Invisible (24 page)

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.

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.