Invisible (28 page)

I have hidden you from myself, not myself from you.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sabina

“When was the last
time you had a sleepover?”

Ellyn's green bathrobe accentuates her eyes. She smiles. “The last time I had a girlfriend stay the night? Gosh, with the exception of Twila staying here the other night, probably high school.” She giggles.

“Ah, so there have been sleepovers with boyfriends?”

“Oh. Well, actually . . . no. I haven't . . . I never . . . I'm still . . . I mean, no.”

I shake my head and laugh. “What?” But then I see the look on her face and realize what began, at least in my mind, as a simple question about sleepovers, has taken a serious turn.

“No, I've never had a boyfriend sleep over. I don't date.”

“I know, but . . . ever?” My question is quiet—serious—to match her change in mood.

“Never.”

“Never ever? Or never again?”

She hesitates and then takes a deep breath. “Never ever. I've never . . . dated or, you know, had a relationship with a man. Except, almost, with Miles.”

We're sitting on opposite ends of Ellyn's sofa, facing one another, both wearing pajamas and bathrobes, and playing a game, as young girls might, of truth or dare.

Only, it isn't a game.

And we aren't young girls.

We're middle-aged women and one of us, I suspect, is speaking a truth long left unspoken. As I look at Ellyn, I see what I interpret as shame on her face—it's a look I know all too well from years of counseling others.

“Never ever is a long time. How do you feel about that?”

“Is that a counseling question?”

“Just a question from one friend to another.”

She's quiet for a few moments as though she's debating whether or not to answer me. “Do I need to feel one way or another about it?”

“I suppose it depends on whether you made an intentional decision never to date or whether, for one reason or another, it just worked out that way. Is not dating a personal choice?”

She stares at me for another moment. Then she shakes her head in a slow, deliberate movement. “Not exactly. Not at first, anyway. Now, it's just . . .” She leans back against the arm of the sofa. “I . . . don't know.”

“Why Miles? I mean, why now?”

“I told him from the beginning that I didn't date. But he was my doctor, I trusted him. I thought a friendship with him might be . . . nice. He seemed different, you know?”

“Different than Earl?” I watch for her reaction.

She leans forward. “Earl? Earl's not . . .” She leans back again. “I'm . . . exhausted. It was a long, crazy day. I think I'll head to bed.”

“Sure. You need to rest and take care of yourself. You gave us a scare today.”

She nods. “Thanks for being here.”

“I can't think of any place I'd rather be.” And I mean it.

Ellyn stands and comes to my end of the sofa and leans down to give me a hug. “Do you have everything you need? Towels are in the bathroom.”

“Yes, I have everything. Thanks. I'll stay up a while longer.”

“Okay. Good night.”

I watch as she walks to the stairs, her gait sure, and then climbs the stairs to her room.

Why has she never dated? And who is Earl? I hoped Ellyn might let her guard down tonight. But she's right, it was a long day, especially for her. She'll talk when and if she's ready.

I stretch my legs out on Ellyn's sofa, lean back against the armrest, and close my eyes. It was a long day for me too, beginning with the call from Miles this morning. A knot forms in my stomach at the memory.

I take a deep breath and exhale.

The day didn't end as I feared it might.

But it was still long . . . Miles's call, rushing to the hospital, the conversation with Miles, bringing Ellyn home, and . . . Twila coming to the door and the fool I made of myself with her. Embarrassment warms my face as I consider it again.

But it was a valuable day. A day where the past and present collided—my fears based on past circumstances triggered by Ellyn's incident and my grief, my guilt, triggered by Twila's resemblance to Ashley.

The realization that I've lost who I am to fear and guilt was powerful.

Will I allow that collision and realization to impact my future behavior? Will I allow it to heal and transform me? A deep weariness settles over me—a familiar lethargy. I open my eyes and shift on the sofa so that my feet are on the floor again. I push myself up and switch off the lamps in the living room. Then I climb the two flights of stairs to Ellyn's guest room.

Upon entering the room, I walk to each of the two windows and pull the shades down. Then I cross the room to the French door that leads to the small balcony and the stairs to the upper deck. Before I pull the shade on the door, I crack the door open and peek outside.

The crisp night air lures me, so I open the door wide and step out onto the dark balcony. I rest my hands on the railing and close my eyes. The sound of the battering surf is like nails screeching against a chalkboard. But I will myself to stand still and if not listen, at least endure the sound.

The conundrum of earlier today comes back to me now. How do I reconcile my respect for others who believe in God? Eyes still closed, I shake my head. “I'm surrounded by people who believe in You.”

How can I talk to someone or something I don't believe exists?

The question nags and a shiver runs up my spine. “It's cold out here.”

I turn to go, but before I do, I open my eyes. The screeching has stopped. In its place, the rhythm of the waves becomes a melodious concerto rivaling that of any of the great classical composers. It accompanies the dance of a multitude of stars overhead.

Tears prick my eyes. I turn and walk back into Ellyn's guest room. I shut the door to the balcony and pull the shade to the bottom of the door. Then I stand and catch my breath. I place one hand over my pulsing heart. The melody of the sea beyond the closed door plays on, tempting me, wooing me, to . . .

Believe.

And for a few seconds, a moment in time, I almost feel I can believe once again.

But heaven and earth and everything in them on all sides tell me to love you. Nor do they cease to tell everyone that “they are without excuse” (Rom. 1:20).

Saint Augustine

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Ellyn

I wake to the
dark gray of early morning, having slept straight through the night. I sit up in bed, glance out the window, and then assess how I feel after yesterday's hospital escapade.

I feel . . . great!

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, stand up, and make my way to the bathroom without even a limp.

You were fine yesterday. You made a big deal out of nothing.

“Shut up, Earl.”

Once I've taken care of business, including brushing my teeth and running a brush through my mane, I go to my closet and exchange the pajamas I'm wearing for sweats and a jacket. I slip my socked feet into my tennis shoes, bend and tie the shoes, and then stand to make sure I really feel as well as I think I do.

And . . . I do.

I won't let Earl dampen my spirits.

I emerge from the closet, check the clock—7:05 a.m—and hope Sabina will sleep in. I'm not familiar with her morning habits, but she seems like one who might linger in bed. I make my way downstairs, set a pot of coffee to brew, and leave Sabina a note on the counter under a mug next to the coffeemaker.

Then I go out the back door, tread through the dew-dampened grass, and out the gate that opens onto a path on the headlands.

Better take it slow, big girl. You don't need to cause a stir again today.

“I thought you said I was fine?”

Well, that heart of yours can't last under the weight of you forever, you know.

As I walk, I put my fingers in my ears and sing “The Star Spangled Banner” until I'm sure
you know who
has fled my squawking rendition of our nation's anthem. However, I do heed Earl's advice and amble toward the cliffs rather than sprint.

As if you could really sprint.

“‘Oh, say can you seeeee . . .'”

By the time I reach the cliffs, I'm winded, but nothing like I was yesterday, or even like I've felt when walking with Sabina the last few weeks. I turn and look back at my house, the sun just peeking up over the mountains that set the backdrop for the water tower and the village. The morning is still. Silent, except for the surf and the occasional squall of a seagull.

I leave the trail and walk to the edge of the cliff to look out over the vast expanse. With the exception of sleeping last night, these are the first minutes I've had to myself since Miles rode in on his white horse yesterday—or white Jeep Grand Cherokee, as was the case.

While I watch the motion of the sea, the events of yesterday replay.
Lord, what happened?
As I ask, Earl's accusation that I made a big deal out of nothing repeats. Somewhere, deep inside, I believe him.

Why didn't I just get into my car and drive home yesterday? I just needed rest. I'm just out of shape. What's wrong with me?

Tears of shame sting my eyes. “I'm sorry.” I whisper my apology to God. What I'm apologizing for, I'm not sure. Just for being, I think. I look down and kick at a rock imbedded in dirt until it loosens and goes over the side of the cliff. As I do, memories return of the wonder and awe I felt yesterday when Miles suggested that God interceded and healed me.

Confusion fogs my pathetic red head. Things don't add up.

My symptoms.

The differing EKGs and diagnoses.

Dr. Ngyuen's conclusion that the opposing diagnoses were a
medical mystery
.

Part of me wants to believe a miracle took place—that God healed me.

But . . .

Why would God waste a miracle on me?

As doubt intrudes, I watch cotton-candy clouds drift on the horizon followed by dark, angry billows. Fear settles in my chest, somewhere near my heart—the heart Earl assures me is failing.

But it's not your everyday, yikes-there's-a-spider kind of fear.

No.

It's reverent fear.

I step back from the cliff.

“I'm sorry.” This time, I know what I'm apologizing for. I remain standing, but my soul is prostrate, humbled before God. Confusion passes. Cognition returns. And my
failing
heart beats strong and steady.

So there, Earl!

God healed me.

How dare I doubt Him, or worse, accuse Him of wasting a miracle on me. Me. The one He sacrificed His own Son to save.

Tears flow now.

There is no condemnation in my clarity.

No condemnation!

Only conviction.

Here you go, making a mountain out of a molehill again.

The voice in my head interrupts, but is it Earl, or . . .

My mother.

Yes, it's her voice. After all, how many times did I hear her say those words as I grew up.

Too many to count.

I smile. “Yeah, yeah, Mom, it's me, the drama queen again. But that's okay—this is how God wired me.” I smile.
Oh Lord, thank You.

Thank You.

Thank You for healing me.

When I walk back
into my kitchen, Sabina is sitting at the table, the note I left is on the table in front of her, and she's sipping a mug of coffee.

“There you are. I was going to give you five more minutes and if you weren't back I was going to call Dr. Charming to gather a search party.”

“Dr. Charming?”

She smiles. “How do you feel?”

“Great.”

She tilts her head to one side and looks at me for a minute. “You know . . . I think you look better than you have since we met. There's a glow about you. It seems you made an amazing recovery, my friend.”

“Not amazing. Miraculous.”