Invisible

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  “Me? Oh, no. I’ve had lots going on.” I watch as she moves the food around on her plate and then takes a tiny bite. She looks up and smiles.

  “It’s so good.”

  “Well, enjoy it, Honey. I need to get back to work.”

  “Okay.”

  I watch as she takes another bite, if it can even be called a bite, it’s more of a bit. But as I see her push herself to eat and push herself to let go of whatever fear or wound drove her to the extreme of anorexia, I’m reminded again of her strength.

  I admire Twila.

  Almost as much as I envy her.

  I turn the juicer off, look at the green sludge in the glass beneath the spout, and remind myself that it’s good for me. Before drinking it, I open the fridge, take out a container of fresh blackberries, and wash four or five. I set them on a folded paper towel, and then, holding my breath, I down the juice. I reach for the berries and pop them in my mouth and chew them before letting myself breathe again.

  The berries, or whatever fruit I choose, were Twila’s solution to my resistance to the taste of my morning kale and carrot juice. Bless her. I’m drinking the juice for the nutrients now rather than as an end-all weight loss plan, as I’d attempted before.

  I look at the scum left around the edges of the juice glass. “You’ve come a long way, baby.” I never expected I’d come to enjoy the morning pond-sludge ritual—but, though I may not enjoy the taste, I’m sensing the benefits. I’m not sure what they are exactly, but I feel better about myself when I drink it.

  For now, that’s enough.

  I wander out to the living room and sit on the sofa for a few minutes. The sun is just peeking over the mountains. I put my slipper-clad feet up on the coffee table and that’s when I notice it—or rather, notice it missing—the piece of sea glass Miles gave me. That’s what he picked up and put in his pocket the other night?

  Friends.

  A weight lodges itself in my chest and sits there like a five-pound bag of flour. I don’t know if it’s loss or anger, but I feel something.

  Maybe Earl was right. Maybe Miles’s offer of friendship was just a means to an end. But no. That makes no sense. There are plenty of beautiful women he could take to bed if that were his goal. He wouldn’t choose me.

  Like it matters anyway.

  I get up and go back to the kitchen, where I consider my breakfast options and put Miles out of my mind. I settle on steel-cut oatmeal with the “granola” topping I created with Twila’s help: flaxseeds, hemp seeds, sunflower seeds, slivered raw almonds, and an assortment of dried berries. Do I miss my morning croissant? Yes! But like the kale juice, I’m finding satisfaction in the oatmeal and other natural, vegan meals I’ve created.

  Mid-morning, at the café, I’ll make a protein shake with berries, a few banana slices, a plant-based protein powder, and flaxseed oil.

  I haven’t lost weight.

  Yet.

  But the pounds have to start dropping soon.

  I mean, with the exception of my croissant binge the other night, I haven’t eaten anything good in weeks. I’ve also noticed that my cravings are waning. Who’d have thought? I haven’t wanted butter cookies or butter cake in, well, at least a couple of hours.

  Though, now that they’ve come to mind, my taste buds beg me for them.

  What I’m not noticing is an increase in my energy level.

  I set the oats to boil and then sit down at the kitchen table for a few minutes until the oats need stirring.

  I’m pooped.

  Sure the café was busy last night—but that’s nothing new. And okay, maybe I did lose some sleep over the way I treated Miles last week. I guess he had every right to take his gift back. But . . . I did what I had to do.

  I see steam rising from the pot on the stove and get up to stir the oatmeal, but as I do, the room begins spinning around me. I reach for the kitchen chair I was sitting in and steady myself before I plop down in the chair again.

  “Wow, what’s that about?” I take a couple of deep breaths and then stand again, but slower this time. The spinning continues, but it’s less pronounced and I’m able to make my way to the range and stir the oats to completion.

  Maybe hunger got the best of me this morning? I spoon some extra oatmeal into my bowl, hoping it will fill me and alleviate the dizziness.

  After I eat, I trudge upstairs to dress for the morning and church later. But by the time I reach the small landing, I’m winded, clammy, and dizzy again. When I make it to my bedroom, all I want to do is go back to bed. Instead, I make myself shower, dress, and then drag myself to the café.

  It is, I fear, going to be a long day.

  By the time I reach the café, I notice I have a message on my cell phone from Sabina. “Ellyn, I thought we were going to set a time to talk. Call me.” I sigh. Yes, we need to talk—or, I suspect, Sabina needs to talk and God’s using me to draw her out. Or, okay, maybe vice versa. But the thought of it is exhausting. I make a mental note to call her later.

  Lord, help me. I need Your strength today.

  If you weren’t so fat you’d have more energy.

  I put my hands up and cover my ears. And please, Lord, Shut. Earl. Up.

  Nice try, Tubby.

  I take my hands off my ears. It does no good trying to block the sound of a voice that comes from within. Instead, I turn on the radio in the kitchen and listen to the eclectic pop selections ranging several decades on KUNK FM—The Skunk—a Fort Bragg station I’ve grown to love. Listening to everyone from The Bee Gees’ “Stayin Alive” to Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi” has me be-bopping in no time—well, okay, if not be-bopping, at least moving through the kitchen with more energy.

  And it shuts Earl up. For the moment, anyway.

  After a couple hours of work, I feel rejuvenated. I pick up the phone and call Sabina.

  “Ellyn?”

  “Hi there, how are you?”

  “Good. Where’ve you been hiding?”

  “In the kitchen—work. Hey, are you free tomorrow afternoon for a walk and talk?”

  “Walk and talk?”

  “Yes. I think I need the exercise and I think you need to talk.”

  She laughs. “I need the exercise too, but I thought you were the one who needed to talk.”

  “Nah, that was just a ruse to get you to talk. So how about it—1:00?”

  “Sounds good. Monday at 1:00. Meeting at the usual spot?”

  “Yep.”

  “See you then, girl.”

  I hang up. All I need is a little more exercise and I’ll feel better.

  You never abandon what you have begun. Make perfect my imperfections.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Miles

  After the early church service, I glance at my watch. 9:45. In the time it will take me to drive over to the village, the shops will be open. I hit Highway 1—I have an errand to take care of. When I reach Mendocino, I park near the Gallery Bookshop. Once inside, I go to the gift section, where I bought Ellyn’s piece of sea glass. I look at the pieces of glass in a basket and turn them over looking for another one engraved with the word Friend. But after looking at each one, I don’t find what I want.

  I go to the counter. “Do you have any more of the sea glass in the back—the ones in the basket over there?”

  “Let me check.” The clerk gets up and sets the book she was reading on the counter next to the register. Then she makes her way to the back of the store. I wander through the aisles looking at book covers, but not really seeing them as I wait.

  I’m still ashamed by my behavior—taking the glass I gave Ellyn and then throwing it into the water. I’m sorry, Lord.

  I see the clerk coming back carrying what look like several pieces of the glass. I
follow her back to the counter. “Here’s the rest of what we had in the back.” She spreads five more pieces of the glass out on the counter. But Friend isn’t there. Then I read a word on another piece of glass. I pick it up and rub my thumb over the word. “This one is perfect.”

  I hand it to the clerk and she reads the word engraved on the glass. Then she smiles. “I take it this is a gift?”

  I give her my best I’m-in-the-doghouse smile. “Yes.”

  “I’ll wrap it for you.”

  I leave the store as I did last time, with a gift bag holding a piece of green sea glass the color of Ellyn’s eyes. As I think of her eyes—and all she allowed me to see in them—I feel a stab at my heart. But . . .

  This isn’t about me.

  I walk up the street just a block or so and turn left down an alleyway planted with ferns and blooms. I go around to the back of Ellyn’s Café and knock on the back door. I hope someone will be here even though it’s still early. Just as I’m ready to knock again, the door opens.

  “Hola, Doctor.”

  “Morning, Rosa.”

  She eyes the gift bag I’m holding.

  “I keep telling her you a good man.” She points to the bag. “She not here yet. You come back later.”

  “No, Rosa. I’d like to leave it for her. Could you give it to her, please?”

  “Ah, a surprise? I take care of it.”

  She reaches for the bag and takes it from me.

  “Thank you, Rosa.”

  “I still on your side, you know.”

  “Good. I need you.” I wave at her as I leave.

  You do not cease to rescue me.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ellyn

  After prepping for the Sunday evening crowd and the afternoon family Meal and Meet, calling Sabina, and making my protein shake, I leave the café for church. Sundays are my longest day. No wonder I was dragging this morning. It would exhaust anyone just thinking about it.

  But now, my energy renewed, I look forward to the rest of the day. Sunday—church, the family gathering, and even the Sunday night crowd, usually comprised of locals—is my favorite day of the week.

  Since the dizziness I experienced earlier has subsided, I consider walking to church, but then I think better of it. As much as I love Sundays, I better conserve my energy.

  After the service, I decide to make a quick stop at home before going back to the café. I check my watch. I have plenty of time with all I accomplished this morning. I keep a change of clothes at the café for Sundays, but today I’ll change at home and take the vitamins I forgot to take this morning.

  By the time I arrive at the café, Rosa, Pia, and Paco’s family are already there. The kitchen is abuzz with conversation as the others trickle in. Soon, we’re all seated around the table, elbow to elbow, and heart to heart. Paco blesses the meal and then Rosa and I get up and serve the family.

  I take my place at the head of the table, but before Rosa sits, she instructs us all to wait and then she disappears. She comes back a minute later holding a gift bag. She stands by me and picks up my knife and clanks it on my water glass—calling everyone to attention.

  Then, with great ceremony, she hands the gift bag to me. “A gift for Ellyn from”—no one does a dramatic pause like Rosa—“de good doctor.”

  My heart leaps from my chest to my throat. “No!”

  “Yes. He bring it himself earlier. You open it.”

  I look around the table—expectant faces, all. Okay, let’s get this over with. I reach in the bag, pull out the tissue, and see the familiar box. I pull the box out and open it, expecting that he’s replaced the piece of glass he took from me.

  I open the box, pull the tissue paper aside, and pull out another piece of sea glass. Then I read the word engraved on the glass and feel my face color.

  Sorry.

  Rosa, who’s peering over my shoulder, reads it out loud. “Sorry? What he sorry for? What he do? If he hurt you, he have to answer to me—to us. Right?”

  The group at the table murmurs agreement.

  “Bella?”

  I look up and see the concern on Paco’s face and on the faces of the others.

  “Oh, no, it was nothing. Really.” The color I felt rush to my face deepens. I’m certain I’m now the color of the rhubarb tart I’m serving for dessert. “Just a . . . misunderstanding.”

  That would have to suffice. Because there was no way in the world I was going to explain further.

  I wake on Monday morning to blue skies and blue water. A great day for late November. I climb out of bed, bracing for the usual ache in my feet and overall stiffness. But when I take my first steps, nothing . . . hurts.

  Honey, that just doesn’t happen.

  Maybe Twila’s on to something with this vegan thing. Is it possible this new way of eating will help alleviate some of my aches and pains? She talked about avoiding foods that cause inflammation in the body—especially sugar. Well, that’s easy. What’s the appeal of sugar unless it’s paired with butter?

  “Hot dog!” Or whatever it is a vegan would say to celebrate. “Carrot sticks!” I make my way to the kitchen and brew myself a cup of half-caf. Giving up half my morning caffeine is all I’m willing to sacrifice.

  A girl has to have a few vices.

  I stand at my kitchen window while I wait for the coffee and look out over the headlands. It’s a perfect day for a walk, but then I remember Twila’s suggestion that because I already spend so much time on my feet, I should consider riding a bike, a non-weight-bearing exercise. I’d written off her suggestion—I don’t have a bike and didn’t think I had time to ride one anyway. Plus, I’m walking with Sabina. Isn’t that enough exercise?

  But this morning, the thought of a bike appeals. I haven’t ridden in years. Maybe, I could ride it to work. It is only a few blocks to the café. For that matter, it’s only a few blocks to anywhere in Mendocino.

  You’d look ridiculous on a bike. You’ll make a fool of yourself.

  I reach for an apple from the bowl of fruit on my counter, wash it, and then bite into it. As I chew, the crunching drowns out Earl’s voice, which was my plan. In fact, I’ll do more than that.

  I climb the stairs to the guest bedroom, sit at the desk, and flip on my computer. Then I Google bike shops in Mendocino County—it seems like there’s a shop at one of the local inns. Ah . . . The Stanford Inn, mecca for the ultra-healthy, of course that’s where it is. I click on the link for Catch A Canoe And Bicycles Too! In addition to rentals, their site says they sell bikes.

  In your face, Earl!

  After breakfast, I head over to The Stanford Inn and find the bike shop at the bottom of the hill, along the bank of Big River. I walk down the stairs leading into the shop and then stare at an array of bikes.

  “Hey, I’m Adam, what can I do you for?” Adam, a throwback to another era, puts out his hand.

  I shake his hand. “Hi, um, I want a bike.” I look around at the different styles.

  “Okay. What kind of riding do you do?”

  “What kind? Oh, well, just riding around, you know.”

  “Riding around town? Riding around on trails? Riding around on roads?”

  Really? “Around town, I guess. Maybe out on the headlands—on the road.”

  Adam smiles. “So you’re not a mountain biker or road racer?”

  “Right.” I work hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Do I look like a mountain biker or road racer?

  “So how about a comfort bike—nice seat, keeps your posture upright, a few gears to make things easy? Something like this?” He pulls a shiny white bike off the rack.

  “Perfect. I’ll take it.”

  “Whoa . . . Try it out. Take it for a spin. See how it fits and
if you like it.” Adam leans the bike against a wall and then walks behind the counter and pulls a helmet off a shelf. “Here, put this on and take ’er for a ride.”

  Adam is out the door with the bike before I can say no. So I follow him while attempting to stuff my mass of curls into the helmet. When I go to click the strap closed around my chin, it comes up short, so I leave it dangling.

  By the time Adam has carried the bike back up the stairs to the parking lot, and I’ve climbed the stairs behind him, I’m already winded, but I do my best to hide it as Adam gives me the “lowdown” on the bike. He points up the hill I drove down to reach the shop.

  “So you can either ride it up the hill or walk it, whatever suits you, then turn right onto the road with the white house at the end. That’s Inn property too, and it’s a nice flat road where you can get a feel for the bike. Okey dokey?”

  I nod. “Great.”

  “Okay, hop on. Get ’er done.”

  I take the handlebars of the bike from Adam’s hands and swing my leg over the bike. Well, swing is a relative term. Then I look at Adam. “I’ve got it from here.” I’m hoping he’ll leave me alone rather than watch.

  But no, he just takes a step back and points at the hill. “It’s hard to start on a hill. Sure ya don’t want to walk ’er up?”

  Now that I’m on the bike, I shake my head. “No problem.” I put my foot on the pedal, push down, and attempt to balance. I make a few false starts before I get going. I weave back and forth, fearing I’ll fall, and push the peddles with all I’ve got. But, Adam was right, starting on a hill proves challenging. The steep incline takes everything I’ve got. By the time I’m steady on the bike, I’m already perspiring and breathing hard. I shift the gears, like Adam showed me, hoping to the make the climb easier.

  The gears clunk and I lose my balance. I put my feet down and catch myself, and the bike. I stand there for a few seconds and assess the situation: it’s me against Mount Everest. I get off the bike. I don’t look back to see if Adam is still watching. Instead, I tell myself he’s gone back down to the shop. I begin the arduous task of pushing the bike up the hill.