Invisible Page 5

  I grew up hanging around Corners of the Mouth and listening to my mom talk about the benefits of whole foods, herbs, minerals, and supplements. She quoted Hippocrates daily. Let food be thy medicine . . .

  Kind of ironic, when I think about it.

  Nutrition is part of my genetic makeup, I think. But I didn’t follow my mom’s path without exploring first. She believed that if she let me go, like a butterfly, I’d come back.

  Which I did.

  I left home after I graduated from high school and went to UCSC—University of California, Santa Cruz. It felt the most like home—but away from home. I fit there.

  Even though there were similarities to where I came from—there were differences too. My mom wasn’t there. I was free to explore other life paths, and other belief systems. I watched and listened and checked things out on my own.

  I explored Paganism, a belief in gods other than the one true God. I had friends who worshipped the god of the moon—the god of the sea. I was drawn to worshipping creation because of its beauty, but each time I tried to put my mind on the god of the sea, all I could think of was the One I knew who created the sea.

  So that year, I accepted, on my own, my mom’s belief in Jesus and the truth of one God. But the Bible also was responsible for the personal philosophies I’m trying to live by now. Some of those philosophies are my own—rather than my mom’s.

  I’m not, like, big on limiting people with labels: evangelical, environmentalist, liberal, conservative, fat, thin, or . . . anorexic. Though it’s taken me awhile to get past the fat and thin labels. But I began labeling myself as a vegan that year because it’s a word people recognize. For me it’s about a belief system, not a label.

  Like when I read in Genesis that humans didn’t begin eating meat until after the flood—I thought, whoa . . . we were originally created for a plant-based diet? Meat was God’s provision for sure, but maybe not His original intent? I’m not sure.

  Anyway, meat is hard for me to eat.

  But then . . . a lot of things are hard for me to eat.

  Funny thing is, since coming back, I’ve developed this . . . sense. I saw too many hurting people, especially when I did my stint at an in-house treatment facility. But a lot of hurting people come into Corners of the Mouth too. Usually after they’ve tried everything else. You know, when their doctor can’t help them.

  When they’re desperate.

  So . . . about this sense. I believe God’s called me to help. He’s given me a heart—and the experience—to help people in pain. I may not feel their physical pain in my body, but I feel their pain in my spirit. It’s kind of hard to explain. But it’s like it makes my heart bleed.

  And I don’t just sense their physical pain—I get their emotions too. Emotional pain and physical pain go together. One breeds the other. If you begin with emotional pain and don’t resolve it, it manifests in the body.

  That’s what happened to me.

  And if you suffer from physical pain, your emotions often follow along. But I find people are more willing to open up and talk about their physical pain. It’s like a doorway to their emotional pain, right? That’s why I reference the Augustine quote about physical pain being the greatest evil—people can relate to that and then, a lot of times, they’ll open up. But they hold their emotional pain closer, keep it hidden longer.

  If I’ve learned anything from my own experiences, it’s that, most of the time, emotional pain is based in shame. And people don’t want to go there.

  I get that.

  All too well.

  It’s like when I met Ellyn at Corners. She smiles, but she’s in pain. She didn’t say that. But I know. See . . . that’s what I mean about it being hard to explain. I just know. Sometimes I even know it before they do.

  Weird. But that’s just how I’m wired. My mom says it’s a gift.

  I’m still deciding.

  “Twila? Are you with us?”

  My mom’s question—and the hint of concern in her eyes—pulls my thoughts back to the table, where we’re all sitting. I smile and nod. “Sure, Mom.” But we both know . . .

  For the most part, I’m just an observer here.

  I eat all of my salad—organic greens, roasted beets, pistachios, and a dressing of olive oil and black fig balsamic vinegar—while listening to my mom and Dr. Becker catch up.

  Dr. Becker tries to include me in the conversation, but I just want to listen. He seems to get that after the first several minutes.

  I watched him watch Ellyn when she walked back to the kitchen. He ran his hand through his hair as he watched her. She’s the reason he wanted to come here. Just one of those things I know—or at least suspect. I know him well enough to know that he only does that thing with his hair when he’s uncertain.

  My mom probably knew his reason for wanting to come, but she wouldn’t tell me. She’s a trustworthy friend.

  She became friends with Dr. Becker during Mrs. Becker’s illness. My mom already knew Mrs. Becker from the store, but she didn’t meet Dr. Becker until he came to her seeking a nutritional plan for his wife. By that time, it was already too late, but maybe the diet made him feel like he was doing everything he could.

  After Mrs. Becker died, I sort of hoped maybe Dr. Becker would ask my mom out, like when the time was right. But then I realized the time would never be right for my mom. She says God is her husband now. But that’s okay. I respect her decision.

  After our salads, Ellyn brings our dinners out to our table herself. She sets plates in front of each of us, and Dr. Becker and I look at each other and smile.

  He looks from me to her. “Ellyn, this looks great.”

  I look up at her standing next to the table. Her face is flushed—from the heat of the kitchen, I’m guessing—and she looks, like, radiant. Her long red hair is pulled back but there are little ringlet curls around her face, and her light green eyes shine. I only sort of notice her size, which is another sign that I’m getting better.

  I can see why Dr. Becker might, you know, be drawn to her even though she’s large. Like my mom said, she is engaging. She’s someone you just want to get to know. She’s like that saying, larger than life. I can think of her that way and not let her size bother me. “Wow, Ellyn, this smells really good. Thanks for coming up with something vegan for me.”

  “No problem. You know, Twila, I’ve meant to get some vegan offerings on the menu. Maybe we could sit down sometime and you could help me create a few menu ideas.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course, if that’s something you’re interested in doing.”

  I look at my plate and nod. “I’m not, I mean, I don’t eat . . .” I hesitate. “I’m not like a foodie or anything, but I could give you ideas of ingredients to use. I’d like that.”

  “Then we’ll do it soon.”

  “Nice.”

  I see my mom wink at Ellyn. My mom’s just like that, always grateful and always ready to share her gratitude.

  Dr. Becker picks up his fork and digs into polenta with what looks like a sauce of crushed tomatoes, fresh vegetables, and herbs.

  “Mmm . . . Ellyn, this is fantastic! This is vegan? I knew I needed to come back here.”

  Ellyn smiles, her eyes shining at Dr. Becker.

  “Thank you.”

  Then she seems to get serious. “Dr. Beck—I mean, Miles, I hadn’t heard about your wife until recently. I’m so . . . sorry.”

  He sets his fork down. “Thank you, Ellyn. That means a lot. It’s been two years now and, like I told you the last time I saw you, it’s time to start living again.”

  She nods and smiles at him. Then she looks at all of us. “Well, I better get back to the kitchen. Enjoy your dinner. Thanks again for coming in.”

  “Thanks, Ellyn.” My mom blows her a kiss.

&
nbsp; I take the first bite of the dish Ellyn made, and my mouth savors the fresh flavors. The polenta is perfect—not too crisp on the outside, and creamy on the inside.

  It is so good.

  I mean it’s really good.

  So good that it scares me.

  I set my fork down and look around the restaurant, trying to distract myself.

  I notice an African American woman sitting at a table near a window. I loved the cultural diversity at UCSC. The woman looks up and sees me looking at her. She looks away without smiling back, like I made her think of something unpleasant. But all I can think about is the food in front of me. The scent makes my mouth water.

  I turn back to my plate and take another small bite. And then—

  I set my fork down and scoot back from the table. Just like a half inch or so, but enough that I see my mom notice. Oh, please, don’t say anything, please . . .

  Instead, she motions to someone behind me, and then the hostess appears next to our table. “Rosa, could we get a box to go—we’ll never finish all of this.”

  “I be right back with boxes. No problem.”

  Once Rosa is gone, my mom glances at me and picks up her fork and continues eating. And then Dr. Becker puts his arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. He doesn’t say anything, just sits there with his arm around me and takes another bite of his dinner.

  Something, whatever it is, makes it hard for me to swallow the lump in my throat.

  And it has nothing to do with the food.

  Enable me to love you with all my strength that I may clasp your hand with all my heart.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Eight

  Miles

  After I drop Nerissa and Twila off, I set off for the twenty-minute drive home—Highway 1 through Fort Bragg, and then about ten minutes north, where Sarah and I built our home seven years ago. It was always Sarah’s dream to have a house overlooking the ocean. I’m grateful God allowed me to fulfill her dream before she died.

  We didn’t buy the property or build the house on income from my Fort Bragg practice. The money came from my practice in Danville. I practiced there for nineteen years. That’s where we lived after we married, where we raised the boys. But once the boys left home, we decided to make a change that suited us both.

  Sarah got her house on the ocean, and I found a community where I could practice medicine the way I wanted to—offering care to the residents of a community whether they could pay for that care or not.

  In Danville, I was contracted with an HMO and I had to adhere to their guidelines. It wasn’t unusual for me to see twenty-five patients in a single day, which meant no patient received more than about ten minutes of my time. That didn’t suit me. I believe practicing medicine is as much about relationship as it is about treatment. But I knew what I was doing would facilitate what I wanted to do down the road.

  And now, here I am. I love what I do, but I need some time—time to focus on what I want now. On my next step. Not professionally. But personally. That’s why I brought in Courtney—Dr. Norman. It’s time to build more friendships—male and female. I didn’t take time to do that when I set up the new practice. Besides, I had Sarah. She was my best friend, I didn’t feel the need for more. Which, in retrospect, wasn’t fair to her.

  Nerissa is about my only friend in Mendocino County. I appreciate her. Sure, I have acquaintances, but I want more than that.

  As I drive the dark stretch of highway, my mind goes back to what I witnessed tonight. After we finished dinner, I asked Rosa if I could say a quick good-bye to Ellyn. Rosa took my arm and led me back to the kitchen, leaving Nerissa and Twila waiting at the table.

  “You go on back.” Rosa all but pushed me toward the kitchen. “She won’t mind.”

  So I walked through the swinging doors into the kitchen—and stopped. No one noticed I was there, so I stood and watched.

  Ellyn. In her element.

  As witty and quick to speak as she is, I’ve noticed a reserve about her—when in my office, or when making the rounds in the dining room of the café. But in her kitchen—her place of comfort, I’d guess—that reserve was gone.

  Though everyone in the kitchen hustled, Ellyn bantered back and forth with her staff. There was no tension in their busyness, just ease—the type of camaraderie you see between those who work together and enjoy what they do.

  But then Ellyn spied me, and the shadow of reserve, at least that’s what I thought it was, returned. I saw her sous chef notice the change in her, and then he looked my direction too. I raised my hand and waved at her. “I just wanted to say good night. Thanks for another great meal. It had been too long.” I had to speak up to be heard over the clamor of the kitchen.

  She’d smiled and nodded. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  I turned to go, but I knew I’d kick myself later, so I turned back. She was still looking at me. “I wonder if . . .”

  Her whole staff was listening in.

  She must have sensed my discomfort because she set the knife she had in her hand on the countertop and walked toward me. I wiped my palms on my slacks as she made her way across the kitchen.

  When she got to me, she looked at me, eyebrows raised, those green eyes curious. I felt my heart rate increase.

  “I”—Good grief. My voice hadn’t cracked like that since puberty!—“I wondered if I could buy you a cup of coffee sometime?”

  “Oh . . .”

  It was her turn to hesitate.

  “Um . . . I—”

  “—she love to have you buy her coffee. You jus’ call her tomorrow.”

  Ellyn and I both turned to see Rosa, or at least what was visible of her on the other side of the swinging doors. Then she pushed her way in.

  “You come now. She got work to do.” And to Ellyn: “He call you tomorrow.”

  I looked back at her as Rosa led me out. “May I? Call?”

  She looked blank—no expression on her face that I could read—but she gave a slow—and what? uncertain?—nod.

  But it was enough. I smiled at Rosa on my way out. “Thanks.” I gestured toward the kitchen.

  “You make sure you call her. And you be nice to her. You want me on your side. Si?”

  “Si.” I laughed, and then bent and dropped a kiss on Rosa’s cheek. “I definitely want you on my side.” She’d swatted at my arm and giggled. “You go. Go home, Mr. Doctor.”

  I smile now as I pull into the long, paved drive leading to the house. I reach for the remote on the center console and punch a button. The garage door rises and the lights in the house come on. I knew there would be nights when I’d be at the hospital and Sarah would be coming home from somewhere alone. I never wanted her to walk into a dark house.

  When I enter the house, I hear chatter from the television in the great room. I set the TV to come on with the lights after Sarah was gone. I don’t like walking into a silent house. But tonight, I go straight to the great room and turn the TV off. Then I head to the large kitchen and fill a mug with boiling water from the instant hot spigot on the kitchen sink, and take a tea bag from a canister on the granite kitchen countertop. I drop the bag into the water and watch it steep.

  Nerissa’s comment tonight, after Twila had gone into their house, passes through my mind: “I think Sarah would approve of you getting to know Ellyn.”

  I didn’t tell Nerissa that I knew she was right, Sarah would approve—had given her approval, in fact.

  Exploring a friendship with Ellyn is all I’m ready for. I chuckle as I take the tea bag out of my mug. “Then why’d you feel like a junior higher when you asked her out for a cup of coffee, ol’ boy?”

  I take my tea to my study and sit in the brown leather chair in the corner of the wood-paneled room. I put my feet up on the ottoman and then slurp the hot t
ea—a nighttime habit I picked up from Sarah.

  The tea, not the slurping.

  Now, in the still of the room, I consider the topic that’s bothered me for awhile.

  Ellyn’s weight.

  The issue isn’t her looks. She’s a beautiful woman. Period. My concern isn’t whether or not I could find her attractive. Truth be told, I already do. Have since I first met her in my office. Of course, it wasn’t something I dwelled on—it just was and is a fact. She’s an attractive woman—inside and out.

  So am I hoping for more than friendship? I don’t know. The idea is still so new to me.

  In our doctor/client relationship, Ellyn and I discussed her weight. Until the last year or so, her numbers were always good. Low cholesterol, low blood pressure, and normal blood sugar levels. The only time her weight came up was when she asked about it. Did it impact the arthritis developing in her feet and back? Did it affect the recent diagnosis of fibromyalgia?

  I was honest with her—yes, her weight may exacerbate the symptoms of those diagnoses. Otherwise, her weight didn’t seem like much of an issue.

  But now . . .

  I’m not looking at her from a medical standpoint anymore. If we become friends, or more—especially if we become more—how will I handle the issue of her weight? I set the mug on a coaster on the side table next to the chair and push the ottoman out of the way.

  I get up from the chair and pace. Time to face the real question: Am I willing to risk my heart with a woman who might face potential serious health issues because of her weight?

  Your heart is Mine, Miles.

  Yes, Lord. But can I let myself care about her, if . . .

  Could I talk to her about it? Ask her to consider the future ramifications of her weight? Why hadn’t I done that as her doctor? Why hadn’t I suggested she lose weight? Maybe I could talk to Courtney, she’s her doctor now, and make certain she’s having those conversations with her.