Invisible Read online

  He watches me for a moment. “Sure, if you’d like to.”

  As I reach for his cup, the muscles knotting in my neck and shoulders pull. Yes, I’d like to—I need to.

  But why?

  That’s not a question I care to analyze.

  In my somber state I did not consider from what fountain came the flow of delightful conversation with friends . . .

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sabina

  I knock on the back door, as Ellyn instructed. It was good to have this on my calendar for today, otherwise I would have stayed in my bathrobe, hidden away in the house. Though the antidepressant is helping some, the dense fog of depression still looms most days. It will take time, I know, until I receive the full benefit of the meds. I may also need to convince Dr. Norman to increase the dosage.

  I stand on the stoop waiting for Ellyn. When it’s clear she isn’t coming, I knock again—louder. This time my knock is followed by the sound of quick steps inside, heading for the door, which opens with a flourish.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I lost track of time.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  She pushes on the screen door separating us and I step back. “No problem. I didn’t stand here long.”

  “Good. Come in. Wow, look how gorgeous you are.”

  I smile at her. “Thank you.”

  “Really, you’re stunning—so exotic. I thought the same thing when I saw you in the doctor’s office.” Ellyn’s smile reaches her green eyes and lights up her face.

  “You’re too kind.”

  “No, I’m not. Listen, come into the dining room and I’ll introduce you to . . . to . . . Well, just follow me.”

  We make our way across her kitchen—the stainless steel countertops and sinks shine, and the tile floors in the kitchen, covered in strategic places with thick rubber mats, are crumb-free. It is a kitchen, I’m happy to see, where the restaurant patrons could eat off the floor if they desired.

  Ellyn pushes through the swinging doors leading to the dining room and then holds them open for me.

  “Sabina, this is Miles Becker—Dr. Becker—Dr. Norman’s partner.”

  Dr. Becker stands from his seat at the table, where it appears they were having coffee. I reach out my hand, “So nice to meet you, doctor.”

  “Please, call me Miles. Nice to meet you too.”

  I look down at the plate of cookies and the empty latte cups. “I hope I’m not interrupting . . .”

  Ellyn’s face blushes a charming shade of pink. “No. Not at all.” Then to Dr. Becker, “Sabina is staying in the village for awhile. We’d planned to get together this afternoon too. I hope you don’t mind. I guess I lost track of time.”

  Dr. Becker glances at his watch then back at me. “Sabina, enjoy your time with this lovely lady. And make sure you have one or two of her cookies.”

  I watch as he looks back at Ellyn.

  “Well gal, thank you for great coffee, great cookies, and great conversation.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Then, after what feels to me like an awkward pause, Ellyn heads to the front door of the café with Dr. Becker in tow. I can’t help but overhear their parting conversation in the intimate space of the restaurant.

  “I’d like to do this again. Maybe dinner next time? We could go somewhere.”

  Ellyn hesitates. I look away and try not to eavesdrop.

  “I don’t—”

  “Date. I remember. Friends?”

  “Friends.”

  I imagine Dr. Becker holding out his hand to Ellyn as they make a pact of friendship. What’s wrong with this woman? She must already have a significant other because that man is gorgeous. And he’s a doctor. I remember what Antwone’s mama told me after he’d proposed: “I hoped one of the girls might marry a doctor, but I hadn’t considered one for my son.”

  She’d laughed at her own joke. I’d laughed along with her, relieved that she understood, as did Antwone, that I would finish the doctorate program, whether single or married.

  Ellyn comes back to the table and begins clearing it. I help her.

  “Sorry about that. I meant to have this done before you came.”

  “No problem. Like I said, I hope I didn’t interrupt.”

  “Interrupt?” She laughs. “No, you saved me.” She picks up the plate of cookies, the napkins, and spoons.

  “How so? He seems like a nice man.” I take the cups.

  “I don’t need a man. That’s all. And for some warped reason, he’s interested . . . or something. I don’t know for sure.”

  I follow her back to the kitchen. “What’s warped about that?”

  She stops and turns and looks at me. “What do you mean? Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Obvious? No.”

  She sets the items she’s holding on the counter and then makes a grand gesture—spreading her arms out, palms up.

  “Oh, because you’re a larger woman?”

  “Thank you. Finally, someone who is truthful. Yes. What’s wrong with a man that he’d be interested in someone who looks like me?”

  I laugh. “Your perspective is skewed.”

  “Mine? What about his?”

  “His is just fine. You’re a beautiful woman.”

  “Ha! What do you know?”

  I square my shoulders and lift my chin a bit. “What do you mean, what do I know?”

  She takes the latte cups I’m holding and sets them on the counter. “You’re gorgeous, tall, slender, elegant. What would you know about my perspective, or his for that matter?”

  “I know plenty.” I put my hands on my hips. “I have a PhD in psychology, I’ll have you know.”

  “Oh.” She puts her hands on her hips too. “Well, then, so you’re Dr. Sabina . . .” She pauses. “Wait, what’s your last name?”

  I smile. And then I giggle. “Look at us, we’re fighting like sisters and we don’t even know each other’s last name. Not only are you beautiful, you’re feisty too.” I point at her. “I like you.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s probably something wrong with you too.” She laughs. “You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?”

  “You bet I am—it’s clear you need a therapist.”

  She shakes her head, still grinning. “Well, you might be right there.”

  Then I get serious. “And you’ll be good for me. I need some laughter in my life.”

  “Why? What’s your problem? C’mon, fess up, we’ve already established my problem.”

  I hesitate and then say as much as I can. “Depression.”

  “Oh.” Concern clouds her eyes. “Well then, we’ll make sure we laugh a lot when we’re together. Deal?”

  I smile again. “Deal. You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think your hostess, Rosa, makes a good match. She’s a wise woman.”

  “Rosa? Oh, don’t get me started on Rosa.”

  “What’s wrong with Rosa?”

  “She’s the one who matched me up with the good doctor.”

  “Like I said, she’s a wise woman.”

  Ellyn holds one hand out flat and then waggles it up and down. “She’s running about fifty-fifty right now. I suspect she was right on with us, but with him?” She gestures toward the dining room. “She’s way off.”

  “Time will tell.” I don’t give her a chance to disagree. “So, are you going to give me a cup of coffee or am I going to have to walk over to Moody’s?”

  Ellyn reaches for two clean cups. “Coffee or latte?”

  “Plain ol’ black coffee, sister. And I think I’ll help myself to a cookie too. They come highly recommended.” I pick up the plate of cookies. “Want
one?”

  “Well, duh! I wasn’t about to eat one in front of him.”

  We both laugh again.

  By the time I leave Ellyn’s the sun has already set and the wind has stilled. The cool, damp air refreshes me almost as much as our conversation and laughter did. I feel lighter as I walk to my car—as though, without asking, Ellyn lifted some of the burden I’ve opted to carry alone.

  I get in the car and see my cell phone sitting on the passenger seat. I pick it up and look at the screen—no messages. Using my index finger, I key in a number and listen as the phone on the other end rings.

  “Sabina?”

  I hear home in Antwone’s voice and all the comfort it should bring.

  “Hi, baby. I thought it was time I checked in.”

  The decayed parts of you will receive a new flowering, and all your sicknesses will be healed (Matt. 4:23; Ps. 102:3).

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ellyn

  For the second night in a row, I lie awake, staring at my bedroom ceiling. But this time it has nothing to do with wind and everything to do with caffeine. What made me think I could drink two cups of coffee late in the afternoon?

  There’s the problem. I didn’t think.

  But, oh joy, I’m thinking now.

  Sabina and I connected like long lost BFFs. We just dove right in. With the exception of my restaurant family, I’m everyone’s acquaintance and no one’s friend. This is a small community and I haven’t pursued close friendships—I’ve put all my time into my business.

  Miles and I connected too. But that doesn’t matter.

  I’m already grieving the day when Sabina returns home. She said she’s here for a year, “more or less.” When I asked her why she’s here, she said she came to heal. I didn’t press for more. I assume she’s healing from her bout of depression. I guess if a counselor can struggle with depression, anyone can struggle with it. Maybe she’ll share more when we’re together again—which is already on the calendar for my next day off—Monday.

  And Miles wants to get together for dinner. I sit up in bed and sigh. What do I do about that?

  Don’t worry about it. He’ll tire of you soon enough. Probably right after you sleep with him.

  Darkness covers me and I reach for my bedside lamp and pull the chain, filling the bedroom with light.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Earl. But I won’t sleep with him.” My voice sounds hollow in the empty house. I throw the covers back and ease my way out of bed and into my slippers. Then I make my way to the kitchen, my joints stiff and creaking. I set the teapot to boil and reach into a cupboard and pull out a box of chamomile tea bags. Maybe a cup of the herbal remedy will help me sleep.

  A couple of cookies couldn’t hurt either. I open the plastic container with the leftover cookies in it and take two out and set them on a napkin.

  I eat the first one while waiting for the water to boil.

  I eat the second one while waiting for the tea to steep.

  I eat the rest of the cookies in the container between sips of tea.

  Way to watch your weight, fat girl. Watch it increase, that is.

  Somewhere in my head, I hear Earl’s familiar laugh.

  Food is my go to.

  I turn to food, and I’m not talking celery sticks, when I’m happy, when I’m angry, when I’m hurting, when I’m bored. And when I’m hungry, of course, but that’s a rare occasion.

  A flaky, buttery croissant will heal any bad mood.

  A dense butter cake with chocolate ganache is perfect when I’m angry. Or when I’m happy. Or depressed. Come to think of it, butter cake is the all-occasion food. The recipe is my mother’s—the one positive thing I’ve received from her.

  Butter cookies when I’m bored—or can’t sleep, it appears.

  Grilled filet mignon, rare, with a pat of butter flavored with lemon juice, shallots, and parsley when I’m hungry. Served with potatoes mashed with cream, fresh garlic, and butter, of course. Along with tender asparagus drizzled with hollandaise sauce—my recipe calls for five ounces of unsalted butter.

  I take the last sip of my tea, get up from the sofa in the living room where I’ve salivated for the last ten minutes while thinking about food, and go back to the kitchen. I set my teacup in the sink and then look out my kitchen window, to the dark headlands. What is it about the middle of the night that makes things seem worse than they are?

  I love food.

  Duh, big girl!

  And my love of food led to a career I love.

  So maybe making some changes in my diet wouldn’t hurt. But, I feel my shoulders droop, how many times have I tried and failed?

  Too many to count.

  Well, maybe Twila can help me, although . . . I don’t want to hope and then fail again, especially with tiny Twila watching. Or maybe I’m just like thorny old Paul who prayed three times asking God to remove the thorn in his side. But God chose not to. Heaven knows this weight issue pokes at me daily.

  So it’s a thorn? A license to sin?

  “No, it’s not a license to sin. Ugh. Earl, don’t you ever shut up? Don’t you sleep?”

  It’s just . . . I sigh. It’s impossible. That’s what it is.

  I walk out of the kitchen, flipping off the light as I do. I am going back to bed and sleeping this time. But once under the covers, annoying thoughts ensure that sleep won’t come any time soon. I might as well give into the thoughts and let them speak their mind.

  Miles wants to see me again. Dinner. As friends.

  I stare into the dark, listening to the sound of the surf, and feel an emotion of some sort crash over me. Great. So what is it?

  Fear?

  Well, sure, fear and men go together in my warped world. But that’s not what I’m feeling now.

  Just friends?

  Disappointment? Is that it? Is that the suffocating emotion that came over me?

  That’s ridiculous.

  It’s relief, that’s all. I’m sure of it.

  Who knows, maybe having a male friend besides Paco will come in handy. Plus, I haven’t visited any of the other local restaurants in awhile and it’s good to keep tabs on the competition. Miles mentioned dinner, so maybe I’ll suggest Cafe Beaujolais or 955 Ukiah. Both are also chef-owned and my strongest competitors.

  Yep, I’m relieved.

  I roll over and pull the covers close around me.

  Now, it’s time for sleep.

  But it is still a long time in coming . . .

  “Wha . . .” I reach out, batting the air, feeling . . . “What . . .” I roll over still feeling for . . . something.

  The phone.

  I close my fingers around it, lift it from the base. “Hel . . . um . . . Hello?” I try to sit up, but instead my head hits the pillow again. “Hel . . . lo?” My voice sounds like I have a throat full of gravel.

  “Ellyn, are you sick?”

  “Um . . . sick?”

  “Bella, are you okay? We were supposed to meet early this morning with the new produce vendor, remember?”

  “Oh no, no I . . . yes . . . but no.”

  “What? Bella, wake up.”

  Again, I try to sit up, but pain pushes me back down. “Paco?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “I’m not . . . feeling well. I’m sorry. You handle the vendor, okay?”

  “No problem. Do you need anything?”

  “No. Just . . . just give me some time. I’ll call you in”—I turn my head and look at the neon blue numbers on the digital clock on my nightstand—“an hour.” Then I hang up the phone.

  I close my eyes again, still on my side after reaching for the phone. My legs ache. My hip burns, as do the arm and shoulder I’m lying on. The sheet
and blanket weigh on the sunny-side-up part of my body, causing it to hurt too.

  I think back to yesterday and last night. Coffee and cookies—caffeine and sugar. I lift my arm, which feels like a bag of cement mix, and put my palm on my forehead. How many cookies did I eat?

  You know better.

  I do know better. I’m so . . . lame.

  I can’t imagine getting out of bed, nor can I imagine staying in bed. There are no good options.

  And there’s no one to blame but myself.

  I set myself up with the caffeine and sugar, which led to the lack of sleep, which only exacerbates the symptoms—or at least they do sometimes. There’s no real pattern. But not even my memory-foam mattress can help me this morning.

  Fibromyalgia.

  The diagnosis I’ve tried to ignore. After all, if I deny it, it will go away. That’s my theory. Or was my theory. I still think the pain just comes from the extra weight on my frame.

  You’re fat; therefore you deserve to hurt.

  I scoot to the edge of the bed, each movement a chore, and then I sort of roll myself into a sitting position. I put my feet on the floor and stand, pushing myself up from the mattress, but my knees buckle under me and I fall back into a sitting position. I look down at my body, searching for the tread marks left behind by the eighteen-wheeler that must have run over me sometime after I fell asleep. Instead, I notice the rolls of fat making my pajama top protrude.

  This morning, I relate to Sabina’s depression.

  I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling until I can no longer stand the pain in my back. Then I sit back up, reach for the phone, and call Paco back.

  “Hey, I’ll be there by noon.”

  “Don’t push. Everything here is under control.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be there by 1:00 at the latest.”

  I won’t give in to this. I hang up the phone and then push myself up, this time using the nightstand as leverage. Once standing, I wait until I feel steady and then edge my way along the bed, letting go only when I’ve run out of mattress to hold on to. I take halting steps to the bathroom, where I’ll soak in a hot tub until the pain eases.