“You can try it. There are still a lot of choices—legumes, grains, all fruits and vegetables, vegan breads. You could even gain weight if you ate enough.”
I take a sip of my tea and grab a cookie. “What if I cut out sugar too?” I take a bite of the cookie.
“Cutting out sugar is always good—refined sugar anyway. It’s, like, one of the worst things for us. Especially high fructose corn syrup, you know?”
I nod.
“You said you have osteoarthritis and fibromyalgia, right? So, like, an anti-inflammatory eating plan would be great for you. Inflammation screws up a lot of stuff in the body—it’s tied in with pain, right? So if you can limit inflammation, you can help relieve pain.”
“Really?”
She nods and then glances at the cookies again.
“Honey, are the cookies bothering you?” I reach for the plate and slide them my way.
She doesn’t respond, but her gray eyes look like storm clouds—there’s something there I can’t read. In my usual fashion, I start to fill in the silence, but something holds me back. Divine intervention is about the only thing that stops my mouth, so I wait out the silence.
“Um . . . remember that day in the store when you said that all people have to do is look at you to see what you see in the mirror?”
I nod.
“And I said it doesn’t always work that way?”
“Right, which, to tell you the truth, I didn’t really understand. How can it not work that way? I’m fat. I see it in the mirror. Others have to see it too. Oh, is that why the cookies bother you? You’re afraid you’ll end up looking like . . . me?”
That’s what she’s thinking, Tubby.
“No . . . that’s not what I meant. It’s just that . . . well, you think I’m thin or twiggy or whatever, but . . . when I take my clothes off and look into a mirror? I see fat. Like, that’s all I can see, is fat on my body. So . . . then the cookies sort of scare me. Like what if I ate one and then got fatter, you know?”
The weight of Twila’s confession sits on my chest. “Twila, I do know. I understand that feeling. Unlike you, I gave into it long ago and I guess I eat too much now.” I have to force those last few words past the lump shame has planted in my throat. But if admitting that will help Twila, it’s worth it. “But, honey, how can you look in the mirror and see anything but a petite, lovely, young woman?”
She shrugs. “I don’t look in the mirror much anymore. But maybe it’s the same with you. Like, you look into a mirror and see someone who’s overweight, but I look at you and I think you’re great. You’re pretty and smart and funny. All of that makes up what you look like to other people.”
I feel heat rising from my neck to my face, and I’m tempted to look away, but I work to maintain eye contact with Twila. I want to respect and even return her level of vulnerability, if I can. “Thank . . . you. But you really are thin, and you see fat. I really am fat, and I see fat. So . . .”
“But maybe like me, that’s all you see?”
I shift in my chair. “Oh.”
“And there’s, like, so much more to you than that. Just like there’s more to me than what I see.”
“How’d you get so wise, girly?”
She smiles. “Therapy. Lots of it. I was in an in-house treatment center for a while too. I saw a counselor every day there.”
“Really? Wow.” I smile too. “Well, I guess it worked.”
“Sort of. I still have work to do. I’m applying what I’ve learned, but like, sometimes it’s still so hard. The whole eating thing.”
“So you have an . . . eating disorder?”
“Yeah, anorexia. But I’m not big on labels, especially that one, but . . . yeah. I’m getting better though. Especially about telling people so they’ll understand me. And better about confronting fears. Like, I mean, who’s afraid of cookies? That’s just weird, right? But if I don’t tell you, then it makes the fear feel bigger.”
“Huh . . . you’re so brave. I wish I had your courage.” My admiration for Twila grows each time we’re together.
“I’m just learning how to live a healthy life. I did the same thing with Miles this week, too. I had to tell him about a fear. Now, he wants to help me.”
At the mention of Miles’s name, I sense my face coloring again. I lift the mug of tea to my lips, hoping Twila won’t notice the feelings I’m wearing on my face. Although if she could identify the feelings for me, it might help. I take a sip. “How does he want to help?”
“He wants to help me overcome one of my triggers. I figured out that having dinner with him at your place the other night sort of triggered my eating disorder. It reminded me of . . . my dad. Which, I don’t know, just sort of set things off. So he asked if maybe I’d eat with him again and we could, you know, like work through it or something. He’s just like that—he cares about people.”
I tuck away what she says and know I’ll think about it later. “So are you going to do it—eat with him again?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard. It brings up stuff I don’t really want to deal with. I told him I’d pray about it. And he’s doing the same thing. So I guess I’ll let God, like, weigh in on it.” She smiles. “No pun intended. I just mean if I feel like that’s what God wants me to do, then I’ll do it. He’s the one healing me, you know?”
I nod like I know because I do—in theory at least.
“Wow, sorry, I didn’t mean to talk all about me. I just wanted you to know that I sort of get some of what you feel. It’s different. But it’s sort of the same too.”
Tears fill my eyes. “Thank you for sharing that with me. You’re so . . . honest, and . . . vulnerable, and wise, and brave. You really are. Do you know that?”
It’s her turn to blush. “I don’t know. I’m just . . . me.”
“Well, just you is pretty great.”
“Thanks.”
We go on to talk more about health issues, and a specific eating plan, and her work at Corners, and my work at the café. We talk and talk and talk, and as we do, my heart opens and creates a spot just for Twila.
“So, you think the vegan thing is okay for me to try?”
“Sure, if you want to.”
I hear a knock on the front door and look at my watch and gasp. “Oh, I can’t believe it’s so late! I didn’t even notice the sun setting.”
“Me either.”
I hop up from the table. “It’s . . .” I swallow. “. . . Miles.”
Twila follows me toward the living room and front door. “Nice. So you’re seeing him again?”
“Well, sort of, I mean, we’re just friends.”
“Friends are good.”
I stop just short of the front door and look back at Twila. “You know what, girly? Friends are good. And I feel like I made a new one today. Thank you.”
She smiles. “Yeah, me too. Thank you for . . . like . . . everything.”
Miles knocks again. “Oh, I better—” I point to the door, and then take the last two steps and open it.
I was violently overcome by a fearful sense of shame . . .
Saint Augustine
Chapter Twenty-One
Ellyn
As I reach for the door, I notice my hand shaking. Oh my. I open the door and there stands Miles. His French-blue dress shirt matches his eyes, and his salt-and-pepper hair looks mussed, as though he’s just run his hand through it. My heart betrays me as it flutters in my chest.
“Miles . . . hi. Come in. Twila’s here—we weren’t paying attention to the time.” I turn to Twila. “We didn’t even talk about recipes. We need to do that still, so another time?” I’m rambling. I know it, but I can’t seem to stop. I look back at Miles. “You know how it is when women get together, we just talk and talk. Twila’s a sweetheart, isn’t sh
e? So it’s cold out there. Twila, do you have your coat? I better grab a coat for myself, although, really, I’m fine without one. But . . .”
I stop to take a breath, and then notice Miles is holding a small gift bag stuffed with pale green tissue.
Miles has stood there, watching me talk, a crooked smile on his face. Now that I’m taking a breath, he walks over to Twila and puts an arm around her shoulder and gives her a squeeze. He hangs onto the gift bag in his other hand. “Hey gal, good to see you. Sounds like you’ve had a nice afternoon together.”
He looks from Twila to me.
“Yeah, we did. Isn’t her place great?”
Miles looks around the living room and then to me. “It looks like you—warm.”
“Thank you.” I am warmer than he knows—I feel like a peri-menopausal hot flash has me by the throat. I loosen the scarf around my neck. A coat? Who am I kidding?
“Well, I better head out.” Twila puts her coat on.
Oh, how I wish she’d stay. “No rush, honey.”
She shrugs. “You guys have plans and my mom’s expecting me for dinner.” Then she turns to Miles. “Um, I’m still praying, you know?”
He nods. “Me too.”
“So, like, I’ll call you soon, if that’s okay?”
Miles puts his arm around her again and smiles. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
Twila heads toward the front door, then stops and turns back to me. “Hey, thanks for everything.” Then she gives me a hug. Wow. It’s quick, but I know it’s significant.
“I’ll call you. We have unfinished business.”
She smiles at me and her face lights up, making the dark thorns look out of place. “Yeah, we do. Call anytime.”
She grins at Miles. “Have fun tonight.”
“We will. You take care.”
I close the door behind Twila and wish I could just stand there with my face to the door and my back to Miles, but how dorky would that look? I turn back to him and smile.
He holds the bag out to me. “Here, I brought you something.”
I’m certain a flock of fowl have taken up residence in my chest. I picture feathers flying as I take the gift bag. “Oh, you didn’t . . . you shouldn’t . . .”
“Open it.”
I look at him. “Oh. Okay.” I pull the pale tissue out of the bag and reach inside and take out a small box that’s heavier than it looks. I set the bag and tissue aside and take the lid off the box. “Oh . . .” I smile at him.
“It’s the color of your eyes.” His voice is low. “Sea-glass green.”
I swallow and try to respond, but I’m sure there’s a feather stuck in my throat. Instead, I pick up the piece of sea glass that’s shaped like a rock, and focus on the word etched into the glass: Friends. I will myself to look back at Miles. “Thank you.” I nod. “Really.”
“You bet. So, are you hungry?”
“Hungry? Well, look at me? What do you think?”
Brilliant, Ellyn.
“Me, too. I’m starved. Shall we go?”
I shake my head. “Just give me a minute, okay? I want to . . .” I point to the stairs. “I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”
“Sure. Take your time.”
I take the piece of sea glass and set it on the coffee table in the living room, and then tuck the box back into the bag with the tissue and take it with me. I climb the stairs to my room, praying he isn’t watching my big back end as I go. Once up the stairs, I drop the bag and box on my nightstand and then go to the bathroom where I brush my teeth, dust my face with powder, and touch up my lip-gloss. I do the powder and gloss by braille, avoiding the mirror.
My hands shake as I try to screw the lid back on the lip-gloss.
I swish some mouthwash around in my mouth, spit into the sink—and then I take a deep breath and go back downstairs.
Miles’s eyes shine as he talks.
We’re seated at the corner table in the Garden Dining Room, overlooking Café Beaujolais’s garden. It’s lit on this dark night with soft, white lights along the garden pathways. I listen as he tells me about his sons, whom I picture as younger versions of him. While I listen, I also notice how thick his hair still is and how he has permanent smile lines near his eyes and mouth—noticeable only when he’s serious. I also take note of how well his shirt fits and, again, how the color sets off those blue eyes of his.
Smitten, big girl?
I pick up my menu and glance at the offerings. My stomach, usually growling, is knotted and silent. I run through the House Apertifs, Appetizers, Entrees, and Desserts.
“What do you recommend, Chef Ellyn?”
“Oh.” Nothing registered as I read the menu—I was too caught up in thoughts of him. But then, I check the menu online often to make certain my seasonal offerings are unique, so I should be able to come up with something. “Well”—I do a fast search—“the braised beet salad is always good, if you like beets, and for an entrée, how about the escargot gratin or the seared fois gras?”
He clears his throat. “Those sound . . .” He looks up at me and his eyes crease into a smile. “Horrible. Sorry.”
I laugh. “I set you up. And you don’t have to apologize, I’m not the one cooking tonight.”
“Do you enjoy either of those?”
The disgust on his face makes me laugh again. “They’re an acquired taste. I had escargot for the first time when I was in school, in Paris, and they really are good. But then how can anything swimming in garlic butter be bad?”
“It’s a snail swimming in garlic butter.”
We both laugh again. We chat over the menu and make our choices. After the waiter leaves, Miles leans back in his chair. He seems so relaxed that he almost puts me at ease.
“It was great to see Twila with you today.”
“Really? Why?” I take a sip of my water.
He looks at me and cocks his head to one side as though he’s sizing me up.
She’s a size jumbo.
I shake my head.
“You okay?”
“Oh, yes . . . it’s just. Nothing. I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
He leans forward. “You’re special, Ellyn. You’re warm, accepting, funny.”
I pull the scarf loose around my neck again and take another sip of my water.
“Twila needs good people in her life.”
“Oh, well, thank you. But, you’re the one who is really good for her. She told me about her struggle, and your offer to help her work through some things.”
“I’m glad she told you about the anorexia.”
“You know”—I put my hand over my heart—“she’s so dear. I learned a lot from her today. Not just about nutrition.” I wave my hand. “That was the least of it.”
“What else?”
I pause as I search for the right words. “I learned some things about myself. Funny, but . . . we have more in common than you might think.”
He waits for me to elaborate.
“We look like polar opposites. She’s young, I’m not. She’s brunette, I’m not. She’s skin and bones. I’m . . . not. Which is no surprise to you, Dr. Becker, after all, you know how much I weigh.” I have a strong desire to pull the tablecloth up and over my head. Why do I remind him?
You think he’s forgotten? C’mon, Chubs, all he has to do is look at you.
I look around. When will our order arrive? I need to stick a steak in my mouth to shut myself up.
“Ellyn . . .”
I look back at him.
“I’m not your doctor anymore. I’m your friend. But I’m also a man. One who thinks you’re beautiful.”
“I . . . I . . .” Forget the steak, his comment shuts me up. He must be kidding, right?
“
Here are your salads. Madame.” The waiter sets the braised beet salad in front of me and the same in front of Miles. “May I get you anything else?”
I shake my head, pick up my fork, and dig in. Before I take my first bite, I look at Miles and smile. “Saved by the salads.”
When Miles pulls into my driveway after dinner, the flock of nervous chickens in my chest take up their fluttering again, though I don’t know why. This doesn’t happen when Sabina drops me off, and Miles is a friend just like Sabina. There’s no difference. Friends. That’s all. Nothing more.
Really.
“Ellyn?”
“Oh. What? Did you say something?”
He chuckles. “I said maybe next time we can check out 955 Ukiah or Raven’s.”
“Next time?” He wants to do this again? Oh, no. Oh, yes. Oh, no. Oh, dear. “Raven’s doesn’t use butter in any of their dishes.”
He laughs. “So Raven’s is out?”
“Definitely.”
“I enjoyed the evening, Ellyn. Thanks for joining me.”
“I enjoyed it too.” As I say it, I realize it’s true. I had a wonderful time—and I’m not sure what to make of that. “Thank you for dinner. You didn’t have to . . .”
He holds up one hand. “It was my pleasure.”
Miles reaches for the door handle and gets out of the car. It appears he’ll walk me to the door. Do I invite him in? I open my car door and by the time I do, he’s there. I get out and he closes the door behind me.
Ever the gentleman.
We walk in silence to my front door.
“Well, gal, thank you again.”
I hesitate. “Would you . . . I mean . . .”
He watches me, then seems to understand. “Oh, thanks, no. I have an early morning.” He comes close and gives me a hug.
Quick. Appropriate. Like friends do.
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Okay. Thanks again for dinner.” I watch as he turns and goes to his car. Once there, he looks back and waves. I put the key in the lock and open the door, then wave back before closing the door. Once inside, I flip on the entry hall light and then lean back against the front door.
Invisible Page 12
