Invisible

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  On my ascent to the top, my heart begins flip-flopping like a fish out of water and I’m gasping for each breath. I stop and start. Stop and start. Stop and start. When I reach the top, at least a full hundred yards from where I began at the bottom, I’m certain I’ll die. But it seems I value my pride more than my life, because when a gardener doing work at the top looks at me with concern, I get back on the bike and ride it on the flat road Adam suggested. As I pedal an ache settles in my right leg. Did I pull a muscle? I ride to the end of the road—another hundred or so yards—and ride back. I see nothing except black spots bouncing in front of my eyes. Oh, God, please don’t let me faint—please don’t let me faint.

  I ride past the gardener again and then turn and coast down the hill, where I see Adam waiting for me. Great. I stop in front of him, get off the bike, and turn my back to him so he won’t see how hard I’m breathing. I take the helmet off and feel damp curls stuck to my face and neck. I’m sure my face is cherry red.

  “Whaddaya think?”

  “Nice,” I gasp. “Good,” I say over my shoulder.

  “I’ll take ’er back inside.”

  Oh, thank You, God, he’s not going to stand here and talk. I consider getting in my car right now and leaving, but then remember that my purse and car keys are down in the shop. So instead, I wipe my wet brow, and try to catch my breath before following Adam down the stairs. As I make my way down, I grip the railing, fearing I may still faint. I’m drenched, dizzy, and nauseous.

  I’m having a heart attack.

  I know I am.

  A dull pain settles in my chest. I feel it all the way through my back. And my world is spinning, spinning, spinning.

  I need to get out of here.

  Now.

  I mumble something to Adam. Grab my purse. And then . . . Oh Lord . . . I climb back up the stairs to the parking lot.

  Glib satisfaction must shut Earl up because I hear nothing but the pommeling of my heart.

  When I reach my car, I bend at the waist, hands on my knees, sure I’ll be sick. After several minutes, the wave of nausea passes and the dizziness wanes some. I dig in my purse, find my cell phone, and dial the café, where I know Rosa will be sitting in the office.

  “Ellyn’s.”

  “It’s . . . me.”

  Rosa is quiet for a moment. “Ellyn? What wrong wid you?”

  “I . . . I don’t . . . feel well. Can you . . . come get . . . me?”

  “Where? Where you at?”

  “I’m . . . fine. Just come to . . . The Stanford . . . Inn.” I tell her where I’ll be waiting for her.

  “You don’t sound fine. Where’s your car? You can’t drive?”

  “No. Just . . . come. Now.”

  I hang up, get in my car, and wait. I don’t want to go to the hospital. I don’t. But if I am having a heart attack, then . . . I lean my head back on the headrest and close my eyes.

  I’ll let Rosa figure it out.

  I don’t know if I black out or fall asleep, but within what seems like seconds, I hear a tapping on the window of my car and then a rush of cool air washes over me as someone opens the door.

  “Ellyn?”

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn my head without lifting it from the headrest and open my eyes. Before I can say anything, he’s holding my hand with one of his and has two fingers on my wrist. Then he moves the fingers to my neck, which I know is slick with sweat.

  “No . . . no. Don’t.”

  “Shh . . .”

  “I’m . . . don’t. I’m . . . fine.” I lift my head and wipe the damp curls off my forehead. “Where’s . . . Rosa?”

  “She called me.” Miles fumbles in his back pocket and pulls out his cell phone.

  “She . . . she . . .” I try to get out of the car.

  But he holds me back while he punches keys on his phone with one hand.

  “I’ll . . . shoot her.” Then I hear what he’s saying. “No . . . oh, please. No.”

  Miles has called for an ambulance.

  So much for my pride.

  Pride? You’re nothing but a fat slob. I always knew you’d die of a heart attack.

  Yeah? Well, you know what, Earl? If I do, at least I won’t have to listen to you anymore.

  For wherever the human soul turns itself, other than to you, it is fixed in sorrows.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Miles

  While I wait for the ambulance, I try to get Ellyn’s pulse again, but it’s still weak and her breathing is shallow. Her symptoms are indicative of several issues, one or two of them serious, which is why I called for an ambulance rather than risk moving her myself.

  “Shh . . . You’re not fine, but you will be.” I try to quiet her again. I also attempt to stay in a professional mode of operation rather than personal.

  She will be fine.

  She has to be.

  Although . . .

  What if Ellyn’s rejection of me was actually God’s way of protecting me? Protecting my heart? The thought evokes fear rather than relief. But I push all that aside for now. “C’mon. Where’s the ambulance?”

  “What?” Her voice sounds as weak as her heartbeat.

  I reach down for Ellyn’s hand and clasp it in my own, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Just watching for the ambulance.” I hear the siren up above on Highway 1. “They’re on their way. You’ll feel better soon, gal. You will.” I squeeze her hand again.

  When the ambulance arrives, I step back and let the EMTs do their job. I follow them to the hospital, park in the doctors’ lot, and meet Ellyn in the hallway of the ER. I’m not there as a doctor though—just as a friend. I can’t treat her.

  “I’m here if you need me. Do you want me to come with you when they take you back?”

  She looks up at me—more alert now. I read the fear in her eyes, but then she looks away.

  “I’m . . . fine. I’ve taken enough of your time already.”

  I nod. This isn’t about me right now. “Would you like me to call someone to come? Rosa or Sabina?”

  “No. Oh, but I’m supposed to meet Sabina at 1:00. Can you . . . just tell her I can’t meet today?”

  “You bet.”

  I stand back as a nurse comes and wheels Ellyn’s gurney back to one of the curtained cubicles.

  “I’ll have them keep me posted. And I’ll call Sabina.”

  She lifts her hand and waves her thanks.

  After I call my office and fill Courtney in on what’s going on, I have Dee pull Sabina’s file and give me her phone number—this time it’s an appropriate use of the information we have on file.

  Once I’ve talked with Sabina, I take a seat in the ER waiting room. I am more comfortable treating patients than waiting for them. I don’t sit still long. I get up, wander the ground floor of the small hospital, stand in front of a vending machine for several minutes, and then go back to my seat. As I do, I see Sabina walk into the waiting room from the parking lot.

  I wave at her and she comes my way.

  “Hello, Dr. Becker.”

  “Please, it’s Miles.” I motion to the seat next to mine. “You didn’t need to come.”

  “I wanted to. Any more news?”

  “Not yet. It may take awhile.”

  She nods. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll wait with you.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes. “Would you like a magazine?” I point to a rack on the wall.

  “No, thank you.” She shifts in her seat. “Were you with Ellyn when this happened?”

  “No. She was alone. She called Rosa to pick her up. Rosa called me.”

  Sabina smiles. “Good for Rosa. Although, Ellyn will certainly have a few words for her when all is sa
id and done, won’t she?”

  I smile. “I imagine so.”

  “Just for the record, Ellyn is the only one who doesn’t realize how good you are for her.”

  “Well, thank you.” I get up. I don’t want to talk about my relationship with Ellyn. “I’m going to see if there’s anything new to report.” I go to the reception desk and ask for a report. Though I’m not treating Ellyn, and rarely spend time in the hospital, the receptionists know I’m a local doctor.

  “Just a moment, Dr. Becker, let me go check.” She tells the other receptionist that she’ll be right back.

  A few minutes later, she comes back to the desk with the latest information. “Her blood pressure is low and there’s an abnormality on her EKG. They’ve ordered an ultrasound. Dr. Nguyen will come out and talk to you when he has a minute.”

  “Thank you.”

  I go back and tell Sabina the little I know, but not what I suspect. I sit back down beside her and run my hand through my hair.

  “You’re . . .” She clears her throat. “You’re sure she’ll be . . . okay?”

  I nod. “Yes.” Though I speak with more confidence than I feel.

  “May I ask you a question? It’s personal.”

  I nod, but hope it isn’t about Ellyn. “Sure.”

  “Ellyn shared that you lost your wife a couple of years ago.” She looks around and then looks back at me. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m wondering how . . . you handled that . . . as a doctor, a healer?”

  “That’s an insightful question. Are you in medicine?”

  “Not exactly. I have my PhD in psychology and have . . . or had . . . a clinical practice for many years.”

  “I see. To answer your question, it was frustrating. As you can imagine, working as a healer yourself. I felt like I had no control. Like I was impotent, as a doctor. And . . .” I shrug. “I was angry.”

  “Did you deal with depression?”

  “Not clinically. My faith helped.” She looks away and I notice her body tense. “Did something I say offend you?”

  She looks back at me. “No. I just don’t put much weight in faith, as you call it.”

  I let her comment pass for now. “Have you lost someone recently?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Ah, turnabout is fair play?”

  I smile and nod.

  “Yes, I lost a client.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shifts in her seat again. “She committed suicide.”

  Her tone is curt, as though she’s daring me to accuse her.

  “So you understand then . . . some of what I may have felt?” I see I’ve caught her off guard. She doesn’t respond for a moment.

  “Well . . . as much as I cared about . . .” She twists her wedding ring around her finger. “I recognize it isn’t as difficult as . . . losing a . . . spouse. Though, I admit, I haven’t thought of that until now. I am . . . sorry for your loss.”

  “Death is a painful experience whenever we lose someone—especially if it’s someone we care about or someone we cared for professionally. Death wasn’t part of God’s plan. It’s jarring—painful.”

  “What do you mean it wasn’t part of God’s plan?”

  “Death came with sin.”

  “Ah, right. So, with your wife . . . did you . . . did you blame yourself?”

  I think about her question. “No, but doing so was tempting.”

  “Tempting?”

  “It wasn’t about me. To blame myself would mean that I consider myself on the same plane as God. That I see myself as omnipotent.” I stretch my legs out. “But I don’t believe that. And as a doctor, I can’t believe that. God is the only One who holds life and death in His grasp.” I see tears come to her eyes before she looks away again.

  “I see.”

  She still isn’t looking at me. I put my hand on her forearm. “Do you, Doctor?”

  She turns back to me and lets her tears fall. “I’m beginning to.” She rests her hand on top of mine. “Thank you, Doctor.” She pulls her hand back. “Now, let’s hope, for both our sakes, that Ellyn is just fine.”

  All that is ebbing away from you will be given fresh form and renewed, bound tightly to you.

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Ellyn

  I am awake and feeling better now, my heart is no longer flopping, nor do I feel like I’m strapped to a merry-go-round instead of a gurney. The only thing pressing on my chest is the strong desire to throttle Rosa.

  I can’t believe she called Miles. I can’t believe Miles is standing next to me. I can’t believe he saw me like . . . this: hair matted, sweating, and sick.

  And I can’t believe how grateful I am that he’s here.

  The double doors of the inner sanctum open and a nurse, dressed in raspberry-colored scrubs, emerges. She wheels me through the doors and into a curtained cubicle she refers to as Room #5. I wave to Miles as I go.

  Norton’s brother is in Room #6. I know this because an older man on the other side of the curtain is wailing, “I want to see Norton. Norton? Where’s my brother, Norton? I just want to see my brother.”

  The raspberry nurse nods toward the curtain. “I’m sorry. He’s altered.”

  Altered, as in neutered? Altered, as in transgendered? Altered, as in chemically? This is Mendocino County. It could be any of the above.

  “Where’s my brother? I just want to see Norton.”

  How about altered, as in psychologically? I’m going to believe the best about Norton’s brother and choose the psychologically altered option. After all, I’m feeling a bit altered myself this morning.

  Raspberry spreads a warmed blanket over me, and I experience my first moment of comfort since getting on that stupid bike. She takes my blood pressure and my temperature and records the results on my chart. “Do you know your weight?”

  Do I know my weight? What woman doesn’t know how much she weighs? Anyway, I weighed myself when I got out of bed this morning. “I’m not sure.”

  “Okay, we’ll get it later.”

  She jots something more on my chart and then begins wiring me for sound. She places sticky electrodes, as she calls them, to my ankles, arms, chest, and who knows where else. I lose track. Then she hooks wires to the electrodes and tells me to hold still. All wired up, I imagine I look like Frankenstein. Our body types aren’t too dissimilar.

  “Norton?”

  “Mr. Romano, Norton’s not here,” Raspberry says through the curtain.

  “Where is Norton? I just want to see my brother. Norton?”

  I begin praying for Norton’s brother, Mr. Romano. Oh Lord, may he experience Your peace. Comfort him, Lord. Heal him, as only You can. He quiets for a few moments, and then begins wailing again.

  The nurse smiles. “Just another day in the ER.”

  I hold still for the minute or so required for her to complete the EKG.

  “All done.”

  She starts ripping sticky electrodes off my skin. Ouch! How much of my skin is going with those patches? Enough to make a difference when she weighs me, I hope.

  After the EKG, I’m left alone in the curtained cubicle and the tears well. When Miles asked if he could call anyone for me, I thought of my mom. Odd. She’d still be in her silk robe, sipping coffee at this hour. But what could she do? It’s a three-and-a-half-hour drive from San Francisco to Fort Bragg. Anyway, I know what she would do. I’d get the “I told you so . . .” speech.

  No, the hospital can notify her if I croak.

  An attendant comes to take Mr. Romano to his room.

  For almost sixty seconds the ER is quiet, until I hear Raspberry in the hallway. “I’ll take full responsibility for the mental-healt
h patient. Just put him in #6. Now!”

  Busy day at the ER. Tension levels seem high.

  Wait, they’re putting the mental-health patient in Mr. Romano’s room? Next to me? Now I wish I’d had Miles stay.

  Did he leave? Or did he say he’d wait? I can’t remember. I shift on the gurney and the dull ache I felt in my chest earlier returns and settles between my shoulder blades and the merry-go-round takes off again. I close my eyes, but that makes the spinning pick up speed. I open my eyes and take a deep breath—at least as deep as my aching chest will allow.

  Another nurse pokes her head through the curtains. “Have they done an ultrasound or chest X-ray yet?”

  “An ultrasound or X-ray? No.” The words come out in a hoarse whisper. I put my hand on my chest.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I . . . I don’t think so.”

  The nurse comes into my cubicle. “I’m Nita, what are your symptoms?” She glances at the computerized screen that registers my blood pressure and blood oxygen levels.

  “Pain between my shoulder blades. Chest heavy. And I’m so dizzy.”

  “When did the dizziness start? That’s new.”

  “It’s not new.”

  Nita moves behind my bed and rustles around a bit, and then she comes back and puts tubing into my nostrils to administer oxygen and puts a clip thingy on my index finger that registers . . . something to do with oxygen levels.

  Nita looks toward the curtain. “Mel, I need you in here.”

  It sounds as though Mel is getting the mental-health patient settled, but in a few moments she comes around and sticks her head through the opening in the curtain from the hallway. “What’s up?”

  “She needs that ultrasound now.”

  Melanie, aka Raspberry, disappears again.

  My chest tightens and each breath I take becomes a chore.

  Lord, is this really happening?

  A snicker from Room #6 breaks into my thoughts. Then a low rumble of laughter that rises in pitch to the point of hysteria sends a shiver through me.

  My new neighbor.

  The mental-health patient.

  “Really? That’s awesome!” His laughter is interrupted only by his own comments.