Invisible (29 page)

She raises one eyebrow. “You're serious?”

I nod. “I am serious.” Although I know Sabina doesn't share my love for God, I tell her of my revelation this morning. I can't keep it to myself. She listens, and I can see she's considering what I say.

“I don't mean to discount what you believe, and no one is more thrilled than I that you pulled through whatever it was that happened yesterday. But . . . why you? I mean, if this miracle is from God rather than a fluke, then why doesn't He do the same for others? For Miles's wife, for . . .” She leaves her sentence hanging. “I don't understand.”

“I don't understand either. As I walked back here, the same question occurred to me. You grew up in church—remember the Bible story of Jesus cooking breakfast on the shore for John and Peter and some of the other disciples after His resurrection?” Sabina nods. “Later, in that same story, after Jesus told Peter to feed His sheep, to care for His followers, He also tells Peter that one day he'll be led where he doesn't want to go.”

Sabina nods. I can tell I'm pushing her patience, but I continue anyway.

“It was a reference to Peter's death—that he'd die a martyr—which he did. He was also crucified. So Peter says to Jesus, ‘What about him?' and points to John. And Jesus says to Peter, ‘What is that to you?' In other words, what's chosen for John is none of your concern. This is about you and Me.”

Sabina takes a sip of her coffee and then raises her eyebrows. “So?” Her tone is sarcastic.

“So . . . that's how God responded to my question this morning. I felt like He said to me, ‘What are they to you?' The others who've died or fought terminal illnesses, like Miles's wife. I . . . I don't mean that to sound callous. It's just that I felt like God said, ‘What happened yesterday wasn't about them, it was about you. You and Me.'” I look down at Sabina, who's still seated at the table. “It's really humbling and I don't understand it all. But there are a lot of things about God that I don't understand. That's . . . all I can tell you.”

“Ellyn, do you really believe God responded to your question this morning? You remembered a Bible story. Big deal.”

“No, it's more than that . . .” I walk to the counter, fill a mug with coffee, and then go sit across from her at the table. “It's hard to explain, but it's a combination of things. I asked God a specific question, then a story from the Bible I hadn't thought of for a long time comes to mind and answers my question. With the answer came a sense of peace.”

I put my hand on my chest. “Right here. I felt it. Plus, I was outside where everything, I mean
everything
, around me speaks of the power of God. All I have to do is look out the window to see God in the beauty of His creation. There's even a verse about that somewhere, about how people who don't believe have no excuse because of everything that God made surrounding them—they see Him through His creation.”

“It's in Romans.”

“What?”

“The verse you're talking about, it's Romans 1:20. Believe me, I know. Antwone quotes it to me all the time.”

“Oh, well, anyway, I know—” I stare at Sabina for a second. “Wait a minute. That's it. That's why you keep the blinds closed and why you turned the chairs in your rental away from the window. That's why you won't walk on the headlands, but insist on walking in the village. That's it, isn't it?”

“What are you talking about?” Sabina gets up and goes to the sink to rinse her mug.

Her back is to me, so I get up and go to the sink. I put my hand on her shoulder. “Sabina, turn around—look at me.” My tone is gentle. She ignores me and keeps rinsing her already clean cup. “Sabina?”

She turns off the water, sets her mug in the sink, and turns around.
“What?”

Oh Lord, help me here.
“You suffered a deep loss when Ashley took her life. I can't . . . I can't even imagine how that must have hit you. You're angry with God. I think that's natural. You're right, He could have intervened with Ashley in some way, just as He intervened with me yesterday. I don't know . . . I don't know why He didn't.”

She takes a deep breath. “What's your point, Ellyn?”

“I think you're so angry with God that you've denied He exists at all. But . . . if you look around you, especially here”—I wave toward the outside—“then your denial is broken. You can't help but see Him. And you don't want to see Him. Right?”

“You don't know what you're talking about. How can I be angry with a God I don't believe exists? Anyway, Ashley's just part of it. You don't know—you have no idea.” She takes a deep breath and exhales. “Listen, I respect your beliefs in the same way I respect Antwone's beliefs. I just don't agree. So let's agree to disagree and move on. All right?”

“I'd like to say one more thing.”

“Go ahead, get it out of your system.”

I look her in the eyes. “It isn't just Antwone's belief, or my belief, it's also Miles's and Twila's and Rosa's and Paco's belief. And a whole lot of others. God's surrounded you, Sabina. He loves you too much to let you walk away from Him, so He's surrounded you with others who believe in Him.”

“Now, you've said what you wanted to say, can we agree to disagree?”

Lord, give her eyes to see.
“There are things we can agree to disagree on, but I won't compromise truth.”

“So what, if I don't agree with your truth, we can't be friends?”

“That's not what I'm saying. I can't force you to believe, nor would I want to.”

“Good. So, what do you eat for breakfast? I'm starved.”

This conversation is over, for now. “Me too. I'll make us some juice to start with.” I smile to myself as I head to the refrigerator for kale and carrots.

Maybe some pond sludge will improve Sabina's sight.

It is not the impurity of food I fear but that of uncontrolled desire.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Forty

Twila

When I walk out
of Corners after my shift on Friday evening, there's a black Mercedes sedan parked in front of the store. A tourist. The car looks sort of out of place in the village—like it should be parked in front of a five-star resort instead. As I walk past the front of the car, the driver's-side door opens and a man gets out.

“Twila?”

I stop, like, frozen.

“I've been waiting for you.”

I try to breathe but it's like all the air got sucked out of me and I can't get anymore in.

“You look good. I thought we could get some dinner and catch up.” He looks around. “Are there any decent restaurants here?”

He walks toward me and then stops. “What have you done to yourself?” He gestures toward the tattoo on my cheek, a look of disgust on his face.

I straighten to my full 5' 2" and square my shoulders. “It's a tattoo. I have another one too.” I show him my wrist. “I got them with the money you sent me for graduation.”

“Huh, figures. Kids. I guess now I'll have to pay to have them removed. Well, come on, what kind of greeting is this? Give me a hug and let's go get some dinner. You don't have plans, do you? There can't be anything to do in this town.”

“No, I . . . don't have plans.” I don't hug him and he seems to forget he even mentioned it.

“Good. What's the best restaurant?”

“Um . . . Ellyn's.”

“Okay, get in. Let's go.” He walks back to his car.

I just stand there.

“Twila, hello? Get in.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“No?”

“We can . . . um, walk. It's through there.” I point to the alley that runs alongside Corners.

He looks around again. “Is my car safe here?”

A bubble of anger, like acid, rises from my chest to my throat, but I'm not sure why. I just nod.

“So, let's go.”

His tone is familiar—like when I was a kid—but I hadn't remembered it until now. Then he smiles and . . . I don't know . . .

“Here, give me that backpack over your shoulder. I'll carry it for you. You know, you really do look good except for that thing on your face. Well, that and you're too skinny, but hey, better than too fat, right?” He laughs at what I guess he means as a joke.

I hand him my backpack, turn toward the alley, and start walking. He follows me. Most of the narrow alleys in Mendocino are just walkways cut through the blocks—many are landscaped with plants and flowers. Flowers grow here all year long. I look down and count the red and white cyclamen blooms as we walk and he talks. I can count, but I can't listen. I can't take in what he's saying.

We reach the street, cross, and then I lead him down the street to the alley that comes to Ellyn's garden and then around the side of the café. As we reach the café, the scent of cooking food causes my stomach to lurch. I take a deep breath to keep from gagging. I look back. “I'm not . . . hungry. I had a late lunch.”

“Well, I didn't and I'm starved. Have a drink or a salad or something. I just want to spend some time with you.”

Another bubble pushes from my stomach to my throat.

As we walk in the front entrance, I pray there's a table available so we don't have to go somewhere else.

“Ah, Chica, you here for dinner?” Rosa greets me and then looks over my shoulder. “Two?”

“We don't have a reservation.”

Rosa grabs two menus and puts her arm around me and leads us to a table. “You early, it's okay. We not crowded yet.” Then she leans close to me and whispers in my ear. “You okay? You don't look okay.”

I smile, sort of, and nod.

“Okay, here, you sit here.”

Rosa pulls out a chair for me and once we're both seated she opens the menus and hands one to each of us. “I have de chef and owner come say hello.” Without waiting for a response from my dad, she turns and walks toward the kitchen.

As he looks at his menu, I look at him. It's sort of surreal. His dark hair is graying around his temples and he has a goatee now, which is also turning gray. He's not as tall as I remember, or as handsome.

“So, what's good?” He looks over the menu at me.

“The vegan dishes are great.”

“Vegan?” He shakes his head. “You're just like your mother.”

He doesn't mean that as a compliment.

“Hello.”

Ellyn comes up from behind me and gives my shoulder a squeeze before coming around to the side of the table. She puts her hand out toward my dad. “I'm Ellyn—owner and executive chef.” Her voice sounds different, more formal than usual. When I look up at her, I see she isn't smiling when my dad shakes her hand.

“So owner and executive chef, what's your specialty?”

His tone is condescending and I feel my cheeks burn. “Ellyn's a friend of mine.”

He looks up at her again and then back at me. “Have any friends your own age?”

I look down at the table, unable to look at Ellyn again.

“My specialties are the vegan dishes. But if you're a
carnivore
”—she pauses—“and I'm guessing you are, then the Beef Bourguignon is good.” Then, before he can respond, she puts her hand on my shoulder again. “Twila, may I see you in the kitchen for a moment, Paco has a question about the new dish we created.”

My dad looks at me. “
We
created?”

“Um, yeah, I help Ellyn create some of the . . . never mind . . . I'll be right back.” I get up and follow Ellyn through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

As soon as we're out of sight of the dining room, she turns. “Who
is
that?” She sounds, like, fierce or something. “You're not out with him on a date, are you?”

“What? No. That's my . . .” I turn back toward the dining room, still stuck in that surreal place, where I can't quite believe what's happening. “He's my father.”

“Your father? Oh. I didn't know he was visiting. Not that I needed to know. But Rosa thought you looked upset.”

I look at her and swallow the ache in my throat. “I . . . I didn't know he was coming. He just showed up at the store. He was waiting.”

“Does your mom know he's here?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. She would have told me.”

“Do you want to call her?”

“No. Not now.”

“Honey, are you okay?”

I see the concern on Ellyn's face and for some reason, that makes me want to cry. But instead, I take a deep breath and nod my head. “I'm . . . okay.”

Ellyn hesitates. “Well, I'm here if you need me. And you know Rosa will be watching every move he makes.” She smiles.

I nod again. “Thanks.” I turn to go back to the dining room, but then stop and turn back and give Ellyn a hug. “Really, thanks.”