Invisible

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  “And?”

  “And that’s it.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  I shake my head.

  “What are you trying to do to yourself? You don’t have enough body fat to live like that. You’ll starve to death. You know that, right? Right?”

  “I . . . I didn’t think—”

  She shakes her head again. “You go sit.” She looks through the kitchen, out to the dining and living room area. “Go sit out there, at the table. I’ll bring you a plate.”

  I start to protest.

  “Go. Now!”

  “Girl, you can’t boss me.” I put one hand on my hip.

  She looks at me and laughs. “Wanna bet? I’m bigger than you.”

  I shake my head and sigh. “Okay, I give. Bring me a plate. I don’t have the energy to fight you.” I go and sit at the table, my back to the window, and listen as a pan bangs and the coffeemaker dings. I thumb through an issue of last week’s local paper and wait . . .

  Then scents waft from the kitchen. And, against my will, my mouth starts to water.

  In less than ten minutes, Ellyn sets not one, but two plates in front of me. Then she goes back to the kitchen and comes back with coffee and cream.

  I’m almost drooling. “Look at this—it looks wonderful. I’ll never eat all of this.”

  She looks down at me. “You haven’t eaten in days. Trust me, you can eat it all, and you’re going to eat it all. And I’m going to sit here and watch you eat it all. Just to make sure.”

  She goes around to the other side of the table and then gasps. “Oh, Sabina, look at the view you have. It’s gorgeous. Oh, I will never tire of the beauty here—especially these sunsets.” Her voice drops to almost a whisper. “They’re so magnificent.”

  Ellyn looks back at me, and her forehead creases. “Why in the world would you sit with your back to it?”

  I glance over my shoulder. “I . . . wanted you to sit there, where you could enjoy it.”

  She stares at me a moment and then takes a seat.

  I look down at the plate and my stomach growls again. “So an omelet, and bread, and salad.”

  She looks across at my plate. “It’s a French omelet made with chervil, tarragon, chives, and parsley. Very simple. A baguette with butter. And salade verte—or as it’s otherwise known—green salad dressed with olive oil and lemon. I put most of it together at home in case you weren’t here. I was going to leave it on your front porch, but when I saw your car . . .”

  I smile at her. “Thank you for this and for your concern.” I take a bite of the omelette and it’s like none I’ve ever had. “Oh my goodness, it’s so . . . so light, and creamy, and good.” I don’t say another word until the egg dish is gone.

  Ellyn stares past me at the view. As I’m finishing the omelette, she looks back at me. “Sabina, are you taking an antidepressant?”

  I nod.

  “Is it helping?”

  I shrug, take the last bite, and set the fork down. “I thought it was, but . . . no, not really. I need to give it another week or so to know for certain.”

  “What if I hadn’t come by today? How long would you have gone without eating? How long would you have stayed here without leaving?”

  I set the fork down. Who does she think she is? “Who made you my caretaker?”

  “I did. You need one.”

  “You know, we just met . . . You can’t come in here and take over my life. I told you, I’m a doctor, a psychologist, I know what to do. I can take care of myself.”

  Ellyn looks down at the table and falls silent for a moment. “You’re right, I can’t take over your life, but I can care, even if you don’t. Did Dr. Norman prescribe the antidepressant?”

  “I’m not accustomed to being spoken to this way.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor, does my concern offend you?” She looks at me around the centerpiece on the table. “Eat your salad.”

  I pick up my fork like a scolded child. “No . . .” The word comes out on a whisper. I clear my throat. “Your concern doesn’t offend me. It’s just . . . it’s just that . . . I’m used to having a semblance of control—over myself and others, actually. Or at least, I believed I did.”

  “I’m sorry if I was harsh.” She tucks a long curl behind one ear. “I’m used to being the one in charge too—although not of myself, I will admit.” She smiles.

  And I, for the first time since I saw her last Wednesday, laugh.

  After I finish eating—and yes, I cleaned my plates—Ellyn takes the plates back to the kitchen and returns with two pieces of cake.

  “Butter cake with chocolate ganache.”

  She sets one piece in front of me and sets the other on the table where she was sitting. “More coffee?”

  “No, thank you. This looks delicious, but I don’t think I can—”

  “You can. It’s the best remedy for depression or anything else that ails you. Trust me.”

  I take a bite and my taste buds explode—rich, buttery, dense cake, with the lightest, creamiest, chocolate frosting. “Mmm . . . just something you whipped up?”

  She smiles. “It’s a standby. I keep the ingredients stocked at home.”

  We eat our cake in silence, until I think my stomach will burst. I push the plate away leaving at least a third of the piece on the plate. “I can’t, I just can’t, eat another bite.”

  “Wimp.” She takes another bite of hers. “So . . .” She swallows, picks the napkin up from her lap, and wipes her mouth. “Why not call Dr. Norman and tell her the medication isn’t working?”

  I shrug. “I don’t have the energy.”

  “But, you can’t just do what you’re doing. Or not doing. I mean, you’re the expert and all, but . . . really?”

  I shrug again.

  “What if I call her for you? Now, while I’m here with you?” She reaches for her phone. “Wait, would that be codependent?”

  I laugh in spite of myself. “Borderline.”

  She looks at her watch and then hands me her phone. “Go ahead, call. The office will be closed, you can leave a message with the answering service and she’ll call you back. Easy.”

  “I don’t have the number.”

  She takes the phone back from me, scrolls through her contacts, and pushes buttons. When she hands it back to me, it’s already ringing on the other end. When someone from the answering service picks up, I explain my issue and ask for a returned call.

  Ellyn smiles. “There. Done. Now . . . can we talk about me?”

  I shake my head and smile. “Go for it.” I’m done talking about me, that’s for sure.

  “Well, since we’re talking about doctors . . . I’m having dinner with Dr. Becker tomorrow evening. Just as friends. But I don’t have anything to wear.”

  I shake my head. “Girl, what’s with you and the just friends thing? This is a good-looking, and from what I understand, well-respected doctor we’re talking about. Why just friends?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being friends.”

  “What’s wrong with being more than friends?”

  She flips her long red curls over her shoulder and looks past me again.

  I pick up my fork and tap it on the side of my plate. “Hello! I believe you wanted to talk about yourself? So talk. What’s wrong with being more than friends?”

  She makes eye contact. “I don’t want to get involved, nor do I plan to ever marry, so what’s the point?”

  “Is it the institution of marriage or an intimate relationship with a man that you’re opposed to?”

  “All I wanted was a female opinion on what to wear to dinner with a male friend. I don’t get out much. I work a lot. What’s appropriate to wear?”

  I put my elbows on the table and cla
sp my hands under my chin. “Hmm . . . avoiding the question?”

  “No. You’re the one avoiding the question. What do I wear?”

  “Fine. What do you have to wear?”

  “One pair of linen slacks, which I wore to my last appointment with him.”

  I lean back in my chair. “Well, then you need to shop tomorrow.”

  “Ha! You haven’t lived here long, have you? My choices are two or three boutiques that don’t carry my size, or I can order something online, but it won’t arrive in time.”

  “So drive to wherever you’d drive to shop, or wear the outfit you have. He’s just a friend, right? So what does it matter?” My cell phone rings and I pick it up. “Hello.”

  “Sabina Jackson?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Dr. Becker, I’m on call for Dr. Norman this evening.”

  “Hello, Dr. Becker.” I raise my eyebrows and look at Ellyn. “Actually, I’m sitting here with our mutual friend, Ellyn DeMoss.” I watch as Ellyn’s head shakes like a rag doll in the teeth of a dog. “She says to tell you hello.” I smile as Ellyn puts her face in her hands.

  I go on to explain the issue with the antidepressant to Dr. Becker, who tells me he’ll get back to me within the hour. I hang up the phone. “Ellyn”—I smile again. I can’t help it—“you’re good for me. I’m already feeling better.”

  “You’re”—she points her finger at me—“you’re trouble, that’s what you are.” But then she giggles. “How could you do that to me?”

  “Hey, just one friend saying hello to another.” I raise one eyebrow. “Now, did we settle your wardrobe issue?”

  My hunger was internal, deprived of inward food, that is of you yourself, my God.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Twenty

  Ellyn

  I stand in my closet trying to figure out how to make something from nothing—or at least something from nothing much. With food, it’s easy. You might have sugar, flour, salt and yeast—none of which are much on their own. But mix those ingredients with water, work some magic, and a while later you’re taking a fragrant loaf of warm French bread out of the oven. Cut, slather with butter, and you’ve created a slice of heaven.

  I look at my linen slacks. It’s November, but even in Mendocino, where almost anything goes, I don’t want to wear linen. October was a push for linen, so November is out of the question. I’m certain an alarm would sound in my mother’s head all the way in San Francisco, and she’d call to inquire as to what I’d done wrong now.

  I must have something else.

  Twila is meeting me here at 4:00, and Miles is picking me up at 6:30. I’d prefer not to have to change in between. I don’t know how long Twila will stay, but since she’d expressed an interest in the history of the water towers, I thought I’d show her mine. Plus, it’s more relaxed here than in the store or at the café.

  A meeting with a nutritionist and dinner with a man? It’s almost a journal-worthy day. Well, if I owned a journal.

  Don’t get excited—you’ll fail the nutritionist and repulse the man. Or repulse the nutritionist and fail the man. Whatever.

  I attempt to ignore Earl’s bullying, but my heart rate accelerates nonetheless.

  After searching my closet, I finally come up with what could almost be called an outfit. Black elastic-waist, wide-leg pants that don’t look too much like sweats, a russet colored cardigan, and a cream-colored long-sleeve T-shirt. When I come out of my closet, I realize the russet sweater is more burnt orange, and with the black pants I resemble a jack-o-lantern.

  You’re shaped like one.

  I dig through a drawer of accessories and come up with a patterned scarf in autumn hues that, once tied around my neck will, with any luck, distract from the pumpkin get-up. It also dresses up the T-shirt.

  What was I thinking when I said yes to dinner with Dr. Miles Becker?

  Twila arrives just after 4:00, and when I invite her in, I do what is natural for me and give her a hug. As I put my arms around her, I feel her body go rigid and her arms remain at her sides.

  Note to self: Twila’s not a hugger.

  What’s more, hugging her feels like hugging a comfort-top mattress. How many layers is she wearing? “May I take your coat?”

  She scrunches up her shoulders and puts her hands in her pockets. “Um, I’ll keep it on for now.”

  “Oh. Is it cold in here? My body gauge runs hot. I have a thermal blanket of fat to keep me warm.” I cross the living room to where the thermostat is on the wall and turn up the heat.

  “It’s okay, it’s just me.”

  “Put some meat on those bones, honey, and you’ll warm right up.”

  Twila looks at the floor.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. You’re beautiful just as you are. I’m just sensitive about weight—and you’re so thin. I make it about me.”

  Twila’s beautiful gray eyes seem to shine with understanding when she looks back at me. “I get it.”

  I stare at her for a minute and then shake my head. “You do?”

  “Yeah.” She looks around the living room. “Wow, your place is awesome.” She walks over to the west-facing windows. “Look at your view. I love the headlands, don’t you?”

  I follow her to the windows and look out with her. “I do. They’re beautiful and so peaceful. From the deck upstairs, I can see the white water breaking too.” I look at her. “Want a tour?”

  “Sure.”

  We walk through the cozy living/dining room, which is the base of the tower, and into the kitchen and nook area. Our shoes tap against the rustic hardwood floors.

  “This part of the place is an addition—added, I’d guess, when the tower was renovated and made into a residence. I don’t know much of the history about this tower, only that it was one of the larger, working water towers in its day.”

  “This is so great. But the vibe is totally different than your café.”

  “You have a good eye. The café represents my years in Paris and some of the French fare on the menu. But my home is pure comfort—warm colors, soft textures, plush, down comforters and pillows. That kind of thing.”

  Twila nods. “So it reflects you. You’re comfortable.”

  “Am I?” I smile.

  She nods again.

  “So what kind of décor reflects you?”

  She shrugs. “I still live with my mom, but I guess if, like, I ever have my own place, I’d want cool colors—restful, you know? Grays and neutrals, organic cotton, natural stuff.”

  “I can see that. You exude peace, Twila.”

  She smiles. “That’s not me, that’s God. I’m a mess inside.”

  “Really?” Maybe she’ll elaborate.

  “So what’s back here?”

  “That’s the downstairs bathroom and the mudroom. At least that’s what I like to call it. It’s technically a laundry room, but it has a door to the outside, so I call it a mudroom. That sounds more charming, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, for sure.”

  We take the narrow stairs to the second floor, which consists of the master bedroom, bath, and a hallway. More stairs lead to the third floor. We breeze through my bedroom. “Sorry, it’s a mess.”

  “Looks like mine.”

  I take her up to the guestroom/office. My favorite room in the house.

  Twila’s eyes shine. “Wow, this is amazing.”

  “You like it?”

  “Yeah, it’s great. I’d stay here.”

  “You’re welcome anytime.”

  I keep a pod coffeemaker up here with handmade pottery mugs. There’s a desk, where I pay personal bills, and shelves of books I don’t take the time to read. But it does feel like a small sanctuary.

  “The best part is out here.” I
open the single French door leading to a small balcony and the outdoor staircase, which goes up to the platform deck on top of the tower. We climb the stairs to the deck.

  The wind coming off the sea is cold on this sunless afternoon. I glance at Twila. “Good thing you kept your coat on.”

  She goes to the rail and stares out at the ocean, and then does a slow 360-degree turn. “You can see, like, everything from up here. Do you come up here much?”

  “Not as much as I’d like.”

  “What’s this?” She walks to one corner of the deck.

  “It’s an outdoor heater. I keep it and the table and chairs under cover during the winter months.”

  “Oh, so you can eat up here or . . . whatever?”

  “I can, but I don’t very often. I got the heater thinking I would.”

  We make our way back downstairs to the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee or hot tea?”

  “Is the tea herbal?”

  “I have both. You want herbal?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  I fix a cup of herbal tea for both of us and then set a plate of butter cookies, a fresh batch I made this morning, on the kitchen table where we settle. I watch Twila watch the cookies. “Help yourself.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Oh, I’m such a dork! “Oh, Twila, I’m sorry. I forgot. They have butter in them. They’re not vegan.”

  “No, it’s okay. I don’t eat . . . cookies.” She takes off her coat and lets it drape over the chair back.

  “No cookies? Aren’t there vegan cookies? Although, what’s a cookie without butter?”

  She shrugs.

  “You know, I think I may try the vegan thing for awhile myself. It must be a good, healthy way to lose weight, right?”

  “It depends. Every body is unique and everyone responds different.”

  “Really? But if I cut out . . .” I sigh and roll my eyes as I tick things off on my fingers: “Butter and other dairy, and meat, what else is there to eat? How could I not lose weight?”

  You give up butter? Yeah right, fat girl.