Invisible (16 page)

You're shaped like one.

I dig through a drawer of accessories and come up with a patterned scarf in autumn hues that, once tied around my neck will, with any luck, distract from the pumpkin get-up. It also dresses up the T-shirt.

What
was I thinking when I said yes to dinner with Dr. Miles Becker?

Twila arrives just after
4:00, and when I invite her in, I do what is natural for me and give her a hug. As I put my arms around her, I feel her body go rigid and her arms remain at her sides.

Note to self: Twila's not a hugger.

What's more, hugging her feels like hugging a comfort-top mattress. How many layers is she wearing? “May I take your coat?”

She scrunches up her shoulders and puts her hands in her pockets. “Um, I'll keep it on for now.”

“Oh. Is it cold in here? My body gauge runs hot. I have a thermal blanket of fat to keep me warm.” I cross the living room to where the thermostat is on the wall and turn up the heat.

“It's okay, it's just me.”

“Put some meat on those bones, honey, and you'll warm right up.”

Twila looks at the floor.

“Oh, honey, I'm sorry. You're beautiful just as you are. I'm just sensitive about weight—and you're so thin. I make it about me.”

Twila's beautiful gray eyes seem to shine with understanding when she looks back at me. “I get it.”

I stare at her for a minute and then shake my head. “You do?”

“Yeah.” She looks around the living room. “Wow, your place is awesome.” She walks over to the west-facing windows. “Look at your view. I love the headlands, don't you?”

I follow her to the windows and look out with her. “I do. They're beautiful and so peaceful. From the deck upstairs, I can see the white water breaking too.” I look at her. “Want a tour?”

“Sure.”

We walk through the cozy living/dining room, which is the base of the tower, and into the kitchen and nook area. Our shoes tap against the rustic hardwood floors.

“This part of the place is an addition—added, I'd guess, when the tower was renovated and made into a residence. I don't know much of the history about this tower, only that it was one of the larger, working water towers in its day.”

“This is so great. But the vibe is totally different than your café.”

“You have a good eye. The café represents my years in Paris and some of the French fare on the menu. But my home is pure comfort—warm colors, soft textures, plush, down comforters and pillows. That kind of thing.”

Twila nods. “So it reflects you. You're comfortable.”

“Am I?” I smile.

She nods again.

“So what kind of décor reflects you?”

She shrugs. “I still live with my mom, but I guess if, like, I ever have my own place, I'd want cool colors—restful, you know? Grays and neutrals, organic cotton, natural stuff.”

“I can see that. You exude peace, Twila.”

She smiles. “That's not me, that's God. I'm a mess inside.”

“Really?” Maybe she'll elaborate.

“So what's back here?”

“That's the downstairs bathroom and the mudroom. At least that's what I like to call it. It's technically a laundry room, but it has a door to the outside, so I call it a mudroom. That sounds more charming, don't you think?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

We take the narrow stairs to the second floor, which consists of the master bedroom, bath, and a hallway. More stairs lead to the third floor. We breeze through my bedroom. “Sorry, it's a mess.”

“Looks like mine.”

I take her up to the guestroom/office. My favorite room in the house.

Twila's eyes shine. “Wow, this is amazing.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah, it's great. I'd stay here.”

“You're welcome anytime.”

I keep a pod coffeemaker up here with handmade pottery mugs. There's a desk, where I pay personal bills, and shelves of books I don't take the time to read. But it does feel like a small sanctuary.

“The best part is out here.” I open the single French door leading to a small balcony and the outdoor staircase, which goes up to the platform deck on top of the tower. We climb the stairs to the deck.

The wind coming off the sea is cold on this sunless afternoon. I glance at Twila. “Good thing you kept your coat on.”

She goes to the rail and stares out at the ocean, and then does a slow 360-degree turn. “You can see, like, everything from up here. Do you come up here much?”

“Not as much as I'd like.”

“What's this?” She walks to one corner of the deck.

“It's an outdoor heater. I keep it and the table and chairs under cover during the winter months.”

“Oh, so you can eat up here or . . . whatever?”

“I can, but I don't very often. I got the heater thinking I would.”

We make our way back downstairs to the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee or hot tea?”

“Is the tea herbal?”

“I have both. You want herbal?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

I fix a cup of herbal tea for both of us and then set a plate of butter cookies, a fresh batch I made this morning, on the kitchen table where we settle. I watch Twila watch the cookies. “Help yourself.”

“No, thanks.”

Oh, I'm such a dork! “Oh, Twila, I'm sorry. I forgot. They have butter in them. They're not vegan.”

“No, it's okay. I don't eat . . . cookies.” She takes off her coat and lets it drape over the chair back.

“No cookies? Aren't there vegan cookies? Although, what's a cookie without butter?”

She shrugs.

“You know, I think I may try the vegan thing for awhile myself. It must be a good, healthy way to lose weight, right?”

“It depends. Every body is unique and everyone responds different.”

“Really? But if I cut out . . .” I sigh and roll my eyes as I tick things off on my fingers: “Butter and other dairy, and meat, what else is there to eat? How could I not lose weight?”

You give up butter? Yeah right, fat girl.

“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