Invisible

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  I sit in my desk chair and put my head in my hands. Lord, how do I handle this? I sit in silence, hoping for an answer. But nothing comes. I’ve learned enough through the years that when God is silent, it’s my cue to hold tight. Do nothing. Wait on Him.

  I sigh and lift my head. When I do, I see the family picture that sits on my desk—Sarah and me with the boys. It was taken the Christmas after we moved into the house and the kids were home for the holiday. I feel the familiar stab of grief. For myself. And for my sons.

  I can’t go through that again, Lord.

  I stand, walk back to the corner of the room, and retrieve my mug. Then I walk out of the study, turning off the light as I go.

  Trust Me.

  I stop in the hallway outside my study, and an image of Ellyn, the way she looked in the kitchen tonight, comes back to me. There, in the dark hallway, in my quiet house, the answer to my earlier question comes to me. How do I handle Ellyn’s weight and potential health issues?

  Simple.

  I don’t.

  Some would disagree. Friends speak truth in love, they’d say. I believe that too.

  But, as a medical professional, I know that just because someone is overweight it doesn’t always mean they’re unhealthy.

  Anyway, Ellyn belongs to God. She’s not mine to fix. That was a hard-won lesson I had to learn with Sarah.

  But I did learn it.

  I trust You, Lord. Strengthen me for whatever You hold in store. I want to follow You with an undivided heart.

  Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

  Pride imitates what is lofty . . .

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Nine

  Sabina

  I wake on Sunday morning after my evening out with pale sunlight streaming through the shutters I forgot to close last night. The room, bathed in gray, is cold. I reach for the robe draped across the foot of the bed, climb out from the warm swathe I’ve slept in, and step into the robe.

  I close the shutters against the dull November sky and then debate: back to bed or to the kitchen for coffee? I look at the digital clock on the nightstand—9:33? Already? I’m sleeping my life away. Not that it matters. I have nothing pressing me to get out of bed. But I am accustomed to rising with the sun.

  Coffee it is. I push my feet into my slippers and walk the few steps from the bedroom to the kitchen. I like the size and floor plan of the rental. The master bedroom, just off the kitchen, is separated from the other two bedrooms, and has a private entrance from the front deck. I could see living here and converting the bedroom into an office, where I could see clients.

  But then my memory wakes and slaps me across the face. I no longer see clients. I work to push the memory back into its state of slumber as I watch a pot of coffee brew. Instead, I let thoughts of last night take over.

  Getting out, I discovered, was a great distraction. Good food, listening to the conversations of others, and even entering conversations myself—with the hostess, whose name I learned is Rosa, and the owner of the café, Ellyn.

  It gave me space to breathe in an environment where daunting memories had no place. The café, the people, were not connected to my former life.

  My former life?

  Is letting go really so simple?

  No. But the escape was good. I will own it and call it what it was, because I’m too smart to fool myself. But sometimes there is a place for escapism—when it can be used as a tool to help transition one’s thinking from an area of hyper-focus to something else. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  One thing I know for certain is that isolation doesn’t help depression. I need people, yet I’ve moved to a place where I know no one. Why? Because I want anonymity. I don’t want to have to explain myself or answer questions. Why aren’t you practicing anymore? What are you doing with your time? Or worse, Rumor has it . . .

  I reach for one of the pottery mugs in the cabinet above the coffeemaker and then fill it. Back in the living room, I turn the iPod speakers on and click my iPod to play Yo-Yo Ma’s Bach: The Cello Suites. I turn the volume low, so the strains of music are an accompaniment to my thoughts rather than the focal point. As I head for the sofa, I recall an article I read not long ago about Bach’s compositions. The author felt there was an emotional detachment about Bach’s music.

  I shake my head at the ridiculous assertion. I wouldn’t be drawn to Bach’s work if I sensed an emotional detachment.

  I settle on the sofa, cradling my coffee. Living here affords me new opportunities. I am free to embark on a new journey—to redefine myself rather than allowing my past to define me. I am still me, Sabina Louise Jackson, PhD. I’m proud of who I am. Those letters behind my name mean something. I worked hard for them. I won’t hide. I’m not using an alias. Instead, I’m looking forward.

  And allowing those I invite into my life to do the same, rather than be waylaid by my history.

  Am I ready to invite others into my life? I don’t know. But ready or not, it’s time. Last night reminded me that I am a people person—one who needs the companionship and conversations of others to enhance my life experience.

  I’ll not only stay depressed if I remain alone, but I’ll go crazy.

  Maybe I’ll call the restaurant this afternoon and see if I can reach Ellyn.

  There’s an ease about her. I noticed it in the doctor’s office too as she spoke to the receptionist. It would be good to have a female friend. How long has it been since I’ve had one? Several colleagues come to mind, but friends?

  I haven’t had time.

  Well, time is all I have now.

  How many kinds of questions there are . . .

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Ten

  Ellyn

  I sidle into a pew in the Mendocino Baptist Church and plop down on the hard wood, so grateful to be where no one can reach me. I pull my cell phone out of my sweater pocket and turn it off, then drop it into my purse. I look around and recognize a few regulars, and what look like a handful of tourists. It’s never a large congregation.

  I settle in for the next hour.

  I may just stay all day.

  I wondered if I could buy you a cup of coffee sometime?

  May I? Call?

  No, you may not call. If you have something to say, say it now. Don’t leave me hanging.

  My part in this imagined conversation changes each time it plays. I say something, anything, rather than offering that nod. I’m a nodding bobblehead. Soon you’ll see my bobbling figurines at drug stores everywhere. You’ll buy them as stocking stuffers for your kids. Bobblehead Ellyn.

  Why didn’t I just say what I was thinking? Most of the time words flow out my mouth before ever going through that flimsy filter in my brain. But last night? No. They were trapped, deep inside. They’re still there too. I didn’t know what to say. Still don’t. I keep turning the options over in my head as the conversation repeats, but I haven’t landed on the response yet.

  If you have something to say, say it now.

  Has Dr. Norman sent you as the bearer of bad news? You don’t have to buy me coffee to soften the blow.

  My eyes widen. Is that it? Did something come back in my lab work that Dr. Norman asked Dr. Becker to tell me about? Did she think it would be easier for me to hear it from him because I was his patient for so long?

  Others around me begin to shuffle. I look down at the end of the pew I’m sitting on and see the woman who was sitting there is now standing and holding a hymnal. Oh. I reach for the hymnal in front of me and stand too. I let it fall open rather than turning to whatever number hymn the pastor mentioned.

  The church is so small that Pastor Cleveland wears all the hats—worship leader, preacher, treasurer, secretary . . .

  I stare at the page of the
hymnal while those around me raise their voices in worship.

  No, Dr. Norman wouldn’t do that. Neither would Dr. Becker. They’re professionals.

  I wondered if I could buy you a cup of coffee sometime?

  Why does he want to buy me a cup of coffee?

  My stomach clenches.

  That’s it. That’s the question I want to ask.

  Why? Why do you want to buy me a cup of coffee?

  What possible reason could you have for wanting to buy me coffee?

  Why?

  His answers come back, rapid-fire.

  Because I just discovered this great pyramid scheme.

  Because Rosa paid me to ask you out.

  Because Nerissa’s not enough woman for me.

  Ha! Yeah right.

  Or . . .

  Because while I was your doctor I forgot to tell you that you’re fat!

  What is it with men? They always make me feel like I’m in trouble.

  I feel a tap on my back, and I turn and see a gray-haired woman motioning me to sit. Besides Pastor Cleveland, I’m the only one still standing in the sanctuary. Oh.

  I sit down and slide the hymnal in its place on the back of the pew in front of me. Then I reach for the bulletin I’d tucked into my Bible. I want to at least look like I’m paying attention.

  Because I find you irresistible.

  “Good one, Earl.”

  “Shhh!”

  The church lady pokes me in the back again.

  Oops.

  Well, at least now I know what I want to say when, or if, he calls.

  Why? Why do you want to buy me coffee?

  Hey, at least I got it settled before the sermon. And that’s what I’d like to say to the biddy behind me.

  Laughter fills the kitchen, as it always does on Sunday afternoons as the staff and their families gather for our weekly Meal and Meet. No one works on Sunday mornings—that’s my policy, but because we serve dinner on Sunday nights, early Sunday afternoon is the perfect time for the family to gather.

  It’s also the time I get to mother them—cook for them, try out new recipes, and spoil them with a scrumptious dessert. Rosa fills us in on new policies or practices, and everyone is free to make suggestions—whether for the menu, the dining room, or kitchen.

  Paco’s little ones have grown up at the rustic rectangular table in the back of the kitchen. And when Rosa’s daughter, Pia, turned sixteen a couple of years ago, she asked to celebrate it at the table in the kitchen. With the family gathered.

  The only thing we allow to disrupt our time is the ringing of the phone. Whoever is closest to it, answers. This is the time of day requests for reservations come in.

  But today, I’m more observer than participant. I serve the food and try to listen and join in, but each time the phone rings, it’s as though a starting pistol goes off and my heart takes off. After about the fourth call, I swear I’ll have a heart attack before the day is over.

  And then it happens.

  “Auntie Ellyn, it’s for you.”

  Rosa is training Pia, who is now eighteen, as a hostess, so she’s answering most of the calls today. She looks at me, her hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Take a message, Pia.”

  She gets the phone as far as her ear again before Rosa rips it out of her hand. Rosa then covers the mouthpiece and hisses, “You expecting a call today—you take it. Now!”

  “You know I can fire you, right? You know I have that power. You do remember who I am, don’t you?” But even as I’m hissing right back at her, I head for the phone. Otherwise, she’ll make a scene. I shake my finger in her face, though, as I take the receiver from her hand.

  I clear my throat. “Hello, this is Ellyn.”

  “Hello, Ellyn, this is Sabina Jackson. We met last night.”

  I sigh, my shoulders relax, and I drop onto the stool near the phone. Rosa, who is still standing next to me, shakes her head and walks away.

  I’m not sure which of us is more disappointed.

  I focus on the phone call. “Sabina, yes, hello.”

  “I wondered if I could buy you a cup of coffee sometime this week.”

  I hesitate. “Do I look caffeine deficient?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. Yes, I’d love to have coffee with you, but you don’t need to buy. Why don’t you just come here one afternoon before we open? We make a good cup of coffee.”

  “I’m sure you do. Coming there would be lovely as long as you wouldn’t rather get away from work.”

  “No. I’m at home here and we won’t have to fight the tourists for a table over at Thanksgiving’s, which, besides Moody’s Coffee Bar, where you have to stand and drink your coffee, is one of the few options.”

  “Perfect. My schedule is wide open. What day works best for you?”

  We set a date and time and I hang up the phone. I glare at Rosa across the kitchen. “You meddling—” The phone rings again and I grab it. “Ellyn’s.”

  “Ellyn? This is Miles Becker.”

  My heart shoots out of the gate again, only this time it seems it’s jumping hurdles.

  “Oh . . . hi.” Brilliant Ellyn, you’re an astounding conversationalist. I get up from where I’m sitting and stretch the phone cord as far around the corner, toward the office, as it will go. Someday I have to join the twenty-first century and invest in a cordless phone for the café.

  “You said to call—” He pauses and chuckles. “Actually, Rosa said to call you today about getting together for coffee. But when I thought through the conversation, I thought I’d better give you an out, rather then let Rosa accept for you.”

  He thought through the conversation? He’s giving me an out? I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

  “What I’m saying is that now’s your chance to tell me you don’t drink coffee.”

  “Oh, um . . .” Wait, I know what to say! “I drink coffee. I do. But your invitation confused me. Would you mind telling me why you’d like to get together for coffee?” There. Well said. I wait for his response.

  And wait.

  “I’m sorry. Your question threw me.”

  Trying to come up with a good excuse to cover for the pyramid scheme?

  He chuckles again. “I guess I’m out of practice. And, to be honest, I’m somewhat confused myself.”

  “Out of practice? I don’t understand.” Why is he confused?

  He clears his throat. “Ellyn, it’s been more than thirty years since I’ve asked a woman out. I’m rusty, I guess.”

  He’s asking me out?

  “I’d like to get to know you better. I’ve enjoyed our conversations through the years . . . and I’d like to spend some time with you. It may lead to an enjoyable friendship.”

  He just wants to be friends?

  As he talked, I turned myself in circles, for some reason, and now the phone cord is wrapped around my knees. Which, might be good, as I think it’s the only thing holding me upright.

  “Ellyn? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m here. But, I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m tangled—” I turn circles in the opposite direction and untwist the cord, and then step out of the last spiral. “I was tangled in the . . . cord.” I’m stalling. I’m the one who’s confused now.

  “I’m . . . I’m flattered.” I am? “But, what about Nerissa? I thought . . .” I don’t give him a chance to answer, I keep rambling. “Anyway, I don’t . . . date . . . I mean, not that you’re asking—”

  Rosa comes whirling around the corner mouthing something.

  “What . . . Dr. Becker, excuse me for just a moment.” I put my hand over the receiver. “Rosa, what? I’m on the phone.”

  “If
you don’t say yes to dat man, then I quit.”

  “You can’t quit, Rosa. Save the drama for someone else.”

  “Oh, I can quit.” She unties the apron she’s wearing and pulls it over her head. “You jus’ watch!” Then she throws the apron at my feet.

  I jump back, more from her anger than her apron.

  She stands there, all 5' 2" of her, with her hands on her hips and her black curls bouncing. “What’s it going to be, Chica? It’s your choice.”

  I sigh and shake my head, then put the phone back up to my ear. “I’m sorry, Dr. Becker—”

  “Please, it’s Miles.”

  “Miles . . .”

  Rosa glares at me.

  “As I was saying, I don’t really date. But a cup of coffee with a friend would be nice.” I stick my tongue out at Rosa.

  I then have the same conversation with Dr. Beck—I mean, Miles—that I had with Sabina. I invite him to the café on Wednesday afternoon.

  When I hang up, I’m so angry with Rosa that I want to put my hands around her little neck and . . .

  “Whoa, you stop!” She turns and runs.

  “Rosa!” I follow her back into the kitchen where I see her standing behind Paco. “How could you? You have no business—I need to set some boundaries with you. I can do that. I can set boundaries. I have a book on just that topic. Somewhere.”

  Paco holds up one hand. “Bella, she has your best interest at heart. We all do. Dr. Becker is a good man.”

  “You told Paco?” Then I turn and look at the rest of those gathered around the table. All eyes are on me. “You told them all? Rosa . . .” My anger starts to wane as Paco shakes his head.

  “We love you, Bella. We want the best for you.”

  “What makes you all so sure a man is what’s best for me? I know what’s best for me. I’m free to make those decisions myself. Anyway, he just wants to be friends.”

  Right?

  Rosa comes out from behind Paco—a look of contrition on her face. She comes toward me and then takes one of my hands in both of hers.

  “I sorry, Ellyn. You right. You free to make choices yourself. I shouldn’t meddle.” She looks at the floor as she speaks.