Invisible

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  I lay the clothes on my bed and then go downstairs to make a cup of tea.

  “Merry Christmas, love.”

  My mom is in the kitchen fixing a dish she’s taking for Christmas dinner.

  “Merry Christmas.” I walk over and give her a hug and then set the teapot to boil. “Today will be fun, right?”

  “Yes. I think you’ll enjoy Miles’s sons and his daughter-in-law.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I don’t say this to my mom, but it will be nice to hang out with a few people closer to my age.

  “What’s Ellyn doing today? She isn’t alone, is she?”

  I shake my head. “No, she spent last night with Sabina and her husband. This morning she’s driving to San Francisco to spend the day with her mom.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize she had family in the city.”

  “Yeah. Maybe you could pray for her today. I think it might be kind of an intense relationship.”

  “Oh, thanks for sharing that with me. I will pray.”

  I take my tea and go back upstairs to take a shower and get dressed. I don’t usually do much to my hair, but after I pull the sweater over my head, I pull it up in a loose, sort of messy bun. I look at it sideways in the mirror.

  Cool. I like it.

  Then I put on a little makeup. I look at the effect in the mirror. Not bad.

  After I put my boots on, I do something I rarely allow myself to do anymore. I go and stand in front of the full-length mirror. Before looking at my image, I close my eyes and prepare myself to see something other than reality. But when I open my eyes—I’m surprised.

  I look . . . okay.

  Not too fat.

  Even with the bulky sweater.

  I turn and view my profile. I pat my tummy and smooth out the sweater. Then I turn and look over my shoulder so I can see the back view. I stand in front of the mirror for a long time, trying to find the fat girl I’ve always seen there.

  But this morning, I can’t find her.

  “Thank You, Father.”

  It’s going to be a good day. I feel it.

  When we get to Miles’s house around 11:00, everyone is in the kitchen drinking hot cocoa. Kimberli, Miles’s daughter-in-law, made stir-sticks out of peppermint sticks with marshmallows stuck on the ends. Christmas music plays in the background, and a fire crackles in the fireplace in the family room, off the big kitchen.

  It’s like a Christmas card, come to life.

  Miles pats me on the back. “Don’t worry, gal. We have herbal tea for you. You can float a marshmallow in it if you like.” His eyes shine with fun.

  We’re greeted with warmth and hugs. They’re, like, such a kind family. Then introductions are made.

  “Alex and Kimberli, this is Twila—Nerissa’s daughter.”

  Alex puts out his hand. “Twila, nice to finally meet you.”

  Alex looks a lot like Miles probably looked when he was younger.

  Kimberli gives me a hug. “Hi, hey it’s nice to have another female around. I’m so glad you came.”

  “Thanks. It’s good to meet you both.”

  Then Sabina comes and gives me a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. I want you to meet Antwone.” She looks around the kitchen until she sees Antwone. “Twon, come meet Twila. This is the special young woman I’ve told you about.”

  Antwone towers over me. “Twila, I’m so grateful for your relationship with Sabina. Thank you for befriending her.” His big hand weighs on my shoulder.

  I shrug. “No problem. She’s great.”

  Then I meet Will.

  My mom told me he’s twenty-five—just a year younger than I am—and just graduated with his masters in . . . something. She couldn’t remember his major.

  Will looks more like his mother. He has Miles’s dark hair, only Will’s is longer and his complexion is fair and his eyes are hazel, rather than blue. He’s tall, lanky, and, like, really easy on the eyes.

  Like Alex, he holds out his hand to shake mine as we’re introduced. As he does, the cuff of the flannel shirt he’s wearing pulls up to reveal a tattoo on the upper part of his right wrist—a fish symbol.

  I shake Will’s hand. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

  “Yeah, you too. Great tat. What’s it mean?” He nods toward the thorns on my cheek.

  “It’s a sign of solidarity with those who suffer.” I shrug. “Every time I look in the mirror it reminds me to pray for those in need.”

  “Wow. That’s deep.”

  Something inside me, like, quivers. “I noticed you have one too.” I point to his wrist.

  “I do.” He pulls back his sleeve and shows me the tattoo. “Pretty basic. But do you know the history behind it?”

  “No.”

  “You see them everywhere—on the back of cars, hanging from necklaces, whatever—it’s sort of the universal, evangelical symbol of Christianity now, right? But in the early church—around AD 54 through 68, during the reign of Nero, Christians were persecuted and, therefore, hesitant to speak of their faith. So they used the symbol of the fish, or ichthus, as it’s now known, to identify themselves to other believers. They’d draw the symbol in the dirt or on the wall of a cave as a means of letting others know it was safe to talk about their belief in Jesus.”

  And he thought my tat was deep? That’s amazing.

  “So it reminds me to pray for the persecuted church in other countries. There are so many who suffer for their faith.” Pain or sorrow seems to settle over him.

  I look him in the eyes. “Okay, that’s deep too.”

  “Yeah. Hey, it’s nice to not be the only one with ink, for once.”

  I pull up the right sleeve of my sweater and turn my hand and wrist over so he can see my other tattoo.

  He looks at it, and then looks back at me. His stare is intense.

  “You’re created in the image of God.”

  “Yes! You get it, right?”

  He nods. “Not many people, especially in our culture, understand the significance of who we, as humans, really are. I bet it’s especially hard as a woman. Women are oppressed in so many ways, including American women who are oppressed by the over-sexualization of their gender.”

  “Exactly.” This is just . . . amazing! “You really get it. So my mom said you just finished your masters. What’s your degree?”

  “A Masters of Non-profit Administration. I’m interviewing now. I’d like to work with a non-profit organization that provides micro-loans for individuals, particularly women, in developing countries. What about you?”

  “Really, that’s what you want to do? That’s amazing.” I know I’ve thought it a bunch of times already, but it’s the truth.

  Just.

  Amazing.

  He shrugs. “We have so much. It seems natural to want to help others.”

  “Cool.” Then I tell him about my schooling and what I do now. “I’ve taken it kind of slow. I’ve had some . . . health problems to deal with too.”

  “Really? Wow, you wouldn’t know it. You look great.”

  My face gets warm. “Thanks.”

  We stand in the kitchen and talk until Will looks around. “Hey, where’d everybody go?”

  He’s right. The kitchen is empty except for us. “I didn’t even notice they’d left.”

  “Me either. Too bad we didn’t hit it off, right?”

  His humor reminds me of Miles. “Yeah, too bad.”

  “Hey, I’m here through New Years. Would you want to hang out? Maybe get dinner or something one night?”

  “Sure, I’d like that.”

  “Great. What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  I laugh. “Um . . . having dinner with you?”

  “Yes!”

  In your gift we find
our rest.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Sabina

  I’ve been looking for a phone for several minutes, to no avail. So I go to the source. “Miles, is there somewhere I could make a phone call?”

  “Sure. Use the den.” He points to a set of French doors. “Just through there. Close the doors so you can hear yourself talk.”

  “Thank you, I’ll do that.”

  I walk into the den, close the doors against the joyful clamor coming from the family room, and then sit in a leather chair situated in the corner of the room. I look around. This is Miles’s space. I punch Ellyn’s number into the phone. If I don’t catch her, I at least want to leave a message.

  “Sabina?”

  “Oh, good, I caught you. Are you at your mother’s?”

  “I just crossed the bridge so I have about ten more minutes of peace.”

  “Good. Listen, it feels odd to say this, but . . . I’m praying for you.” I sit back in Miles’s chair.

  “Thank you. I’m going to need divine intervention to get through this. How are things there?”

  I hear a wistfulness in her question. “They’re good. There’s even a little romance in the air. Girl, you should be here.”

  “Romance? Um . . . Miles?”

  I sit up straight. “Miles? Oh, no. No. It’s Twila and Miles’s son, Will. They haven’t taken their eyes off each other since Nerissa and Twila arrived.”

  “Oh. Really? That’s great. Oh, that’s so great.”

  “Well, who knows? It may not go anywhere, but they sure seem taken with each other. I’d say it was love at first sight.”

  “Good. And how is Miles?”

  “He’s fine, Ellyn. He is such a delight, but you know what I think of him. I wish you were here though, and not just because I miss you. I think he misses you too.”

  “Thanks, Sabina. But . . . I can’t think about that right now. I have to confront the situation with my mom. I need to . . . you know.”

  “Yes, I do. You’re doing the right thing, Ellyn. I’m so impressed with your courage. You’re making some good, wise choices.”

  “It’s time.”

  “Yes. Call if you need anything. And Ellyn, Merry Christmas.”

  “You too, Sabina. Give everyone my love.”

  I hang up and then decide now is also a good time to call the twins, who are celebrating Christmas back East with Antwone’s parents. The holidays have always been an event in our home, but when the girls suggested staying back East rather than traveling home this year, I knew it was the right choice. It freed me to be here through the holidays and beyond. At least, that’s how long I used to think I’d stay.

  Of course, now, with Antwone here, I realize I want to be with him. Need to be with him. We are building a new relationship on a new foundation. But we agreed not to make a decision on timing until the new year.

  He is loving the time here as much as I am.

  And I have lost time to make up for.

  Where I discovered the truth there I found my God, truth itself, which from the time I learnt it, I have not forgotten. And so, since the time I learnt of you, you remain in my consciousness, and there I find you when I recall you and delight in you.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Ellyn

  By the time I pull into the driveway of the home I grew up in, my hands ache from gripping the steering wheel all the way down Highway 1, and my stomach is knotted at the idea of a day spent with my mother—

  And the conversation I know I must initiate.

  While Christmas Day may not seem the best time to confront the past, this is, I believe, God’s timing. Confused memories continue to surface as I work through some of my issues in counseling. The primary issue being Earl—or Earleen—and my fear or reluctance toward men.

  Turns out, Rosa was right all along.

  I’m terrified.

  Or I was.

  Some of that is subsiding as I work through my history. What’s more, my weight is no longer the issue it was.

  Wow, Ellyn, roll that one around in your mind for a moment . . . My weight is no longer the issue it was. That doesn’t mean I’ve lost weight. No, that would take an act of God—He seems to have given me the economy metabolism, whereas others sport a racecar metabolism. Oh, well.

  Instead, the act God deemed important was that I accept myself as one created in His image. I, Ellyn DeMoss, am created in the image of the most holy, majestic, and awesome God. Not in a physical sense, although Jesus did come in bodily form, but rather in a spiritual sense. And that is what’s important. I am, I’m coming to believe, beautiful from the inside out. As I accept that fact, I’m also seeing myself as beautiful from the outside in.

  Somehow that knowledge empowers me for what I need to do today.

  Too much remains either unknown or misunderstood between me and my mom. The time has come to sort it out.

  I reach to the passenger seat of the car and pick up the cyclamen plant I brought for my mother, along with a gift bag containing a silk, hand-painted scarf made by a Mendocino artist.

  She’ll hate it.

  Which, at the moment, gives me great satisfaction.

  I’ve learned I can’t win with her, so I gave up trying, at least in the gift-giving department, long ago.

  Oh Lord, remind me that this confrontation is an act of love and respect for both myself, and my mom. It is not retaliation for years of pain.

  I take a deep breath, get out of the car, and then climb the front steps of the home in the Marina District of San Francisco, where my mother has lived since before I was born. I stand at the grand front door and ring the bell. I’m no longer free to walk in. When she answers, I’m struck again by her beauty and the care she takes, even at seventy-five, with her looks. Her hair is lighter now—dyed and highlighted, I’d guess, to cover the gray, and her skin is still smooth. Her nails are perfect, as are her black wool pants and cranberry silk blouse.

  “Ellyn, so good to see you. How long has it been? A year or more?”

  “Hello, Mother. Merry Christmas. These are for you.” I hand her the plant and the gift bag, which saves me from one of her faux hugs and air kisses.

  “Well, come in, don’t just stand out there.”

  I step into the large foyer which jettisons me back thirty-five years. Nothing much has changed in the house since then.

  She sets the plant and bag down on the round entry table in the middle of the foyer. Well, one thing has changed. The flowers in the vase on the table are fresh. A florist replaces the arrangement each week. This one is made up of what look like redwood boughs, pinecones, and poinsettias.

  “Let me look at you.” My mother lifts her head, just a bit, and looks down her nose at me. The typical inspection. “Why, Ellyn, is that a new outfit?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s lovely. I didn’t know they made such nice things in your size. Come dear, I’ve waited so long for you, I fear the food is cold.”

  I look at my watch. “I thought we weren’t eating until 4:00.”

  “We’re not. But we have appetizers, of course.”

  I follow her into the library, where I find a spread fit for a party. “Who else is coming? I thought it was just us.”

  “It is just us, Christmas is a family day. You know that.”

  “But Mother, there’s enough food here for a dozen people.”

  “Nonsense. Here, take a plate, and help yourself. I’m sure you’re starved after your long drive.”

  Anger, a simmering pot, is ready to boil over. But I put a lid on it and turn down the heat. Oh Lord, help me. I look at the spread of hors d’oeuvres and for the first time wonder how my mother keeps her trim figure. Genet
ics, I’m certain. I’m built like my father. But still, there’s no way she could eat all she prepares and not gain weight.

  I take the plate she hands me and choose a few samplings.

  “Oh, Ellyn, try the stuffed mushrooms. It’s a new recipe.”

  Habits are hard to break, and I bow to her wishes, even though I don’t want a stuffed mushroom. But it’s easier than saying no.

  As is always the case with her.

  When we sit down for dinner, I’m already stuffed, but she’s made a traditional Christmas dinner: prime rib, Yorkshire pudding, and the works.

  “Mom, how do you expect me to eat so much?”

  “You have a large appetite, Ellyn. You always have.”

  The pot simmers again.

  I put the linen napkin on my lap. “Evidently my appetite isn’t as large as you think. I’m already stuffed. I can’t eat all this.”

  “Can’t or won’t? Are you dieting?”

  “No, I’m not dieting. And both—I can’t and I won’t eat any more. I’m sorry you went to all this work, but . . . you’ll have to save it for leftovers.”

  Just like that, I’m breaking away. From the expected. From the old habit.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Here, have a slice of meat—rare, just the way you like it.” She hands me the platter of prime rib.

  “Mom . . .” My tone is tender though I was going for firm. Tears prick my eyes. Oh, great. I am never vulnerable with my mother. In fact, I don’t think I’ve allowed her to see me cry since that afternoon when I was a freshman and she told me about Eric Neilson. I clear my throat. “Please, listen to me.”

  “Fine, don’t eat the meat. You don’t need the calories, that’s for sure.”

  “Mom, why do you do that? Why do you press me to eat and then condemn my weight? Why?”

  “I just want you to be happy, and food has always made you happy.”