Invisible (14 page)

But today, even though the sky is crisp and clear, the damp breeze goes right through me. I pull my jacket out of my car and put it on over the long-sleeve T-shirt, sweater, and hoodie I'm already wearing. Even though I've gained some weight back, I'm still always cold.

I walk over to the table, hands stuffed into the pockets of my jacket. Just before I'm there, I hear his usual greeting.

“Hi, gal.”

“Hey.” I sit on the bench across the table from him. “Thanks for meeting me here.”

“Sure. Are you warm enough.”

I nod. “How about you?”

“I am. I came a few minutes early and took a brisk walk. Sarah and I used to walk out here. There's no place like it.”

“I like it here. I come here a lot, but on warmer days.” I look around me. The huge cypress trees remind me of mythic creatures—bent, with sharp edges, silhouetted against the blue sky. The prairie grass waves in the breeze. You can't see the ocean from the picnic tables, but you know it's there—you hear it crashing.

“So, um—” I know what I need to say, but . . . I push myself to keep going. “Before we talk about medical stuff, I have something else I want to get out of the way, you know?”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“Okay, well, I hope you'll get that this isn't about you, because, it's not. It's me.” The lump in my throat catches me by surprise. I clear my throat.

“So it's the old ‘it's me, not you' line.” He chuckles.

I just nod, afraid that if I smile or talk, he'll see what I'm feeling. Whatever that is. I turn and look around again until I sort of get hold of myself. When I turn back toward him, he's watching me. His blue eyes shine in the sun, and the wrinkles around his eyes make him look wise, and kind.

“Twila . . .” His voice is serious. “Whatever you have to say is okay. I'm listening.”

I nod and swallow. “Okay . . . so, um, the other night . . . at dinner?”

He nods.

Tears prick my eyes and I turn away again. I should have done this over the phone, where he couldn't see me. I don't want him to see me. I want to go into the dark empty space. I take a deep breath and then I notice him standing next to me. He's gotten up and come to my side of the table.

“I'm going to sit on this side with you, down here on this end.”

He sits on the other end of the bench, but before he does he puts one of his big hands on my shoulder and gives it a quick squeeze. “Take your time . . .”

I nod, still looking away from him.

Entrust to the truth whatever has come to you from the truth. You will lose nothing.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Eighteen

Miles

I watch Twila, her
gray eyes the size of silver dollars in her thin face. Her long, dark hair is pulled back, and the tattoo of thorns is black against her pale skin. Her frame is hidden beneath layers of clothes.

But her emotions are bare.

My training as a physician has taught me patience, to wait and encourage when a patient is struggling to tell me something. But this afternoon . . . I'm not a doctor.

It's my training as a man of God I rely on today. Though she's twenty-six, Twila is just a girl. She spent her teenage and college years battling a disorder that separated her from her peers. Her suffering has given her wisdom beyond her years. But socially, she's still a kid.

It's the kid sitting with me today.

So I wait. I pray. I let her gather herself. I am here to offer mercy and love. I pray she will sense Christ, through me.

I reach out again and put my hand on her shoulder and give her another gentle squeeze. “Your tears are okay, Twila.”

She turns on me, almost fierce, her eyes now like molten metal. “Stop! Just
stop
it!”

I pull my hand back from her shoulder, slow so I don't startle her, and wait.
Lord, comfort her . . .

Her tears flow now.

“Stop being so . . . so . . .
nice
to me. It just . . . makes this harder.”

I shift on the bench. “Whatever you have to say to me, Twila, just say it.”

“Okay . . . okay.” She takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket. “The other night . . . at dinner, um, I got triggered. You know? The eating disorder.” She takes a deep breath. “I figured out . . . why. I learned those triggers are fears—fears, I have to face. So I'm facing it now. I'm talking to you, because I need you to know that you were the trigger. It's not your fault. It just is what it is. So, I can't eat with you again, you know? With you and my mom. I can't do that again.”

Her words come out fast now, though she doesn't look at me as she talks. I think a moment, waiting for the Holy Spirit to give me His words. “Twila, thank you for your courage and your honesty. I respect it. I respect you.”

She glances at me, her dark lashes wet. Then she looks back down at her lap.

“May I ask you a question?”

She nods, still looking at her lap.

“Is part of facing the fear also working through the fear?”

She glances at me again, a question in her large gray eyes. She dips her head in a hesitant nod. “Yeah, that's what I'm doing by telling you.”

“What if we took it a step further—you and me—what if we worked to overcome the fear? Do you think that's possible?”

“What do you mean? How?”

“I'm not sure. I don't understand how I triggered you, so I'm not sure what the best plan is. But it seems important to not only face your fear but also work through it—beyond it. Maybe together we can come up with a way to do that.” I have her full attention now. Her eyes are wide—focused on me.

“You'd . . . do that? For . . . me?”

“You bet.” I stretch out my legs. “Do you have any thoughts on what might help?”

She shrugs.

“Well, what if we eat together again? We could talk . . . and eat. Just give it a try. Maybe before we do that though, you could run it by your counselor. See what she thinks.”

“Yeah, I can call her. That's a good idea. I don't know about the eating part, but . . . Can I, you know, think about it?”

“Sure. There's no pressure. How about this, let's both pray about it and you give your counselor a call and then get back to me. Deal?”

She smiles and takes her right hand out of her pocket and sticks it out toward me. I take her hand and shake it.

“Deal.”

“Great. Now, do you want to talk about your customer's condition?”

On Monday, one of
my patients doesn't show up. I use the time at my desk to chart some information and then decide to give Ellyn a call. I know the restaurant is closed on Mondays, but that's the only number I have. I could pull her patient file and find her home phone number, but that would be a breach of privacy. So I look up the number of the café and call there and leave a message for her.

If divine providence is on my side, Rosa will pick up the message.

Four patients later, when I check my messages again, Dee has written a note that Rosa called and left the number I need. I smile. Probably Ellyn's home phone number. God bless Rosa.

I pick up the phone and punch in the number.

“Hello.”

“Ellyn, it's Miles Becker.”

“Oh.”

“Is this your home number?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I hope you don't mind me calling you at home. I left a message for you at the restaurant and—”

“And Rosa called and gave you my number?”

“Right.”

“Ah . . . Rosa. Well, no problem, I suppose. It's not like you're an ax murderer, right?”

“Not the last time I checked.” I hesitate. Do I dare ask? “I . . . wondered if you'd given any thought to having dinner together?”

“Oh, well, yes, I mean, I haven't dwelled on it or anything, but sure, dinner as friends would be fine. It's good for me to get out and check in on the competition every now and then.”

I chuckle. “Well, glad I can help then. So dinner as friends it is. Are you free tomorrow evening?”

“Oh. Well, yes, I am. Let's see, tomorrow is Tuesday . . . Café Beaujolias serves on Tuesdays, would that work?”

“You bet. May I pick you up?”

She's quiet on the other end, but I don't jump in. I give her time to think.

“I can just meet you there.”

“Sure, though there's not a lot of parking—just the spaces along the street.”

“Oh, right.”

“Whatever you're comfortable with.”

“Okay, well then . . . let's go together.”

She gives me directions to her house, but as soon as she describes it, I know which one it is. We agree on a time and I tell her I'll make a reservation. “All right, gal, I'm looking forward to it. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow. Great. And thank you.”

“You bet.”

I hang up the phone and lean back in my desk chair.
Am I pushing this, Lord?

I don't sense a red light from God. So until then, as Nerissa advised, I'll take it one step at a time—and the next step is dinner tomorrow evening.

With a woman who couldn't seem less enthused.

The lost life of those who die becomes the death of those still living.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Nineteen

Sabina

On Monday morning, I
crawl from bed, where I've spent the weekend, wearing the same pajamas I slipped into late Thursday afternoon. I can no longer stand myself.

Time to at least shower and change.

And to call Ellyn and cancel our plan to get together this afternoon.

Just the thought of those three tasks has me turning back toward the bed. But no, I will at least make myself shower.

One thing at a time, girl.

After I shower, I dress in sweat pants and a sweatshirt, and then dig through my purse in search of my cell phone. Once I find it, I see the battery is dead, so I plug it in by the bed and climb back under the covers. I search the contacts list for Ellyn's number—we exchanged cell phone numbers when we met on Wednesday. I punch in the number.

Don't answer. Please, Ellyn, don't answer.

When her voice mail sounds in my ear, I exhale the breath I was holding. I leave a message, then end the call. I also need to call Dr. Norman and let her know the medication isn't working. But I can't deal with that right now. Instead, I slide from my sitting position on the bed and lie flat again. I pull the sheet and blankets up under my chin, wanting nothing more than to drift back to the depths of slumber.

My phone rings.

I reach for it, pick it up, and see Ellyn's name on the screen. I set the phone back down and let it go to voicemail. I told her I needed to reschedule our time. I can do that later.

Then I succumb to sleep—that place where, for a time, I vanish and cease to exist.

I bolt upright, heart
pounding.

What woke me?

I hear the pounding again. It's . . . someone is pounding on the door. The door between the bedroom and the front deck. I look up and see the outline of someone outside the frosted glass door, just beyond my bed.

Have they seen me?

I sigh. No one knows I'm here except the woman from the rental agency, who gave me the key to the house.

I sigh and throw the covers back, get out of bed, and then pull the covers back up so it isn't obvious I was in bed. Then I take the short walk to the door, unlock the deadbolt, and open it.

“There you are. Are you okay?”

I blink at the smiling woman before me. “Ellyn?”

“Who else would it be? You don't know anyone else here, do you?” She stands at the door, arms laden with shopping bags.

“How . . . how did you know which house I'd rented?”

She blows a red curl off her face. “May I come in and set these down?”

“O . . . kay. Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.”