Invisible

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  She nods. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I just came from Ellyn’s. She had a dead rat in her wall.” I smile. “I got it out for her and patched up her wall.”

  “Yuck.”

  “That’s how she felt.”

  She doesn’t say any more. Something isn’t right with her. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay.”

  “You sure?”

  Her thin shoulders lift and then drop.

  “I don’t want to interrupt your walk, but how about joining me for a cup of coffee or lunch. I could use the company.”

  “Why?”

  I hesitate. “Because I’m hungry?”

  “No, I mean, why could you use the company?”

  I run my hand through my hair and look out at the changing clouds. Twila deserves my honesty. I look back at her. “Guess I’m a little lonely.”

  “Things aren’t going well with Ellyn?”

  Because Twila still looks and talks like a teenager, I often forget she’s twenty-six and quite astute. “Well, we’re friends. And that’s good.”

  “But you wanted more, right?”

  “Right.”

  “She doesn’t, like, see herself the way others see her or the way God sees her.”

  “I think you’re right. So, what about lunch?”

  Twila looks at the ground. “I can’t . . . eat.” She looks back at me.

  That explains the gaunt look and the circles under her eyes. “What’s going on, gal?”

  “My dad . . . he showed up here on Friday.”

  “I see. So you’re experiencing a setback?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  As she’s talked, I’ve noted her mouth is dry. “It seems to me like we could both use some company today. Why don’t you come with me to Thanksgiving’s, and I’ll grab a sandwich for myself and a bottle of water and a smoothie for you.”

  “No, but thanks.”

  “Twila, when’s the last time you ate or had anything to drink?”

  She twists a piece of her long hair, sticking out from under her hood, around one finger. “I left a message for my counselor, I’m going to see her tomorrow.”

  “Good. When’s the last time you ate or had anything to drink?”

  She sighs. “It hasn’t been that long.”

  “How long?”

  “Lunch on Friday—I had a salad. I drank a glass of water on Friday night.”

  “Did you keep it down?” I read the shame on her face.

  “I thought . . . I always thought . . .”

  I see tears in her eyes. One slips down her cheek, which alleviates some of my concern. She’s not as dehydrated as I suspected.

  “. . . that if he came back, it would be different . . . you know?”

  “Different in what way?” I take a few slow steps toward the parking lot hoping she’ll follow me.

  “I guess I thought he was . . . different, or that he’d be different. I figured out that my memories of him are sort of warped.”

  She’s in step with me as I head to the car. “I don’t think that’s unusual. When we care about someone, we remember the best about them. Since Sarah died, I’ve recreated her in my mind—recalling only the good things about her. She wasn’t perfect, but you’d have a hard time convincing me of that now.”

  “But at least Sarah really loved you, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t think my dad cares about me.”

  I put my arm around her shoulders as we walk. “That’s his loss. Do you know why he’s here?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s just so he can feel good about himself.”

  We reach the car. “Thanksgiving’s?”

  “Nah, I’m going home.”

  “Twila . . .” I measure my words. “In different ways, we’re both feeling rejected and maybe a little fragile emotionally. This is when we need to rely on God. Let His strength work through our weakness.”

  “Sometimes, I don’t, like, know how to do that—to let Him be strong.”

  “Just remember who you are.” I reach for her wrist and pull up the sleeve of her hoodie. I turn her wrist so we can both see the tattoo there.

  “Never forget that. Your dad can’t take your identity from you—no one can. There are many of us who love you and appreciate who you are. We don’t want to see you waste away. Don’t let him defeat you.”

  She looks at her wrist a moment longer, then looks at me, her eyes wide. She nods her head. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, Thanksgiving’s?”

  She nods again and opens the passenger side door of my car and gets in.

  My error was my god . . .

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Sabina

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Oh, God, please. Please make the music stop. I want to beg, to plead with Jesus to make it stop, but the words are lost to me—my voice nonexistent. Beethoven’s Sontata for the Piano, No. 12, plays in A-flat. The chords drowning out my cries.

  Stop! No more!

  But still, only the strains of the dirge fill the candlelit chamber—wisps of smoke from the candles in the tall candelabras twist heavenward.

  I look up—following the spirals of smoke—and then I see her. Her braids dangling, her neck at an awkward angle. Jazzy! Jazzy! One of her knee socks is scrunched around her ankle, the other still covering her calf. Jazzy! Her eyes, open, are without expression.

  Help! Someone help! I struggle, I fight to force the words from my mind to my mouth, but—nothing. Frustration heaves in my chest. My temples pound with the deafening strains of the sonata.

  I run to get help, but my legs won’t carry me. I run, but I don’t move. Quicksand, or so it seems.

  Jazzy! I have to help Jazzy!

  “Sabina! Sabina! Where’s Jazzy? Where?” My mamma shakes me, but I can say nothing. Instead, I lift a leaden arm, the movement slow, oh so slow. I point up—up to the branches of the climbing tree—the one in the backyard—the one now transplanted in the chamber.

  There’s Jazzy, Mamma. She hangs from a branch, her neon-pink rubber jump rope—the one with the neon-green handles—tangled around the branch . . . and her neck.

  Her braids dangle.

  There’s Jazzy, Mamma. There!

  “Oh, Sweet Jesus, oh my Jesus . . . You’ve taken my baby. Jazzy! Oh, my Lord . . .” Mamma wails. “You’ve taken her home.”

  Mamma drops to her knees in the dirt beneath the tree. The candles flicker and then go out. The smoke swirls. And Mamma cries.

  “Jazz . . . y. Jazz . . . Jazz . . . y!” My tongue is thick as I thrash back and forth in bed. I pull at the tangled sheets, tying me down. I try to kick them off, but to no avail. Then I bolt upright—Beethoven’s sonata ringing in my ears. I cover my face with my hands.

  I gasp for breath. “Oh . . . oh, no. No. Please, not again. Never again.”

  My temples still pound.

  The nightmare has haunted me off and on for almost forty years. Since that fateful day when my mamma asked me to watch my little sister while she went next door to take a cake to the neighbors.

  She’d stayed and visited a bit.

  I was fifteen. Jazzy was eight.

  One minute she was skipping rope in the backyard. The next minute, she was hanging, dead, from the climbing tree.

  An unfortunate accident.

  That’s what the authorities said. Mamma said it was God’s sovereign will. And later, days and even years later, Mamma would say, “Jazzy’s jumpin’ rope with Jesus now.” Then she’d shake her head. “Good Lord, I can’t wait to see that,” she’d say to the ceiling.<
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  My aunt Athena, an accomplished pianist, played Sonata for Piano No. 12 in A-flat, by Ludwig van Beethoven, at Jazzy’s funeral. I’ve not listened to Beethoven since, at least not by choice.

  I lean forward and untwist the sheet from around my legs. I get out of bed and go straight to the steam shower. I turn the water as hot as it will go and set the steam temperature to 115 degrees. I drop my nightgown on the floor and step into the shower. I will, as I have so many times before, attempt to wash the memories away.

  For several years, the nightmare stopped. As part of the requirements for my degrees, I had to go through my own extensive therapy. I worked through my feelings of responsibility for Jazzy’s death. And my grief.

  But then . . . the twins were born.

  Being responsible for the girls’ little lives overwhelmed me. And the nightmare returned.

  Needless to say, I never allowed the girls to learn how to jump rope. And it wasn’t until they left for college, when they weren’t under my roof, or my control—or at least, my sense of control—that the fear subsided.

  A bit.

  Then Ashley hung herself from one of the pull-up bars on her high-school campus. Another girl I was supposed to watch . . .

  Dead.

  I reach for the shampoo, lather it into the little hair I have. As I do, I breathe in hot, almost scorching, steam.

  I let burning, pulsating water batter me.

  I punish my body.

  As I punish my soul.

  After I shower, I sit in front of the fireplace with a cup of coffee. The emotions of the nightmare lead me to reflection. I recognize there is a dichotomy between what I say I believe, or don’t believe, and what’s intrinsic to who I am.

  God, who I cease to believe exists, is always a part of the nightmare. A part of Jazzy’s death. I recognize His presence, though I construe it as negative. All the times I’ve woken from that same nightmare, I’ve never analyzed it. I’ve never given conscious thought to God and His role in the dream. Until now. I’m certain, as Ellyn pointed out, it’s because I’m surrounded by believers. Happenstance, though Ellyn asserts otherwise. But with all the God-talk going on around me, it’s no wonder I’m more aware now of God’s role in the nightmare. I beg Him, plead with Him . . . all to no avail.

  But it’s more than that. Like it or not, God is woven into my being. He is present in my earliest recollections. Mama made sure of that. And there was a time, before Jazzy, that I loved Jesus. Or thought I did.

  When I went through those years of required therapy, I vented my anger. I decided then that not only did I not believe in God, but that He in fact, does not exist. So what, now I’m saying I believe He exists, but it’s impossible to know Him? Agnosticism versus atheism? Semantics, really. Of course, there are those who’d argue otherwise, but in the scheme of things, what difference does it make?

  The Bible is clear: there is one way—and only one—to eternal salvation and relationship with God—through belief in Jesus, as part of the divine Trinity, belief in His death on the cross and His resurrection.

  Oh, Ellyn was right, I was raised in church. I may refuse to acknowledge God, but I’m familiar with the teachings of the Bible. Those early lessons taught in Sunday school stayed with me.

  I set my mug down, stand up, and pace the living room. I stop in front of the entertainment cabinet and turn on my iPod. A little Bach will soothe me. With Yo-Yo Ma manipulating the strings of his cello in the background, I turn toward the windows.

  The blinds remain drawn.

  I walk to the window in front of the leather chairs and reach for the cord, then pull up the blind. I will prove Ellyn and her theory wrong. I stand at the window and focus my gaze on the large cypress tree across the street.

  It’s a tree. So what? It’s supposed to prove God’s existence? Then a raven takes flight from somewhere deep within the branches. It flits around the tree and then lands on a branch at the very top. It sits facing me.

  Staring at me.

  Mocking me.

  That is all the proof I need.

  There is no reliable security except in You.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Ellyn

  I slip out of my pajamas and step onto the scale. For once, I’m looking forward to seeing the number. After living on vegetables and odd sources of protein, the number can only be lower. But when I look down, my countenance drops.

  The number is the same.

  The same as it was last week.

  And the week before.

  Get used to it. You’re a failure at weight loss, you know that.

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before, Earl. Get some new material.”

  I look down at the scale again. While Earl’s snide comments don’t wound like they used to, I still can’t believe what the scale says. I’ve made major changes in my diet, cut out everything good, how is it possible I haven’t lost even a pound? How? I step off the scale . . .

  And then kick it.

  “Ouch!” Not a good move with bare feet.

  Pajamas back on, I walk out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, and head downstairs to the kitchen. Just as I get there, the phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Did Miles save you from the rat?”

  That’s Sabina’s greeting. I sigh. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did.”

  “You’re still irritated that you needed a man, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, hush. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Are we walking this morning?”

  “If we have to.”

  “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

  “I’d rather sit, drink coffee, and eat buttery croissants.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?” She laughs. “Same time, same place?”

  “Sure. Well . . .” Wait a minute. “I’d really prefer walking on the headlands today. I could use a good dose of sea air. If you want to join me, great. If not, that’s fine too.”

  She hesitates. “O . . . kay. You don’t think it’s too cold out there?”

  “Have you looked outside? The sun is shining. It’s gorgeous. Wear one of those designer workout jackets of yours. You’ll be fine.”

  “Where do you want to meet?”

  “I’ll park in the lot by the cypress grove, just down from Hesser and Lansing. See you there in thirty minutes.”

  “Fine.”

  I hang up the phone. Oh Lord, open her eyes. Give her eyes to see You.

  I’m in no mood to exert myself, or drink pond sludge, or eat a breakfast better suited for a squirrel. I look at the nut mixture in a container on my countertop. I sigh again and glance at the hot cereal I made before I went upstairs to weigh myself. I spoon a serving of the steel-cut oatmeal from the pan on the range into a bowl. It looks no more appealing in the bowl than it did in the pan. I sprinkle a handful of the nut mixture onto the cooked oats.

  I shake my head. “I am so over veganism.”

  Of course you are. You’re a woman, not a rabbit. You need real food. You deserve it.

  “Why thank you, Earl. I agree.” But even as I agree with Earl, something nags at me. Is it the tone of the voice I hear in my head? Or the words themselves that bother me? I cock my head to one side, like a dog who’s heard a familiar voice. “Huh . . .”

  Something about Earl is different. Or . . .

  Maybe it’s me who’s different.

  Changing.

  I’m not sure.

  I reach into the freezer and take out the pound of butter that I couldn’t bear throwing away when I ventured into my little vegan experiment. I put a cube of the butter into the microwave for a few seconds. Then I pop two pieces of cinnamon swirl bread, also from the freezer, into
the toaster. As I wait for the bread to toast, I attempt to ignore the red flag waving in my brain.

  Agreeing with Earl, I’ve learned, is never wise. But just this once can’t hurt. Right? I’ll get back on track tomorrow.

  I take the toast out of the toaster, slather it in butter, and take a breathless bite, like a woman about to receive a long-anticipated kiss. Mmm . . . heaven. Nothing has tasted this good since . . .

  I sigh. Miles’s kiss.

  I pull a paper towel off the roll and set the piece of toast on it.

  It’s not often I’m shocked by my own thoughts, but I feel my face go pink . . . I’m caught off-guard by what just went through my mind—and heart.

  Miles’s kiss.

  So tender.

  Gentle.

  And safe.

  S.A.F.E.

  In an alluring, exciting, and adventurous sort of way.

  “Get hold of yourself, Ellyn.” I walk away from the toast—no longer interested in what it offers.

  Or doesn’t offer.

  I pad my way back upstairs to brush my teeth, wash my face, and dress for our walk. I give the scale dirty looks each time I pass it. Then I recall something Twila said about the scale that makes a lot of sense this morning, so before I go back downstairs, I pick up the scale from the bathroom floor and carry it down with me. I set it on the counter in the mudroom until I’m ready to go.

  I go back to the kitchen, throw the now-cold oatmeal out, and do up the dishes. Then I fill my aluminum water bottle, cap it, and stand it up in my purse. I grab my car keys, and go back to the mudroom and pick up the scale.

  Once in the driveway, I leave my purse and water bottle in the car and then walk to the end of the gravel drive. I lift the scale above my head and throw it, as hard as I can, onto the asphalt street. It makes a satisfying crunching sound—like a car wreck—as it lands. Metal and plastic parts fly in opposite directions.

  There! Take that!

  I retrieve the pieces of the scale, large and small, from the street and put them into the garbage can. Then, smiling, I leave to meet Sabina.

  By the time I reach the cypress grove, I’m several minutes late. I pull into the lot and park next to Sabina’s BMW. She’s sitting in the car, head down, looking at something. Of course, she wouldn’t get out of the car and enjoy the fresh air and scenery.