Invisible Page 3

  There’s a timeworn bohemian charm to the community. As I head two blocks west, the businesses give way to an eclectic array of houses. A few blocks further and I reach Mendocino Headlands State Park, which surrounds Mendocino on three sides. I only know it’s a state park because of the research I did online before I arrived—otherwise, there is little to advertise that fact beyond a small sign at both entrances. The protected land includes trails on the bluffs with areas that overlook wave tunnels, blowholes, tide pools, and beaches, or so I read. A few people dot the landscape of the headlands—walking, or standing cliff-side mesmerized, it seems, by the swirling Pacific.

  The headlands are only a few blocks from the house but I don’t intend to spend much time there. I’ve barely ventured out of the house until today.

  But girl, you will. You have to. You’ve let yourself languish in a state of melancholy too long.

  I make a three-point turn where the street goes into the park, and turn back toward town and select a restaurant that looks interesting. Perhaps rather than slipping back into the robe I’ve worn all week, once back at the house I’ll stay dressed and take myself out to dinner this evening.

  Or not.

  It will depend, I know, on whether or not this wave of energy wanes.

  As I make the short drive back to the house, my cell phone rings and I start. I have a new number and the only people who have it are family. They’re not scheduled to call, at least not yet. I glance at the screen of the phone sitting on the middle console . . .

  Antwone.

  We made a pact before I left Tiburon and headed north—well, I made a pact—he may call, but I won’t answer until I’m ready. He’s to leave a message if he has something to say. If it’s an emergency, something with one of the girls, who are both away at college, then he’ll text.

  My hands clench the steering wheel. C’mon, baby, it’s only been a week. Give me the break I need. But then reality intrudes. Antwone isn’t the cause of my stress and there’s no reason not to talk to him. I reach for the phone just as it stops ringing. I’ll call him back once I’m at the rental.

  But by the time I pull into the driveway, gravel crunching under my tires, the fatigue that’s shadowed me the last two months has returned. I turn off the car and rest my forehead on the steering wheel.

  I will give into it . . . again.

  I lift my head, pull the keys from the ignition, grab the bag from the pharmacy off the passenger seat, and head inside. The leather purse I slung over my shoulder feels like it’s filled with boulders as I climb the two shallow steps of the wooden deck leading to the front door.

  I drop the purse on a shelf in the redwood paneled entry as I walk in, go straight to the kitchen, open the bag from the pharmacy, and pour myself a glass of water. I stare at the bottle of pills in my hand. I need them, I know. But instead of opening the bottle and taking the first dose, I set it on the tiled kitchen counter, along with the full glass of water, and answer the call beckoning me.

  The respite of sleep.

  I drag myself to the family room, close the blinds against the stunning ocean view, and then wrap myself in the shearling throw I brought from home. Thus enfolded, I curl up on the leather sofa in front of the fireplace.

  And succumb.

  To sleep.

  That safe place, where reality is put to rest.

  If you understand, that isn’t God.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Three

  Miles

  There are patients I dread seeing and patients I look forward to seeing. Everyone else falls in the middle somewhere. I don’t analyze each of them. The patients I dread aren’t the hypochondriacs, or the lonely people who visit a doctor just to have a meaningful conversation. No. The patients I dread are the ones I can’t fix.

  I’m a healer. That’s my job. So if I can’t help you, I don’t want to see you. That’s about me. I don’t like seeing my own limits.

  Especially since Sarah . . .

  I hate cancer.

  My jaw clenches.

  I look at the picture sitting on my desk—a picture of Sarah out on the headlands—the wind whipping her long, strawberry hair and laughter on her face. I can almost hear her laugh when I look at the photo.

  Sarah was my wife for twenty-eight years. My wife, friend, lover, companion, and mother of our children. Was the marriage perfect? No. But it was good, solid. I loved her. Respected her. And I depended on her. I miss her wisdom, her strength, and the warmth of her pressed against me in bed at night.

  And that’s just the beginning of the list.

  “Dr. Becker . . .”

  Camie leans in the doorway of my office.

  “Mr. Rohr is waiting in room two.”

  “Thanks.”

  I look back at the picture. When Sarah was diagnosed, I vowed I’d heal her. Well, not by myself, I had to admit. But I vowed she’d see the best oncologists in the field and I’d do everything I could to ensure she followed their treatment plan to the letter. And if that didn’t work, I believe in a God who works miracles, so I also prayed—with purpose, patience, and faith. I prayed as I’ve never prayed before.

  But she didn’t heal.

  God didn’t perform a miracle.

  I lost her—my gaze shifts from her picture to the calendar—two years ago today. Though I don’t need a calendar to remember the date.

  I trusted her to God’s care and He chose not to save her. Bitterness was tempting. But I know God and I know He doesn’t always respond in the way we want. I don’t understand why. Nor do I want a God as small as my own understanding. But it took me awhile to get to that point. I’ve hashed through a lot with God in the last couple of years.

  I look at the files on my desk—the patients I saw this morning.

  Ellyn DeMoss.

  I’ve always looked forward to seeing her. Intelligent. Witty. Beautiful.

  I’ve always wanted to know her outside of my practice. Sarah agreed. When we’d go to Ellyn’s restaurant, Sarah always enjoyed Ellyn too.

  So maybe it’s time to get to know her.

  I pick up the picture of Sarah. “After all, I have a promise to keep, don’t I?” It’s the most difficult promise to fulfill I’ve ever made. “You knew that, didn’t you? That’s why you made me promise.” I swallow the lump in my throat as I run one finger across Sarah’s photographed face.

  Sarah saw something in Ellyn . . . Or a more accurate assessment is that she saw something in me when we were with Ellyn—those times Ellyn would make the rounds of the tables in the dining room of the café. She’d chat with patrons for a few minutes and because we knew one another, she’d stay at our table a little longer.

  I open my desk drawer and put the framed picture inside. I push it to the back of the drawer where I won’t see it every time I reach for a pen.

  It was Sarah who . . . suggested Ellyn. When she asked me to make that promise. “You could ask out Ellyn DeMoss, Miles. You light up when you talk with her.” There was no jealousy in her tone. We were secure in our love for one another.

  “What? Sarah, I can’t—I won’t think about this now. God may still . . .”

  But by then, we both knew.

  I lost her a few days later.

  Sarah will always be part of me—of who I am. I will never forget her nor will I ever love her any less. But she made me promise that I’d move on. That I wouldn’t get stuck in my grief. That I’d continue living even if she didn’t.

  Easier said than done, my gal.

  “Dr. Becker?”

  “Coming, Camie.”

  I close the desk drawer and as I do I see my bare ring finger still indented from the band I wore there for almost thirty years.

  I removed it this morning for the first time.

 
Just before my appointment with Ellyn DeMoss.

  In seeking for you I followed not the intelligence of the mind, by which you willed that I should surpass the beasts, but the mind of the flesh.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Four

  Ellyn

  I’d gone from the doctor’s office straight to the lab for blood work, and from the lab to Cowlicks on Main Street in Fort Bragg. A woman deserves ice cream after a prodding physical and multiple pokes from a vampire disguised as a phlebotomist. A scoop of Black Forest and one of Candy-Cap Mushroom on a sugar cone took the edge off my post-appointment agitation. The pint of Blackberry Chocolate Chunk that I took home and ate for dinner settled me into a sugar coma that left me sprawled on the sofa, dozing in front of American Idol.

  We Americans love our idols.

  Earl woke me early this morning with the usual chatter. What’s wrong with you? Will you never learn? You know you’re dragging this morning because of what you ate yesterday. You’re worthless.

  “I know, I know!” I threw the covers back, stumbled from my bed to the bathroom—each aching step a reminder of what I know—I have to make changes in my diet. But by the time I reached the kitchen, my muscles and joints had loosened a bit and the half-and-half I poured into my coffee didn’t seem all that bad.

  It’s just a few tablespoons.

  The croissant slathered in butter and jam, my morning staple, shut Earl up.

  I do need to make changes, but I won’t know how much I need to change until Dr. Norman calls with the results of my blood work. So I might as well enjoy the next few days.

  That being decided, I have a second croissant, shower, and dress for work—leopard print, elastic-waist pants, black chef’s coat with three-quarter length sleeves, and black clogs. The leopard pants are my favorite—they go well with my coloring and are worn to just the right level of comfort. I pull my hair back into its standard ponytail.

  I make the three-minute drive from home to the restaurant, then park along the opposite side of the street.

  I sit there, fighting the desire to close my eyes for just a minute. Then I push my heavy limbs out of the car, and head into my day.

  It turned out that Dr. Norman isn’t all that young, skinny, or beautiful. I’d peg her at around thirty-five, a hundred-fiftyish pounds, and cute. Not pretty. Not beautiful. But cute. Bouncy bob haircut, button nose, and great teeth except for the front two uppers, which are just crooked enough to give her smile character.

  And Dr. Becker was right—she’s great. I learned so much in that appointment yesterday about women’s bodies, how we’re made, what happens with our hormones, and—of particular interest—how our estrogen levels can affect our appetites.

  I also learned that Dr. Norman isn’t the reason Dr. Becker’s wedding ring is MIA.

  I look at Rosa, who is sitting across from me at one of the tables in the dining room. The morning sun now streams in through the windows. We’re folding black linen napkins—something she excels at and I don’t. But I like to show my support. The black napkins were her idea. They don’t leave white lint on black clothing—something she observed at a new restaurant in town. So now Rosa, or our servers, replace the white napkins with the black for those wearing darker colors.

  I look across the table at Rosa. “You know Dr. Becker?”

  She looks up from the napkin she’s folding. “Dr. Miles Becker? Of course, everybody knows him. They used to come in here all de time.”

  “I know, Rosa. I know you know him. I just meant . . . Never mind. Do you know what happened to his wife?”

  Rosa stops folding and looks at me.

  “Don’t tell me you din’t know?” She shakes her head. “How you not know dat? You need to spend more time wid customers instead of wid your head in an oven.”

  “Someone has to cook, Rosa.”

  “You outta de loop, Ellyn.”

  “Okay, so include me in the loop when important news comes through the dining room. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that she . . . died.”

  She shakes her head again.

  “What happened to . . . her?”

  “De cancer kill her.”

  “Oh . . .” I put my hand on my chest in an attempt to soothe the ache I feel for Dr. Becker. “I knew I hadn’t seen them in a long time, but . . . They always seemed so happy when they’d come in.”

  “Si.”

  We continue folding in silence, Rosa folding three napkins to my one.

  I recall my comment to Dr. Norman—and feel heat rise to my face again. “So where’s Dr. Becker’s wedding band?” I’d tossed her a grin. “I’m sure I’d have heard single women squealing all over the county if he was on the market.”

  She’d cocked her head and looked at me. “He’s not wearing his ring any more?”

  “Not today.”

  She looked back at my leg and tapped my knee with that thingy that tests reflexes. My leg gave a little kick in response.

  “Hmm . . . he must have finally taken it off.”

  “Finally?”

  She looked back up. “His wife died. About two years ago, I think.”

  “Oh . . .” I swallowed. “I didn’t know.”

  I’m such a dork.

  A day later and I still can’t think about that conversation without embarrassment.

  Rosa reaches for the last linen napkin and folds it in a triangle. “So, you interested?”

  “In what?”

  “In him. Doctor Becker.” She folds the edges of the triangle together.

  I sputter. “What? No, of course not. I was just curious.”

  “What wrong wid you? You ever gonna be interested in a man?”

  “I don’t need a man, Rosa.” I push a loose curl behind one ear. “Anyway, look at me. No man is going to be interested in . . . this.”

  “Dat what you think? You just scared.”

  “Scared? I’m not scared. Rosa, there’s nothing wrong with being single.” I thrum my fingers on the table. “I love my life. I’m content. What do I need a man for?”

  “You terrified.”

  I get up from the table. “Oh, hush. What do you know?” As I walk away, I hear Rosa chuckle. “Glad you find me so entertaining,” I say over my shoulder on my way back to the kitchen. I remind myself, as I often do, about the apostle Paul’s words: “An unmarried woman is concerned about the Lord’s affairs: Her aim is to be devoted to the Lord in both body and spirit. But a married woman is concerned about the affairs of this world—how she can please her husband.”

  Do I use the verse as justification? Or am I as concerned about God’s affairs as I profess? Sometimes . . . I’m not sure.

  Terrified?

  Oh, Lord, am I? I want Your will for me.

  Honest.

  I think.

  I found myself heavily weighed down by a sense of being tired of living and scared of dying.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Five

  Sabina

  I lift one leaden leg to the seat of the wooden bench on the front porch and bend to tie the loosed laces of my walking shoe. Then I pull my sweatshirt on and tighten the batik scarf I’ve tied around my hair—or what’s left of it. The week before I left Tiburon, I had Gloria, my hairstylist, remove the weave I’ve worn for years. Once she’d removed the extensions, I had her shear my hair close to my head so I could go natural.

  When was the last time I went natural? Just before heading to Stanford at eighteen—thirty-four years ago. All those years, I’ve followed the hair trends of African American women. It’s a cultural thing, those dos. I wasn’t sure if I was punishing myself with the extreme cut or setting myself free. Either way, it was necessary. No self-respecting African American woman would pay that much for a do
and then subject her hair to the damp, coastal elements.

  When deciding where I’d spend a year, I knew I wanted solitude. A client spent a month in Mendocino County and declared it a place of healing—whole foods, holistic healing approaches, and fresh air. When I Googled information regarding the area, I saw that African Americans accounted for 0.9 percent of the population. Which means, among other things, that it’s a good thing I don’t have much hair left. No one in Mendocino County would know what to do with it.

  When I came home from seeing Gloria, I saw the stunned look on Antwone’s face. I hadn’t prepared him, nor was there a need to. It was my choice. But, as always, he handled the change with grace.

  “You’re beautiful, baby.” He leaned in to give me a kiss, but I avoided him.

  He didn’t know yet—didn’t know what was going on inside me or that I was leaving. I couldn’t take his love, his grace. I didn’t deserve it.

  I still don’t.

  I bend and stretch before I walk. After two weeks of almost complete inactivity, I already feel my muscles atrophying. I took my first dose of the antidepressant on Tuesday morning, the day after my appointment with Dr. Norman. This morning, I committed myself to a walk.

  Not that anyone would know if I broke my commitment.

  But I’m going. I have to. It’s time to get with it, girl. God helps them who help themselves, right?

  Wrong.

  This has nothing to do with God.

  I straighten and follow the curved driveway to the street. Lansing Street runs from the village out to Highway 1—it’s the northern entrance and exit to Mendocino. On this Tuesday morning, the road is quiet. But there are no sidewalks, or even bike lanes—just two lanes without shoulders. I shimmy along the road’s edge, past the Agate Cove Bed and Breakfast Inn, and the Sea Rock Inn, and then before the road curves, I cross the street and step over the guardrail and follow a narrow path between the guardrail and the cliff overlooking Agate Cove.