Invisible Page 4

  The morning dawned in pale shades of gray. The white foam of crashing waves is the exception in the palette. I slow my pace, and then stop to look down at the jagged rocks and roaring surf below. The small beach below is strewn with driftwood and what look like abalone shell halves and pieces. The only access to the beach is a steep trail on the other side of the cove. You’d have to be committed to your desire to reach the beach to try that trail.

  As I look back down at the beach and the waves hugging the shore, I feel a pull. Almost magnetic. It would take just one step to lose myself in the stark vortex of white foam. I lean forward.

  It would be so easy.

  No.

  I step back and reach for the guardrail to steady myself, my heart pounding like a grandioso movement.

  We spent many evenings in our seats at Davies Symphony Hall, listening to the San Francisco Symphony’s Classical Series. I am like the harsh dissonance—lacking harmony with myself.

  I am the incomplete chord unwilling to resolve itself.

  I turn and look back toward the house I’ve rented. Its warmth and safety woo me. But I turn back and trudge on, drawing not on feelings but rather on almost dormant determination. I crest the hill and follow the road back down to Heeser Drive, which turns toward Headlands State Park. I pass Hesser and follow the road into the village. When I see a couple walking toward me on the same side of the street, I turn, check for cars, and then cross to the other side. The last thing I want is a social interaction.

  I look up at the gray, cloud-strewn sky and sense our kinship today.

  A battering wind blows, its direction unchangeable. I thrust my hands inside the deep pockets of my jacket. Will I allow the wind to form and shape me as it does the surrounding cypress trees? Or will I break under the battering?

  I walk into the wind, wanting to give in—to let it snap me in two.

  I swallow my self-pity, sickened by my own weakness. I’ve never had patience with clients who wallow. Yet, here I am.

  The hypocrite surfaces again.

  I sigh and force myself to keep walking. Once I reach the edge of the village, I turn around and, with heavy steps, drag myself back toward the house. As I do, I catch a glimpse of a lighthouse jutting out on a distant point—charming, until its light winks at me as if it knows my secret.

  I spend most of the afternoon in one of the large leather chairs seated in front of the picture window, positioned now to face into the living room. I resist the urge to stretch out on the sofa. Though I’m not hungry, I fix myself a salad for lunch and make myself eat it. Then I place my iPod on its speaker dock and select Esa-Pekka Salonen and the Los Angeles Philharmonic playing orchestral arrangements of Bach. I set the iPod to repeat, then settle in the chair. I let the strains of Bach play over and through me. My eyes drift shut, and the music floods the aching void within, expressing with its lifts and falls what I am unable to express.

  I sit for hours, lost in the music, until the rumbling in my stomach begins to compete with the Philharmonic. I haven’t really been hungry in weeks and I expected the antidepressant might further suppress my appetite, but perhaps not.

  I stand, stretch, and wander out to the kitchen. I stand in front of the open freezer and peruse the frozen entrees that all seem to taste the same. I close the freezer and stand in the shadowed kitchen. Through the window, I notice the sun lowering in the sky—a blaze of orange, coral, and purple streaks the horizon. I turn on the kitchen light and see its reflection in the window instead.

  Only the whir of the refrigerator and the dull, annoying roar of the surf break the silence. For the first time since my arrival, I feel my aloneness.

  I stand in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, looking for what, I’m not certain. What about the restaurant on Main Street that I’d thought looked interesting? Do I have the energy to dress and go out?

  The clock on the microwave blinks the time: 5:11 p.m. I want something good to eat, the comfort of conversation murmuring around me—conversation in which I don’t have to participate.

  The walk this morning must have done its work and nudged my endorphins from their state of slumber.

  So, tonight, I shall dine.

  When I step into the restaurant, it’s as though I’ve stepped into a café in the south of France. The walls of the dining room are textured and faux-painted, and have the worn look of old-world plaster. Rough-hewn beams run across the ceiling, and the floors are distressed wood. The amber blown-glass light fixtures shed a warm glow over the linen-clad tables. An old bicycle with a basket leans against the hostess stand—the basket filled with fresh flowers. There are lit candles on each table, along with a vase of flowers matching the arrangement in the bicycle basket. I imagine the flowers are grown in the area.

  Lovely. The restaurant may prove as healing as the antidepressant Dr. Norman prescribed.

  “Reservation?”

  The word is spoken in a thick, Hispanic accent—the only thing that reminds me I’m still in California.

  “No.”

  “No problem. You early. You come and enjoy.”

  Glancing at my black pants, the hostess reaches for a black linen napkin along with the menu. She seats me at a corner table in front of the window that, if I could see, would look out over the street and another cove—the name of which I don’t remember. But neither are visible now. Instead, the interior warmth and lighting reflect in the dark windows . . .

  My lungs constrict with the memory of another time and place. Antwone and I took the twins to France to celebrate their high school graduations—

  “You visiting de village?” The hostess picks up the white folded napkin from the table and replaces it with the black. She opens the menu and hands it to me and places a wine list on the table.

  “In a way. I’ve rented a house here for the next year.”

  “Then we see you lots. Okay?”

  I look around the dining room and offer my first genuine smile since arriving in Mendocino. “Yes, I think I’ll see you often.”

  “Good. Enjoy.”

  A server comes to the table just after I’ve been seated. He places a glass of iced water at my setting, and a butter dish along with a cup filled with fragrant breadsticks on the table. I read the offerings on the menu and my mouth waters. The constant ache in my neck and shoulders relaxes a bit. And for the first time in many months . . .

  I don’t wish I no longer lived.

  The light . . . is obscured by a cloud, the truth is not perceived.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Six

  Ellyn

  “Guess who jest make a reservation for tonight?”

  I shrug. “No idea, who?”

  “De Doctor. Dr. Becker—6:00 p.m., party of three.”

  Three? I nod at Rosa. “Good.” I look at the clock above the desk. 5:14 p.m. “Busy night.” So Dr. Becker keeps his word. Not that it matters.

  “Si.”

  I walk back into the kitchen, Rosa on my heels. “Show time, Paco.”

  “Let’s do it, Bella. Another Saturday night.”

  “I let you know when he get here so you can say hello.” Rosa pushes through the swinging doors to the dining room before I can respond. Great.

  “Paco, you’ve got to drop the Bella. Have some respect for my position as owner and executive chef. Your boss, remember?”

  Paco laughs. “I know, Bella, I know.”

  I love the banter with Paco, a man who loves his wife and kids more than dessert. Just as it should be. We’ve worked together for eight years and settled into our routine early on.

  As far as me being the boss, we all know it’s Rosa who runs the place and keeps us in line.

  “Hey, I’ll be right back.” I head back to the office, grab my purse out of the top filing cabinet d
rawer, and pull out my compact and lipstick. I open the compact, brush some of the matte powder across my nose, cheeks, and chin. It sounds like Rosa will have me make the rounds in the dining room tonight, so I might as well be ready. I don’t take a second look into the small mirror. Instead, I reach for a clean apron and then head back to work.

  Thirty or so minutes later, Rosa pops back into the kitchen and tells me there’s a new woman having dinner here.

  “Okay, and that’s unusual because?”

  “Because she staying here for a year. She might become regular if you nice to her. You come say hello.”

  I look at Paco, eyebrows raised.

  “Go ahead, everything’s under control.”

  I look around the kitchen—he’s right. It’s the lull before the storm. I take off my apron, toss it over a stool, and follow Rosa to the dining room. Patrons are just beginning to come in. Rosa heads to a corner table near the window, where a woman sits alone. She seems familiar . . .

  Ah yes. The woman I saw in Dr. Becker’s waiting room on Monday.

  “Dis is our executive chef and owner of Ellyn’s—Ellyn DeMoss.”

  I hold out my hand. “Hello.”

  She looks at me, a question on her face, and then recognition. “Hello, I saw you in the doctor’s office on Monday, right?”

  “Right. Rosa tells me you’re new to town?”

  She reaches out her hand and clasps mine. “Yes, I’ve rented a house here for a year. After that, who knows?” Just like in the doctor’s office, I see something in her eyes that I can’t read, though her smile seems genuine this evening. “I’m Sabina Jackson.”

  “You two can be friends. Two single women alone in dis town. You need each other.”

  I shake my head. Rosa—the Queen of Relationships.

  Sabina is quick to respond. “Oh, I’m not single, but I’m here alone. So it’s good to get to know a few people.”

  I nod. “Well, please, come in any time. And if you need anything while you’re here, just call.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be back. I’m not much of a cook myself.”

  “I hope you enjoy your dinner.”

  I turn to go and see Dr. Becker and a woman walk in the front door.

  Too late to hide. Oh, why can’t I be invisible? Boy, he’s dating a young one.

  Then another woman comes in the door behind them—Nerissa Boaz.

  “Hi, Ellyn.” The young woman says.

  Dr. Becker looks from me to the young woman at his side. “You two know one another?”

  I look again and smile. Of course. The tattoo. “Twila, hi. I’m glad to see you.” I smile at Dr. Becker. “Twila and I met at Corners of the Mouth recently.”

  “Great. That’s where we met too.” He turns and motions Nerissa forward and drapes an arm around her shoulders. “You two must also know each other.” He looks down at Nerissa.

  “Of course.” Nerissa steps forward and gives me a hug. “Like many of the chefs in the village, Ellyn pops in from time to time to pick up some last-minute produce.”

  Well, aren’t they a cozy little group. “I haven’t seen you in the store in a while, Nerissa.”

  “I’m not there as often as I used to be. I’m doing more consulting with clients.”

  And consorting with doctors, it seems.

  “When my wife, Sarah, was . . . sick, Nerissa helped me put together a diet to help treat her.”

  “Oh . . .” I exhale—something I don’t think I’ve done since they walked in. “Twila, I’ll see what kind of vegan dish I can put together for you.”

  “Thanks.” She looks, wide-eyed, around the restaurant. “Wow, this is really cool. I love the vibe.”

  “Thanks.” I laugh. “Come to think of it, I kind of like the vibe too.” I look around the dining room and try to see it through Twila’s eyes.

  “I’ll have whatever you make for Twila.”

  “Are you a vegan too, Dr. Becker?”

  He smiles, “It’s Miles, please. No, I don’t follow a vegan diet as a rule, but I figure it’s good for me once in awhile.”

  “Well, I hate to turn customers away, but maybe you should have gone up to Raven’s.”

  “Raven’s is good, but we wanted to come here. Just a salad will work for me, how about you, gal?” He looks down at Twila again.

  “Sure, whatever.”

  Nerissa chimes in. “You know me, Ellyn, I’ll eat anything you cook. I couldn’t do it on a daily basis, but when I want to splurge, I want you to be the one doing the cooking.”

  “Well, thanks.” I look back at Twila. “I’m sure I can come up with something besides a salad. Rosa will seat you and I’ll head back to the kitchen. Nice to see you all again.”

  Rosa’s been standing in the background. If she knew about Dr. Becker and Nerissa, she didn’t mention it to me. Didn’t I just tell her to keep me filled in on the local gossip?

  Rosa comes forward with three menus in her hand. “Right dis way, Doctor.”

  I turn back to the kitchen and slip through the swinging doors. “Paco!” I hiss his name. “What can we put together for two vegan dishes?” I think through what’s on our menu for this week. “What about the ravioli with the fresh tomatoes and crisp vegetables?”

  It has to be good. No, it has to be great.

  “They’re cheese raviolis—asiago and romano.”

  “Yes, but we can use the tomatoes and vegetables on something else. Listen, Corners is open until 8:00. Run down there now, and I mean run! Get some polenta. I’ll substitute the polenta for the ravioli and in the meantime, I’ll make them a salad of greens and . . . something. Go, Paco, go!”

  “Si, Bella. I’ll go. But who are we serving? The president?

  “Just go!” I push him toward the back door. The president. Ridiculous. My heart races in my chest—as fast as I hope Paco races to Corners.

  But then, that’s silly. It isn’t as if Dr. Becker hasn’t eaten here before. I take a deep breath and look around for Rosa, but don’t see her.

  Good thing it was just Paco who noticed my . . . my what? My whatever. Rosa would never let me hear the end of it.

  You have taught me that I should come to take food in the way I take medicines. But while I pass from the discomfort of need to the tranquility of satisfaction, the very transition contains for me an insidious trap of uncontrolled desire.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Seven

  Twila

  When I told my mom about meeting Ellyn at the store and wanting to try her restaurant, she seemed surprised. I don’t eat out much. I told her it wasn’t about the food, just that I thought Ellyn was sort of interesting. “Like, intriguing. You know?”

  “She’s engaging. I’ve always enjoyed her when she’s come into the store. I love her restaurant.” She didn’t look up from the cutting board where she was cutting carrots into sticks.

  “Engaging? Yeah, that’s it. So do you want to go?”

  “Of course. Miles mentioned wanting to eat at Ellyn’s again.”

  That time she did look up at me.

  “Mind if I invite him to join us?”

  I did sort of mind. “Um . . . okay. He’s for sure not my doctor anymore, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Let me know when it works for both of you.”

  I met Dr. Becker when my mom was working with him at Corners, putting together a plant-based, cancer-fighting diet for his wife. I’d dropped out of school at that point and had been home for four or five months. He was the one who helped my mom get me diagnosed. Not that she didn’t know what was going on with me—the diagnosis just had to be official to get me into a treatment program. Miles helped her choose the treatment center too.

  I’d like to put that behind
me, but I guess it will always be with me.

  The thought of having dinner with Dr. Becker was sort of weird, but not because he was my doctor. The last time I had dinner with my mom and a man, the man was my dad. That was a long time ago. But still, it was hard not to make that connection.

  “Any word from Dad?” She’d looked up again and I saw the concern in her eyes when I asked her.

  “No, not since the last check he sent for your tuition. Did you hear from him when you graduated?”

  She knew not to ask me about him unless I brought him up. “Yeah, the usual. He wrote Happy Graduation on the memo section of the check, so that was nice, I guess.” I looked at the clock hanging on the wall in the small kitchen. “I’ve got to go. I open this morning.”

  “Did you have breakfast?” The concern was there again—in her eyes.

  “Yeah, I did. Really.”

  “I believe you, Twila.”

  She did, I could tell.

  She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and then came over to put her hands on my face, so that I had to look at her. “I’m sorry about your dad. I wish I could love you enough for both of us—to make up for . . .”

  “Mom, it’s okay. I know.”

  She kissed my forehead. “I’ll see you at the store later. And I’ll give Miles a call and see when he’s free for dinner, then we can compare calendars. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  As I walked out to my car, I thought about the check my dad sent for graduation. I used the money to get my tattoos. Maybe because I knew he wouldn’t approve. Or maybe just because I knew what I wanted and he happened to provide the money.

  It doesn’t matter either way.

  I don’t look old enough to have tattoos or a degree, or so people tell me. My mom says I look twelve but have the maturity of a forty-year-old. She says I was born with wisdom in my eyes—an old soul.

  But, she’s my mom, so, you know.

  When I tell people I’m twenty-six, they laugh and say things like No way or That’s not possible. Someday, I’ll be old enough to take their surprise as a compliment—but now, it makes it hard to do my job—for people to trust me with their health.