Invisible

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  I hope.

  I don’t climb out of the tub until long after the water is tepid. My first step onto the bathmat tells me the bath didn’t do the trick.

  I sigh.

  Maybe it’s time to call Twila and set an appointment to meet.

  Maybe?

  Okay, okay. It is time to call.

  She’s my last hope.

  What is more pitiable than a wretch without pity for himself who weeps over death . . . but not weeping over himself dying for his lack of love for you . . .

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sabina

  It isn’t that I don’t love Antwone. I do. But I find it difficult, at this juncture, to relate to him. I discussed this with Jana, my therapist, before I left. I knew I owed it to myself and to my family to seek help, after all that occurred. And I owed it to my clients to take care of my own emotional health as I was transitioning them into new counseling relationships.

  I am, after all, a professional.

  Jana was helpful, although, my own education and experience far outweigh hers, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t effective. She asked many questions about my relationship with Antwone, but that wasn’t really the issue I was there to address.

  In simple terms, what Jana and I came up with was that, for a time, I’ve lost track of myself, of who I am. Having done so makes it difficult to engage with the person who knows me best—or who thinks he knows me best. My need for distance from Antwone is a symptom of the issue—not the issue itself. Although Jana wanted to unearth deeper reasons for our unsettled relationship, I assured her there is nothing more to uncover.

  Once I heal from the core issue, the presenting symptoms will vanish. That is my professional opinion, not Jana’s. But I haven’t lost all of myself. I still know myself well enough to know what I need. I explained that to Antwone again last night when I called him. He may not understand, but the fact that I called and checked in soothed him. He is respectful of my need for space and wise enough to know it isn’t about him.

  Nor is it all about me.

  I do recognize that as well now. But I lost sight of that in the haze of emotional pain. I also shared that with Antwone last night. He deserves more than I’m able to give him now. But time is a healer. I can’t expect him to put his life on hold for a year while I wait and work toward healing. So my decision, my need for space, comes with risk.

  But I see my shift in thinking—the new awareness that my isolation is keeping me focused on self rather than including others in my thinking and choices. The awareness came again after my long afternoon with Ellyn.

  I take a sip from the mug of coffee I’m warming my hands around.

  Not only are my hands warming, but my heart is thawing as well, I hope. Perhaps it was the laughter, or the natural way in which we connected, or maybe it was Ellyn herself—the warmth that radiates from her. Maybe just her presence broke through a layer of ice encapsulating my heart. My soul.

  I look forward to spending more time with her.

  I get up from the leather chair, my back to the view, and go into the kitchen and rinse my now-empty mug. As I finish rinsing and reach for a towel, something catches my attention outside the window over the sink. Something flits in the pine tree across the street. I stand for a moment trying to see it among the branches, whatever it was that caught my eye. Just as I’m ready to turn away, it darts from the branches, a silhouette against the gray afternoon sky. As it spreads its wings, snippets of a poem taunt me.

  “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!”

  I turn from the sink, turn away from the raven outside the window, but the stanza repeats in my mind.

  . . . bird or devil!

  I stop in the doorway between the kitchen and the bedroom and close my eyes. I see the lines of poetry scrawled across my mind.

  “On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

  Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

  Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

  I open my eyes and walk to the bed, my vision blurs with tears.

  Nevermore

  Nevermore . . .

  I rip the coverlet off the bed, and tear the blankets and sheet back before collapsing across the bed. Tears slip down my cheeks and soon turn to sobs, which rack my body. But the sobs go unheard. They are buried in a pillow.

  They are mine alone.

  There is no balm.

  No comfort.

  Nor will there ever be.

  I am ruined.

  [Friendship] is not possible unless you bond together those who cleave to one another by the love which is “poured into our hearts by the Holy Spirit who is given to us” (Rom. 5:5).

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Sixteen

  Miles

  “How was your coffee date yesterday?”

  I’m sitting across from Nerissa at a table next to the Living Light Café in the old Company Store building in Fort Bragg, where we each ordered a Green Giant, which Nerissa recommended. It’s an acquired taste, I assume.

  “It wasn’t a date. She says she doesn’t date. So it was two friends having coffee together.”

  “So how was your coffee klatch with your friend Ellyn?”

  I chuckle. “It was good. I enjoyed the time.” I lean back in my seat. “I enjoyed her.”

  Nerissa nods and then moves on.

  “Thank you again for dinner the other night. I didn’t intend for you to pay for it when I invited you. But I did appreciate it. I think Twila enjoyed it too.”

  I take another sip of the green drink, shake my head, and then set it aside. “Hold on a minute. Is that it? That’s all you’re going to ask me about the time with Ellyn? I thought female friends pried things out of their male counterparts.”

  Nerissa’s smile reaches her gray eyes. “Ah, so that’s how it is.” She sets her cup on the table and leans forward. “So, Miles, what did your time with Ellyn evoke in you? How did you feel?” She winks.

  “Thank you for asking, Nerissa.” I smile and then turn serious. “It evoked . . . confusion.”

  Her smile fades and is replaced by a look of compassion.

  “What confused you?”

  I look past Nerissa. Sarah and I were together for so long it seemed she most always knew what I was feeling, most of the time she knew what I felt before I did. I’m rusty at putting words to feelings. But then it comes to me and I look back at Nerissa. “For the ninety minutes I was with Ellyn, Sarah only came to mind once or twice.”

  “Are you struggling with guilt?”

  “Maybe. But I know that’s not from God. I think it’s more grief—the idea of moving on.”

  “Moving on won’t diminish your love for Sarah.”

  “I guess not.” I pick up my cup again and put the straw in my mouth and give the Giant one more try. “What is in this?”

  “Greens, celery, ginger—”

  I hold up my hand. “Never mind. It’s good for me.”

  “Would I lead you astray, my friend?”

  I laugh. “No.” I lean forward again. “Look at us, our friendship is easy. I didn’t feel that ease with Ellyn. I enjoyed her, but I don’t think she was at ease.”

  “Our friendship developed naturally—you came into the store looking for help—I was there. And you were going through so much, Miles. You needed a friend. And besides that, our boundaries were clear.”

  “I was married.”

  She nods. “Right. I also needed a friend, someone to help me work through the issues with Twila. You were the natural person to do that. And after Sarah passed, we were and are content to remain friends.”

  I look across at Ner
issa—long dark hair, steel-gray eyes, and milky complexion. No makeup. Simple clothing. She embodies Mendocino’s organic and holistic culture. We didn’t meet women like her in Danville when we lived there. As much as I appreciate her, I’ve never felt more than friendship for her.

  But with Ellyn . . .

  “What are you thinking?”

  I reach across the table and give her hand a squeeze. “I’m thinking how much I appreciate you, gal, and your friendship.” I pull my hand back. “I’m also thinking about Ellyn and what I want.”

  She cocks her head to one side. “What do you want?”

  “I want to get to know her better—spend time with her.”

  “And?”

  “And if we enjoy each other, I want the possibility of more. But, she’s told me twice now that she doesn’t date. She seemed to enjoy our time together too, but . . .”

  “Maybe she’s been hurt. Maybe she needs time.”

  “Maybe. I’m jumping the gun anyway, aren’t I?”

  She smiles and shrugs. “You’re used to knowing what you want and going after it. But you can’t always do that when others are involved. Relationships are best taken one step at a time. Let it unfold, Miles. Let God lead you.”

  I stare at her for a minute and digest her advice. “Thanks, gal, I needed your wisdom.” I take another sip of the Green Giant but it’s hard to get down. “I don’t know how you drink this stuff.”

  She laughs. “I like it. Really.”

  “To each his own, or her own, in this case. About the other night, did you have something more to say about Twila? You thought she enjoyed the time?”

  She seems to weigh her words. “I think she did enjoy it—maybe not having to eat—but the ambiance of Ellyn’s, and getting to see her, and you. It made me think about something and I have a favor to ask of you . . .”

  “You’ve got it, whatever it is.”

  She smiles. “Don’t be so quick to agree. It’s a bit unusual. I wonder if you’d spend some time with Twila—one-on-one?”

  “Is she open to that?” I scoot back from the table and stretch my legs out.

  “I haven’t asked her. Is it dishonest if I just asked you to take an interest in her rather than talk to her about spending time with you?”

  “I am interested in Twila, you know that. She’s a special young woman. I’m happy to spend time with her, but tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Nerissa sighs. “She mentioned her dad the other day—asked if I’d heard from him. I haven’t, nor has she. He’s paid his dues financially, plus some, but he isn’t involved in Twila’s life. I’d like her, before she gets involved with a man, to have a solid male role model in her life.”

  I see her shoulders drop.

  “I want more for her. Someone besides me she can turn to, someone she can depend on. I want to know there’s a wise man looking out for her, especially when she gets involved in a serious relationship, and that’s bound to happen. What I want, is a surrogate dad for her. And I know, Miles, I know, that’s a lot to ask.”

  “Twila already has all of that in her heavenly Father.”

  She nods. “She does. I know that. But how will she embrace those attributes of God—the maleness of God—unless she’s had someone in her life to model those attributes? How can she relate to God as a Father? And how will she know what to look for in a husband?”

  It’s my turn to nod. “I’m honored that you’d ask me.”

  She smiles. “I don’t know a more godly man. I mean that, Miles. I see Jesus’ reflection in you every time we’re together.” She shakes her head. “I’m crazy not to go after you myself.” She grins and winks.

  I reach across the table again, this time taking her left hand in mine. I rub my thumb across the simple silver band on her ring finger. “You’re already committed to Someone else. And I can’t come close to competing with Him.”

  “Yes, and it’s a commitment I’ve never regretted. After my divorce, God made it clear that He was my Husband. You may not be able to compete, but you come closer than any man I’ve ever met and that’s why I’d like you more involved in my daughter’s life.”

  I let go of her hand and lean back in my seat and consider her request. Though, there’s really not much to consider. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll ask Twila to go out for lunch with me or for a walk or something. I’ll see how she responds. But a wise woman told me once that relationships are best taken one step at a time. So I’ll let it unfold. I’ll follow God.”

  Nerissa laughs. “Ah, touché my friend, touché.”

  When I step outside the Company Store building and see the rain, I’m glad I drove today rather than walked the several blocks from my office to meet Nerissa. I have a full afternoon ahead of me—patients who’ll need my complete attention—so I’m grateful for a few minutes to think about Nerissa’s advice regarding Ellyn. Take it one step at a time, let the relationship unfold, follow God.

  That was my original intent. But I was confused—am confused. Now I’m concerned I’ve confused Ellyn too. Well, Lord, You know. I trust You to take even my confusion and mistakes and use them for Your purpose. As I round the last corner and pull into the parking lot of the office, I find myself praying for Ellyn too. Something, I realize, I will continue to do whether or not our friendship progresses.

  I go in the back door of the building and walk past the examining rooms and go straight to my office, where I put my lab coat on over the jeans and oxford shirt I’m wearing. Then I sit at my desk and check the phone messages that Dee, my receptionist, left on my desk.

  I pick up the messages and read through them. The last message, I’m surprised to see, is from Twila. I chuckle. Okay, Lord, I’m following You. I glance at my watch to see if I have time to call her back before my next patient. Then I pick up the phone and punch in the number she left.

  Little by little, Lord, with a most gentle and merciful hand you touched and calmed my heart.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Seventeen

  Twila

  I set my cell phone on the kitchen table and then go to make myself lunch. As I walk toward the refrigerator, the same old fears weigh in my empty stomach. Like, I can feel them there, making me nauseous. Or making me think I’m nauseous. I stop in front of the fridge.

  What’s the deal, God?

  It started again at dinner the other night. The meal Ellyn made for me and Miles was so good. The fear gnawed at me then, too.

  I use one of the tools I learned in recovery and think through things that might have triggered me. Because it’s not about the food.

  So was it the comment Ellyn made when she was in the store? I still don’t know who Twiggy is, but I know it was a reference to my size. At one time, I’d have taken a comment like that as a compliment and encouragement to keep losing weight, or I’d have interpreted it in the opposite way and thought she meant I was fat. Something only another anorexic would get.

  But Ellyn’s comment didn’t bug me. It wasn’t a trigger. I didn’t even think about it again until now. So maybe it was the food this time. Was it just so good that I was afraid I’d lose control?

  I open the fridge and take out the meat substitute I eat, it’s soy-based so it’s rich in protein. I scoop some out of the container I put it in last night after I cooked it with taco seasonings. I put it in a small saucepan and heat it on the stovetop.

  I make a taco salad full of fresh, organic vegetables, baked tortilla chips, black beans, fresh salsa, and the taco “meat.” I take the bowl of salad, set it on the table, and then grab a napkin and fork. When I sit down, I close my eyes.

  “Thank You for this food, and the ability to eat this food. Thank You, God, for creating me in Your image.”

  I push my sleeve up and read: Imago Dei.

  Then I pick up the
fork.

  Miles.

  I hold the fork suspended above the salad. Oh . . . was he the trigger?

  I set the fork back down. Things between my mom and dad started to get bad when I was like eleven or so. Maybe they were always bad and I just got old enough to notice. When I was twelve, he left. Things weren’t all that different after he left—he was gone a lot before then anyway. And even when he was home, he didn’t seem like he was really there, you know?

  During my recovery, I worked with a couple of different counselors, one at the treatment center, and then another one in Fort Bragg when I came home. I still see the counselor in Fort Bragg when something comes up that I can’t figure out, but I’m getting better at applying what I’ve learned. One of the things the counselors helped me figure out was how I felt about my dad. He’s the same as hunger for me, you know?

  When he still lived here, when I still saw him all the time, I wanted to make him happy—to make him like me. Or even love me a little. But it seemed like I could never make that happen. Like I could never get full enough of him.

  Then when he left and I didn’t see him anymore, I couldn’t even try. How can you make someone love you when they don’t even want to see you? I didn’t have any control over it. I couldn’t do anything to make it change. I couldn’t even try to get full.

  That’s when my eating disorder—or ED, as we called it in treatment—took over. I could control what I ate or what I didn’t eat. Fullness and emptiness.

  But I preferred emptiness.

  In my subconscious, I think it represented my dad. It felt like control, but at the same time, I lost control. Ed, as I came to call the disorder, controlled everything I did. But then, I didn’t have to think about my dad anymore. All I thought of was Ed.

  So Ed sort of served a purpose.

  But now, I’m learning to let God fill the space my dad and Ed filled . . . or didn’t fill. Instead of focusing on Ed, I’m practicing focusing on God instead.

  Anyway, having dinner with Miles and my mom reminded me of my dad, which made me hungry—not in a stomach growling way—but in my soul. It made me desire what I can’t have. It triggered Ed.