Invisible

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  I bowed my head while he prayed, and when he’s done I open my eyes but keep my head down.

  “Twila?”

  I nod without looking up. “I . . . I wish . . .” I take a deep breath and then wipe my eyes with my napkin. “I wish my . . . dad . . . loved God. Like, you know . . . the way . . . you do.” I glance up at Miles and then look back down.

  “Gal . . .”

  I look up again.

  “I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through with your dad. Your mom has shared some of it. I know I can never replace him, but I want you to know that I’m here for you—for whatever you need.”

  I wipe my eyes again. And again.

  “I care about you, Twila.”

  I nod. That’s all I can do. I wipe my eyes yet again. “Um . . .” I stand up. “I’m going . . .” I point toward the restroom. I walk across the café with my head down and go into the restroom and then into a stall. I can’t stop the tears. I mean, I really can’t stop them. I stand in the stall with the door closed. I pull paper from the roll and wipe my eyes and blow my nose. And I cry some more.

  The emotions come . . . things I haven’t let myself feel. Feelings I’ve starved. The feelings Ed helped me avoid. The emptiness is huge and black and aches, but like, now . . .

  It aches to be filled.

  For the first time ever . . . I get that. Instead of starving it, I can . . . risk . . . filling it. Like, with food, but also with love.

  God’s love.

  His love through the people who are in my life—my mom, Miles, Ellyn.

  They don’t replace my dad, but I’m beginning to understand that God . . . well, He’s enough.

  More than enough.

  And that makes me cry even more.

  The house of my soul is too small for You to come to it. May it be enlarged by You. It is in ruins: restore it.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ellyn

  “Ellyn. Ellyn!”

  I look up from the sauce I’m stirring and see Miles standing just inside the swinging doors of the kitchen. The look on his face tells me something’s wrong.

  “Paco, come finish this.”

  Paco looks from me to Miles and then takes the spoon from me. “Go, Bella, whatever it is. I can handle things here.”

  I untie my apron and go to where Miles is waiting. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Twila. She’s upset. She left the table crying and went to the ladies’ room. Will you check on her?”

  I put my hand on Miles’s arm. “Oh, of course.” Before I turn to go, I see the creases in his forehead and the concern in his blue eyes. “She’ll be okay, Miles. She will.” I head out of the kitchen and to the restroom. Oh Lord, comfort Twila and give me wisdom. And let there be no one else in the restroom.

  I push open the door and then look under the doors of the two stalls. In the second stall, I recognize Twila’s khaki cargo pants. Once I coax her out, I see the pain in her expression and the tears on her cheeks. The black tattooed thorns glisten.

  “Oh, honey . . .” I put my arms around her and pull her close. It’s the only thing I know to do. At first she stiffens, but then her body goes limp against mine and she rests her head on my shoulder.

  “It’s okay, just let it out. Let it out, honey.” As she wets my chef’s coat with her tears, my heart breaks for her. I hear the restroom door open behind me and I turn my head toward the door. “Occupied! Use the men’s room.”

  I hold Twila tight until she stills. Then I pull back from her and push long strands of her dark hair away from her face. “Hold on . . .” I go back into the stall and get toilet paper for her to wipe her nose and eyes on.

  She dabs at her eyes, blows her nose, and hiccups. “I’m . . . sorry.”

  “Honey, you have nothing to apologize for. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “It’s . . . it’s Miles. And my dad. It’s . . . grief. My counselor said spending time with Miles might stir up some grief, you know?”

  I hug her again and then I step back and look at her. “Twila, you’re the strongest, most courageous young woman I know.”

  She looks down at the floor, and I sense she can’t take in what I say. I reach out and put my hand under her chin and lift it so she has to look at me again. “I mean that. Even knowing what kind of feelings Miles might stir up in you, you still met with him.”

  “I . . . I needed to work through this. Like, I had to. Even though this is hard, there’s hope too. I mean, I’m understanding new things, you know? I get now how God provides for me through other people and how much He loves me.”

  Twila’s insight silences me for a moment. “You’re amazing. Really.” I take the used paper from her and put it in the trash. “Oh, look, I could have handed you tissue.” I point to the box of tissue on the granite countertop in the restroom. “Oops, sorry.”

  She smiles for the first time since I came in the restroom. “Whatever.”

  We both stand at the sinks and wash our hands, and Twila wets a paper towel and presses it against her eyes.

  “So now what? Do you want me to take you home, or are you okay to go with Miles?”

  She looks at her feet again.

  “Honey, is your mom home?”

  She shakes her head. “No, she left today for a conference in Santa Rosa.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”

  “You’re okay alone?”

  She shrugs.

  “What about my guest room? Maybe, for my sake, you could spend the night at my place so I know you’re all right?”

  She looks up and her eyes meet mine. “Really?”

  “Really. Do you feel okay having Miles drive you over there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you my key, you can go by your house and get a few things, and then go to my house. I don’t know what Miles has planned, but if you’d rather not be alone, maybe he can stay there with you until I get home.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be here a few more hours, but you can get settled. The sheets on the bed are clean and there are towels and things in the guest bath.”

  She sighs. “Thanks, Ellyn.”

  I wave off her thanks. I can’t explain it, but I feel as though this is more a favor to me than it is to her.

  It’s near 11:00 p.m. by the time I close up the kitchen and café. As I get in my car, my phone dings, indicating I have a text. I pull the phone from my purse.

  I stayed with T. Front door unlocked. Didn’t want to startle you.

  I smile at the text from Miles, but the smile doesn’t last long.

  Twila’s courage—her willingness to face and work through something that causes her such pain—unnerves me. She’s half my age and twice as mature. I reach for the bag of croissants on the passenger seat that I brought to send home with Miles. I need one. I pull one of the fresh rolls out of the bag, lift it to my mouth, and then remember—

  This foray into veganism might do me in! The buttery scent of the roll makes my mouth water. What difference would just one make?

  Yeah, you’ll fail anyway. It’s just a matter of time.

  I lift the croissant back to my mouth, but . . .

  Oh Lord, I want it so much. Help me.

  Almost shaking with desire, I put the croissant back into the bag. I step on the accelerator and speed through the sleepy streets toward home. When I pull into the driveway and turn off the engine, I reach into my purse for a breath mint. The beauty of living alone is that you don’t have to worry about this kind of thing. Who needs to come home after a long night worried about how fresh their breath is? Not me, that’s for sure.

  I reach for the bag of croissants and stil
l think about having one before bed.

  You’ll never change.

  The downstairs lights are on inside, making the house glow with warmth. The upstairs is dark. Gravel crunches under my feet as I make my way from the driveway to the stone walkway leading to the front door. Once there, I stand on the threshold, take a deep breath, and open the door.

  Miles waits inside somewhere.

  All is quiet. I see Miles, his long legs stretched out in front of him, sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs in my living room. His head is tilted back, his eyes closed. It seems he fell asleep between the time he sent his text and the few minutes it took me to get home.

  I stand still and watch him. He looks vulnerable. Tenderness rises in me. I want to go over and cover him with a blanket, brush his hair off his forehead, and kiss the furrows in his brow.

  All of which surprises me . . . but not in an unpleasant way.

  What I don’t want is to get caught watching him.

  “Hey . . .” I close the front door with a bang and see him jump. “I’m here.”

  Duh, big girl.

  Miles gives me a slow, sleepy smile. “Hi. How—” He covers his mouth and yawns. “Sorry. How was the rest of your evening?”

  I put on a bright face. “More interesting than yours, from the looks of it.”

  He sits up and puts his hands on his knees. “Mine was quiet—after dinner, that is.”

  “Is she okay?” I point to the stairs.

  He stands up and stretches. “She is. She’s a brave one.”

  “I know. I told her that.” I cross the living room and set the bag of croissants and my purse on the dining room table. “So she talked to you?”

  He nods. “She shared some of what she’s learning and how I fit into the picture of her life—not as a replacement for her dad, but as ‘God’s provision,’ she said. We began a good dialogue. One I pray will continue. I raised sons. Girls are . . .” He shakes his head and smiles. “Girls are a different world. But nice.”

  As he talks, my heart melts like a pound of butter over a hot flame. His concern for Twila—his willingness to engage with her, to give of himself—gets to me. His reference to prayer and his love for God, so evident whenever we talk . . . and those gorgeous, sleepy, blue eyes.

  Is it possible? Is this man as good as he seems?

  Careful, Tubby. If he seems too good to be true, then he is.

  I walk toward him and stop just short of where he stands. He watches me but doesn’t move. I take one step closer and then stand on my toes, intending to give him a quick kiss on the cheek and thank him for his goodness to Twila. But as I do, he puts his arms around me and pulls me close. The warmth of him against me both soothes and ignites me.

  “Mmm . . . you smell wonderful—like everything good: garlic, cream, herbs, and butter.”

  “Eau de chef.” I start to pull away from him. I need to pull away from him. But as I do, he reaches up and places his hands on my face. He holds me there, staring down at me, those deep blue eyes serious.

  And then his lips are on mine.

  His kiss is tender and undemanding.

  My mind screams a warning, but I ignore it and let my other senses take over. His breath is warm and the stubble on his chin brushes against my face. The spicy scent of his aftershave swirls. The sound of my own heart beating in my ears drowns out everything, including my common sense.

  I surrender.

  I reach my arms up around his neck and let one hand rest in his hair.

  And I kiss him back—a long, lingering kiss.

  A moment I’ve dreamt of most of my life.

  Breathless, I lean my head back, still in his embrace.

  “Ellyn . . .” His voice is thick. “You have to know I’m falling for you.”

  He’s good. Using that line already. You know where this is going. I hate to say ‘I told you so,’ but I did.

  I look at him and know my eyes mirror the desire I read in his. Oh, what am I doing?

  You might as well lead him upstairs right now. You know that’s what he’s expecting.

  I shake my head. No. “No . . .” I drop my arms back to my sides and take a step back. “No . . . I can’t . . . I can’t do this.” I try to catch my breath and hope he can’t hear my heart pounding.

  “Ellyn?”

  I turn my back on him now and take a few more steps away. Then I turn back. “I can’t do this. I won’t do this. I won’t. I told you from the beginning . . . I told you. I . . . don’t want this.”

  I see the hurt in his eyes, but the armor shielding my heart snaps back into place. “I’m sorry, Miles. I . . . need you to . . . leave. Now.” I walk toward the front door and open it when I get there. I turn and look at him still rooted where we’d stood together just moments before.

  He walks toward the door and then stops at the coffee table. He reaches down and picks something up off the table and drops it in the pocket of his slacks. His keys, maybe? When he gets to me, he stops and looks at me. “Ellyn, I—”

  “Please, just go.”

  He shakes his head and, again, I see the pain in his eyes. But he says nothing else. He walks out my front door.

  And I close the door behind him.

  Then I turn and lean against it.

  He will not get in again.

  Not into my house.

  Not into my heart.

  I stand there until I hear his car, him, pull out of the gravel driveway.

  When he does, I let the tears come.

  I walk back to the dining room table, pick up the bag of croissants, and take one out of the bag. I go to the kitchen, set the bag on the counter, and open a drawer and take out a paper napkin. I wipe my eyes and nose with the napkin and then take a bite of the croissant. The lump in my throat makes swallowing a struggle, but I work at it until the bite goes down.

  Then I take another bite.

  And another . . .

  With the last bite of the last croissant in the bag, a small voice whispers in my mind. Or maybe in my heart.

  You don’t love food more than you love Me, Ellyn. You trust food more than you trust Me.

  I swallow.

  Then the whisper comes again.

  Will you trust Me?

  There are no caresses tenderer than your charity, and no object of love is more healthy than your truth, beautiful and luminous beyond all things.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Miles

  Gravel sprays behind me as I put my foot to the accelerator leaving Ellyn’s driveway. When I reach the end of her street, I turn right toward the water rather than left toward the highway. I round the curve of Headlands State Park and pull into the first parking space—the beams of my headlights bounce across the lot and land on the dark expanse of water. I turn the lights off, put the car into park, and open the door.

  Once out, I turn and look behind me and see the lights shining from Ellyn’s tower flick off one by one. I imagine her climbing the stairs to her bedroom. That was an intense end to an evening.

  For both of us, I’d guess.

  That intensity presses on my chest from the inside out. Or . . . is it anger?

  I turn and look back at the water.

  Anger at myself for my lack of self-control, for ignoring the boundary Ellyn set.

  I let my eyes adjust to the dark, and then walk to one of the trails leading from the parking lot out to the cliffs.

  I thought I saw her soften tonight—read something more in her face. But I was wrong. So wrong.

  An owl swoops down on its prey in front of me.

  Or was I? Didn’t she return my kiss?

  My throat tightens. “Ah Sarah, it was so easy with you.” A void inside me cracks
wide and the trail, lit only by a slice of moon, blurs in front of me. I step up my pace needing an outlet for my anger, my grief.

  The anger of rejection.

  The grief of loss.

  Again.

  A crisp wind blows now, carrying spray from the surf below. I jam my cold hands into my pants pockets as I walk. When I do, I feel the smooth edges of the piece of sea glass I took from Ellyn’s coffee table. I wrap my hand around it and clench it in my fist.

  I knew, from the beginning, that I felt more for Ellyn than friendship.

  Felt more. And wanted more.

  She made herself clear from the beginning, so I have no one but myself to blame for her rejection.

  I see Ellyn in my mind—the emotion in her green eyes tonight—or at least the emotion I imagined I saw there. But it’s Twila I think of—what she shared with me tonight. The void her father left in her life. In her heart.

  My anger boils again. Will Twila’s father ever know the damage he’s caused?

  I think of my sons, Will and Alex, each named after a grandfather. I can’t imagine not having a relationship with them. Not being involved in their lives. I talk to them every chance I get. I love them. I miss them.

  Twila’s pain was so visible. When I met her, just after she came home from school, too weak to continue her education, I wondered if her shrinking body was her way of disappearing. If you don’t exist, you can’t hurt.

  Well, maybe she had the right idea—maybe disappearing is the answer. If I disappear from Ellyn’s life, maybe I’ll save her some hurt.

  Her . . . and myself.

  I pull my hand from my pockets, the piece of sea glass still in my grip. I veer off the path and trudge through the prairie grass until I’m standing as close to the edge of the cliff as I dare. I pull my right arm back and then hurl the piece of glass, the color of Ellyn’s eyes, into the sea. As I release it, it catches the light of that slice of moon, and then it disappears into the inky water.

  It disappears.