Invisible (21 page)

“Just going my own pace. Hard to talk when you're up there and I'm back here.”

We're walking up Ukiah toward 955 Ukiah and Café Beaujolais. Why we can't walk on the headlands, I still don't know.

“You sure that's it, or is something more going on with you?”

Strands of my long hair, which I've pulled back for our walk, come loose in the wind and blow across my face. Frustration wells as I try to secure my hair again. “I'm
fine
.” We've both stopped walking and I stare at her—now just in front of me.

“What?”

“I'm drenched, but there's not a drop of condensation on your skin.”

“Condensation? I'm not a glass of iced tea.”

I wave her comment away. “You know what I mean.”

She gives me that counselor look of hers. “Girl, what is up with you this morning?”

“I'm fine. I told you.”

“I know what you said, now I'm asking for the truth.”

“Don't analyze me. I'm not one of your clients.”

“Well, at least that's
something
to give thanks for.” She puts her hands on her hips. “No, but you are my friend and something's off. That's what real friends are for, or has it been so long since you've let your guard down for anyone that you've forgotten?”

“Oh, good one, Counselor.”

She looks down at her feet—hands still on her hips. When she looks up, I see what looks like a flash of anger, or at least irritation, cross her features. “Listen, Ellyn, I am who I am—take it or leave it.” She turns and starts walking again.

“Okay. Wait. Wait! I can't keep up.” I start walking toward her but she outpaces me again, which I think is her intention this time. Then she stops and turns back toward me—her movements brisk.

“Can't or won't?”

Can't or won't?
“Now you sound like Earl.”

“Who? I sound like who?”

“No one.”

“It didn't sound like no one. It sounded like you said
Earl
. Who's Earl?”

“Never mind.” I lift my shoulders and paste a smile on my face. “Hey, are we arguing?” Maybe my attempt at levity will put an end to this conversation.

No such luck.

“No. What I hope we're having, or what I hope we're going to have, is our first
real
conversation.” Her eyes soften along with the tone of her voice. “Are you game?”

“Real? What do you mean by—”

She holds up one hand and stops me midsentence. “I don't need your defensiveness.” She turns and begins walking away again.

I stand there and debate with myself for a minute, and then I shout to her over the wind, which has begun howling. I wrestle another curl behind my ear. “Okay! I weighed myself this morning and . . .”

She stops and walks back to me again.

“And?” she encourages.

“And I wanted to pick up the scale and slam it against the bathroom mirror until both were as shattered as . . . as . . .” I wipe the tears now dripping down my face.

“As you felt?”

I sniff. “Something like that.”

Sabina reaches out and puts her hand on my arm. “I'm sorry the number wasn't what you wanted to see.”

“Not even close.”

“Girl, a number doesn't define you.”

“Oh, no? Which galaxy do you come from? First there's the number on the scale, which defines me as overweight, then there's the BMI number, which defines me as obese, then there's those blood pressure numbers, which are getting close to defining me as hypertensive. Then there are the numbers for . . .” I choke back a sob.

“Ellyn . . .” She pulls a tissue out of the pocket of her Windbreaker and hands it to me. “Those numbers don't even begin to tell the story of who you are. Are the numbers important? Sure they are. In terms of your health, for those of us who care about you, they're important. But they don't define you.”

“You don't
get
it!” I kick the dirt with the toe of my shoe.

Nobody as skinny as she is can understand what you're feeling.

“Maybe it's you who doesn't get it.” She pins me with her stare.

“I can't lose weight. Do you get that? I can't do it!”

“Who told you that?”

“No one had to tell me. I've tried every diet in the book! I can't do it!”

“Well, sister, as long as you're listening to the
can't
voice, you're right, it's not gonna happen. You just go ahead and keep hiding away in that kitchen and eat yourself to death.” Again, she turns and heads down the trail.

I stand there, mouth agape.
What?
“Hiding? Really?” I shout over the wind. And then I sprint toward her. Okay, sprint is a little strong, but I do my version. By the time I reach her, I'm gulping for air. I come up behind her and grab the back of her Windbreaker and jerk her to a stop.

“Hide . . .” I gasp. “Hiding? Me?” I bend at the waist and put my hands on my knees, fearing I may pass out as the landscape around me begins spinning. “Who . . . who's hiding?” I stand again. I lean my head back, close my eyes, and wait while the spinning stops and I catch my breath—or some of it anyway. I wait for her to respond, but she just stares at me.

“Who's hiding? What . . . are you doing here, Sabina?” I make a grand gesture with one arm taking in the village. “Huh? Tell me. You want a real conversation? Okay,
your
turn.”

She begins to turn away again, but I grab her jacket and hang on this time. “Is this how you deal with your clients—just walk away when a conversation takes a turn you don't like? Huh?” My voice is sharp as a knife, even to my own ears. But come on, who does she think she is? “Answer the question, Sabina. Who or what are you hiding from? You say you have a husband who loves you and . . . and daughters. What are you doing here?”

“You're changing the subject, Ellyn. We were talking about you.”

I hold her gaze with my own and lift my chin just a bit.

“Let go of me.” She pulls away, but I keep my grip on her Windbreaker.

“No. I have—” I take a deep breath, my hair whipping in the wind now. “I have something more to say. You're right. I hide in the kitchen—or I hide behind this layer of . . . of . . . you know.”

She raises one eyebrow.

“There. Satisfied?”

She puts her hands out, palms up. Like she doesn't know what I mean, but we both know she does.

“But I think your question was projection.” I see a brief look of surprise in her eyes. “I think you're hiding as much, if not more than, I am, and I want to know why.” My voice has softened along with my heart. I know the words I just spoke were not my own.

She looks from me to her feet. When she looks back up—her sable eyes are swimming with tears.

“Sabina?” I let go of her jacket and put my hand on her shoulder.

She shakes her head and turns away from me, but I can see she's wiping the tears away. When she turns back to face me, a fresh sheen of tears covers her cheeks. I reach in my pocket and hand her the tissue she gave me. Only now it's used and crumpled.

She smiles and then we both laugh—her through her tears.

She reaches in her own pocket and pulls out a fresh tissue and then wipes her eyes and nose. She takes a deep breath. “I came here to . . . heal, I told you that. But . . . you're right, I've done more hiding than healing.”

“What happened?”

Sabina's gaze leaves my face and she looks at her feet. Her tears flow again.

I wait.

Her chest rises and falls. She talks to the ground. “I . . . I had a client, a teenager still—just seventeen. Her name was . . . Ashley.” She looks at me and takes a deep breath. “She was gifted—so talented—so much potential. But she was different, unique. She was an artist.” She looks past me back toward the village. “She would have loved it here. She belonged in a colony of artists, using her gift among those who'd have understood her . . .” Her voice softens to a whisper.

I wait, but finally have to ask, “What happened to her?”

Sabina swallows. “Like I said, she was different—had her own way of doing things, her own style. She didn't fit in. Ever. By the time she reached high school she was bullied, sometimes daily—at school and through social media. She was an outcast, but she resolved to be true to herself. A lovely combination of strength and tenderness. At least that's how I saw her and how I tried to help her see herself.

“I had one of her paintings, an abstract. She gave it to me after I'd helped her process a difficult”—she wrings her hands—“dirty event. I brought it with me—her painting, that is. It's in one of the galleries here. The gallery owner was so impressed with her work that he wanted to show more.” She stops and stares at nothing for a moment. “But that's impossible. When it sells, I'll forward the money to her family.”

She starts walking again. The wind has calmed some and so have we. I wait for her to continue—to tell me what happened to the young artist. But she's quiet.

“Sabina,
what happened
?”

She looks at me and her eyes seem to glaze over, like she's gone somewhere else in her mind. She is silent for too long.

“Sabina?”

She stops walking and turns on me. “Fine! You want to know what happened? She hung herself.” Her eyes fill with tears again, this time she makes no attempt to wipe them away. “She walked out of my office one afternoon and later hung herself from a pull-up bar on her high-school campus.”

“Oh, Sabina . . .” I cover my mouth with my hand.

“You want to know what I'm hiding from? I'm hiding from reality! I'm hiding from myself! Satisfied?”

As she shouts at me, her anger is palpable—like I could reach out and feel the heat of it. Though I'd no more attempt to do so than I would reach out and touch the gas flame of one of the burners on the kitchen range.

Sabina turns and walks away. After several paces, she begins to run.

And this time, I let her go.

I fill the claw
foot tub in my bathroom with hot, almost scalding, water. I strip off the sweats I wore for our walk, toss them onto the bathroom floor, and then sprinkle lavender bath salts into the water.

I called Paco when I got home and told him not to expect me for a few hours. It will set his schedule behind a bit, but I'll make up for it this afternoon.

I climb into the steaming water, sit, and then stretch my legs out and let myself sink up to my chin. While the water warms my chilled body, my heart remains cold.

Twila left soon after getting up this morning, and for that, I was grateful. I had little energy left after the encounter with Miles last night. And Twila seemed okay. Maybe she sensed my fatigue, or my mood, I'm not sure. But she said we'd talk later, after she'd had time to think about her conversation with Miles.

I splash hot, scented water on my face and rub my eyes. I have a few things to process about Miles myself. I lean back in the tub and hope the hot water will soothe some of my tension.

You kind of overreacted last night, don't you think?

“Shut up, Earl. I'm sick of you.” What is wrong with me that I still listen to you?”

I didn't overreact.

I reach up and turn the hot water back on. No, what I did was . . .

Hurt Miles.

Hurt him? He'll find someone else before you can blink, big girl. It's not like he was telling you the truth. It's not like he's really attracted to you or falling in love with you. I mean, look at you.

I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around myself. The last thing I want is to look at myself like this. Then I lean forward, turn off the water, and lift the plug from the drain. The number I saw on the scale this morning continues to taunt me.

Lord, is that it? I trust food more than I trust You? But . . . I don't understand what that means.

I stand. It will take more than warm water to soothe me. I reach for a bath sheet and wrap it around myself—a regular-sized towel wouldn't begin to cover me. I glance down at my body and know . . .

That's why I pushed Miles away.

Duh! The only man who'd want you is a desperate man.

As sick as I am of Earl, there is truth in that statement. I climb out of the tub.

Here I am feeling sorry for myself when Sabina has something real to grieve. What must she have felt when she'd heard her client took her own life? What is she still feeling? I can't imagine.

Lord, only You could have healed her client. Does she know that? Is she blaming herself?
Though I can't imagine what she's feeling, it seems clear based on what she said that she's angry with herself and with God.

I trade the towel for my bathrobe, and then get ready to go.

Mercy cannot exist apart from suffering. Is that the sole reason why agonies are an object of love? The feeling flows from the stream of friendship.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sabina