, um, the other night . . . at dinner?”

  He nods.

  Tears prick my eyes and I turn away again. I should have done this over the phone, where he couldn’t see me. I don’t want him to see me. I want to go into the dark empty space. I take a deep breath and then I notice him standing next to me. He’s gotten up and come to my side of the table.

  “I’m going to sit on this side with you, down here on this end.”

  He sits on the other end of the bench, but before he does he puts one of his big hands on my shoulder and gives it a quick squeeze. “Take your time . . .”

  I nod, still looking away from him.

  Entrust to the truth whatever has come to you from the truth. You will lose nothing.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Eighteen

  Miles

  I watch Twila, her gray eyes the size of silver dollars in her thin face. Her long, dark hair is pulled back, and the tattoo of thorns is black against her pale skin. Her frame is hidden beneath layers of clothes.

  But her emotions are bare.

  My training as a physician has taught me patience, to wait and encourage when a patient is struggling to tell me something. But this afternoon . . . I’m not a doctor.

  It’s my training as a man of God I rely on today. Though she’s twenty-six, Twila is just a girl. She spent her teenage and college years battling a disorder that separated her from her peers. Her suffering has given her wisdom beyond her years. But socially, she’s still a kid.

  It’s the kid sitting with me today.

  So I wait. I pray. I let her gather herself. I am here to offer mercy and love. I pray she will sense Christ, through me.

  I reach out again and put my hand on her shoulder and give her another gentle squeeze. “Your tears are okay, Twila.”

  She turns on me, almost fierce, her eyes now like molten metal. “Stop! Just stop it!”

  I pull my hand back from her shoulder, slow so I don’t startle her, and wait. Lord, comfort her . . .

  Her tears flow now.

  “Stop being so . . . so . . . nice to me. It just . . . makes this harder.”
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  I shift on the bench. “Whatever you have to say to me, Twila, just say it.”

  “Okay . . . okay.” She takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket. “The other night . . . at dinner, um, I got triggered. You know? The eating disorder.” She takes a deep breath. “I figured out . . . why. I learned those triggers are fears—fears, I have to face. So I’m facing it now. I’m talking to you, because I need you to know that you were the trigger. It’s not your fault. It just is what it is. So, I can’t eat with you again, you know? With you and my mom. I can’t do that again.”

  Her words come out fast now, though she doesn’t look at me as she talks. I think a moment, waiting for the Holy Spirit to give me His words. “Twila, thank you for your courage and your honesty. I respect it. I respect you.”

  She glances at me, her dark lashes wet. Then she looks back down at her lap.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  She nods, still looking at her lap.

  “Is part of facing the fear also working through the fear?”

  She glances at me again, a question in her large gray eyes. She dips her head in a hesitant nod. “Yeah, that’s what I’m doing by telling you.”

  “What if we took it a step further—you and me—what if we worked to overcome the fear? Do you think that’s possible?”

  “What do you mean? How?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t understand how I triggered you, so I’m not sure what the best plan is. But it seems important to not only face your fear but also work through it—beyond it. Maybe together we can come up with a way to do that.” I have her full attention now. Her eyes are wide—focused on me.

  “You’d . . . do that? For . . . me?”

  “You bet.” I stretch out my legs. “Do you have any thoughts on what might help?”

  She shrugs.

  “Well, what if we eat together again? We could talk . . . and eat. Just give it a try. Maybe before we do that though, you could run it by your counselor. See what she thinks.”

  “Yeah, I can call her. That’s a good idea. I don’t know about the eating part, but . . . Can I, you know, think about it?”

  “Sure. There’s no pressure. How about this, let’s both pray about it and you give your counselor a call and then get back to me. Deal?”

  She smiles and takes her right hand out of her pocket and sticks it out toward me. I take her hand and shake it.

  “Deal.”

  “Great. Now, do you want to talk about your customer’s condition?”

  On Monday, one of my patients doesn’t show up. I use the time at my desk to chart some information and then decide to give Ellyn a call. I know the restaurant is closed on Mondays, but that’s the only number I have. I could pull her patient file and find her home phone number, but that would be a breach of privacy. So I look up the number of the café and call there and leave a message for her.

  If divine providence is on my side, Rosa will pick up the message.

  Four patients later, when I check my messages again, Dee has written a note that Rosa called and left the number I need. I smile. Probably Ellyn’s home phone number. God bless Rosa.

  I pick up the phone and punch in the number.

  “Hello.”

  “Ellyn, it’s Miles Becker.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is this your home number?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home. I left a message for you at the restaurant and—”

  “And Rosa called and gave you my number?”

  “Right.”

  “Ah . . . Rosa. Well, no problem, I suppose. It’s not like you’re an ax murderer, right?”

  “Not the last time I checked.” I hesitate. Do I dare ask? “I . . . wondered if you’d given any thought to having dinner together?”

  “Oh, well, yes, I mean, I haven’t dwelled on it or anything, but sure, dinner as friends would be fine. It’s good for me to get out and check in on the competition every now and then.”

  I chuckle. “Well, glad I can help then. So dinner as friends it is. Are you free tomorrow evening?”

  “Oh. Well, yes, I am. Let’s see, tomorrow is Tuesday . . . Café Beaujolias serves on Tuesdays, would that work?”

  “You bet. May I pick you up?”

  She’s quiet on the other end, but I don’t jump in. I give her time to think.

  “I can just meet you there.”

  “Sure, though there’s not a lot of parking—just the spaces along the street.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  “Okay, well then . . . let’s go together.”

  She gives me directions to her house, but as soon as she describes it, I know which one it is. We agree on a time and I tell her I’ll make a reservation. “All right, gal, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, tomorrow. Great. And thank you.”

  “You bet.”

  I hang up the phone and lean back in my desk chair. Am I pushing this, Lord?

  I don’t sense a red light from God. So until then, as Nerissa advised, I’ll take it one step at a time—and the next step is dinner tomorrow evening.

  With a woman who couldn’t seem less enthused.

  The lost life of those who die becomes the death of those still living.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sabina

  On Monday morning, I crawl from bed, where I’ve spent the weekend, wearing the same pajamas I slipped into late Thursday afternoon. I can no longer stand myself.

  Time to at least shower and change.

  And to call Ellyn and cancel our plan to get together this afternoon.

  Just the thought of those three tasks has me turning back toward the bed. But no, I will at least make myself shower.

  One thing at a time, girl.

  After I shower, I dress in sweat pants and a sweatshirt, and then dig through my purse in search of my cell phone. Once I find it, I see the battery is dead, so I plug it in by the bed and climb back under the covers. I search the contacts list for Ellyn’s number—we exchanged cell phone numbers when we met on Wednesday. I punch in the number.

  Don’t answer. Please, Ellyn, don’t answer.

  When her voice mail sounds in my ear, I exhale the breath I was holding. I leave a message, then end the call. I also need to call Dr. Norman and let her know the medication isn’t working. But I can’t deal with that right now. Instead, I slide from my sitting position on the bed and lie flat again. I pull the sheet and blankets up under my chin, wanting nothing more than to drift back to the depths of slumber.

  My phone rings.

  I reach for it, pick it up, and see Ellyn’s name on the screen. I set the phone back down and let it go to voicemail. I told her I needed to reschedule our time. I can do that later.

  Then I succumb to sleep—that place where, for a time, I vanish and cease to exist.

  I bolt upright, heart pounding.

  What woke me?

  I hear the pounding again. It’s . . . someone is pounding on the door. The door between the bedroom and the front deck. I look up and see the outline of someone outside the frosted glass door, just beyond my bed.

  Have they seen me?

  I sigh. No one knows I’m here except the woman from the rental agency, who gave me the key to the house.

  I sigh and throw the covers back, get out of bed, and then pull the covers back up so it isn’t obvious I was in bed. Then I take the short walk to the door, unlock the deadbolt, and open it.

  “There you are. Are you okay?”

  I blink at the smiling woman before me. “Ellyn?”

 
“Who else would it be? You don’t know anyone else here, do you?” She stands at the door, arms laden with shopping bags.

  “How . . . how did you know which house I’d rented?”

  She blows a red curl off her face. “May I come in and set these down?”

  “O . . . kay. Do I have a choice?”

  “Not really.”

  I swing the door open wide and point in the direction of the kitchen. Ellyn struggles to get herself and all the bags through the door and then rounds the corner into the kitchen. “Wow, this is great. Makes midnight snacking easy.”

  “Ellyn, how did you know where I was?”

  She sets the bags on the counter and then turns. “It’s a small village. If a house is for rent and someone new moves in, it’s news—or at least gossip. Besides, you said it overlooked Agate Cove, so unless you’re living in one of the B&Bs for a year, I knew it had to be this house. I know the people who own the other houses on the street.

  “So much for remaining anonymous.”

  Her tone becomes serious. “Listen, Sabina, you didn’t sound good on the message you left. You didn’t answer when I called back, and you told me you’re struggling with depression, so I was concerned.” She shrugs. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding.”

  I can’t decide if she is or not—or if I should feel angry or grateful. “What’s in the bags?”

  “You also said you don’t cook, so I brought a few things.” She begins unpacking items from the bags. As she does, she talks over her shoulder. “If I was depressed, I’d want to eat, so . . .”

  She stops and turns around and looks back at me. She looks me up and down. “Oh, am I projecting?”

  “Very good. Where’d you learn the psychobabble?” Then my stomach growls loud enough that we both hear it.

  “Ha! You do need to eat. When did you eat last?”

  I stare at her and try to remember. I go to the counter and look at the containers she’s setting out. “Wow, this looks amazing.”

  “C’mon, tell me, what did you eat?”

  I look at the floor, and then back at her. “I had the cookies you made, and . . .” I try to remember. “. . . after that, on Thursday, I microwaved a frozen entrée.”