Invisible (38 page)

You look like a giant sequoia.

I turn away from the mirror and start to take the sweater off, but then I recall Twila's suggestion. I stand for a moment with my back to the mirror, then I pull the sweater into place and turn to the mirror again.

I look . . .

I swallow.

Then I take in my red curls, cascading over my shoulders, and I notice the way my light green eyes shine against my milky complexion.

I look like a beautiful child of God. Created in His image.

Somewhere in the background of my mind, Earl still mumbles, but my mind is elsewhere. “Thank You, Lord . . .” The prayer whispers out of me as I stare at the image reflected in the mirror. I'm not sure what I'm thanking Him for, but it is the first time I've ever looked into a mirror and responded with gratitude.

“How's it going in there?” Sabina stands outside the dressing room. “Ready for a few more things?”

My reflection smiles at me. “It's actually not going too horrible. Sure, give me a few more things.”

We leave the boutique
with bags full of clothes and accessories. The only shopping I've done in years has been ordering chef's pants, smocks, and clogs online, along with an occasional pair of sweats. Today I spent more than I've ever spent in one store. But I have the money, so why not use it?

“Where am I going to wear all these clothes?”

“Well, your first event is coffee with Miles tomorrow.”

My stomach does a somersault. “Oh. Right.” I stop at my car parked along the street. “Do you have time to go over to Thanksgiving's?”

“I have all the time in the world, girl.”

“Okay, let me put these in the trunk and then . . . I want to . . . I want to talk to you about . . . Earl.”

Sabina just nods. “Sure.”

I appreciate her subtle reaction.

We settle into a
table at Thanksgiving's, Sabina with her café au lait and me with a nonfat latte.

“Look, real milk.”

“You're no longer a vegan?”

“No, it didn't really suit me.”

Sabina laughs. “How could a diet void of butter ever suit you?”

“I don't know what I was thinking.” I take a sip of the latte. “Mmm . . . even though the milk is nonfat, it's wonderful.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, each sipping our coffee.

“So . . . Earl. Who is he?”

I start to answer, but nothing comes out. Because the answer isn't what I expected. It takes a moment, but I finally say it out loud. “She.”

“She who?”

“Earl.”

“Earl is a woman?”

I'm as surprised as Sabina. I take a deep breath . . . and know. Absolutely. Earl is a woman. And in my heart, I think I've known it all along. “Yes, her name is actually . . .”

Am I really about to say this?
Can
I say it?

“Ellyn?”

I hold up one hand. “Just . . . just give me a minute.”

“You can do this. And somehow, I know freedom resides on the other side of this conversation.”

Freedom.
The meaning of the word washes over me. Am I really bound? Yes. And freedom is possible? “How can you know that?”

“Maybe Twila's wearing off on me.” Her tone is soft. “Or maybe God is speaking to me—through me, to you.” She shakes her head. “Can you imagine?”

Can I imagine? “Yes, I can.” I take a deep breath. “Okay . . .
Her
name is . . . Earleen.”

“Who is Earleen?”

“Earleen, or Earl for short, is the voice I hear in my head. My accuser. The one who makes certain I never get a big head by reminding me how big my backend is, among other things.”

“I see. But why Earl or Earleen? Where did you come up with the name?

Don't you dare, big girl.

I wipe my palms on my pants and then clasp my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. Oh yes. I dare. You bet I dare. It's time. Long past time. “Earleen Amelia DeMoss.”

“DeMoss?”

“Yep.”

Understanding dawns on Sabina's features. The same understanding that just dawned in my heart.

“Earl is your mother.”

It's a statement, not a question. I angle a look at her. “You're not surprised?”

“Not really. A mother is a powerful force in a child's life, even when that child becomes an adult. That impact can be positive or negative—most often it's a combination of both. But mothers don't have to determine who we ultimately become.”

If only that were true! “Even now, at forty-six? I think it's too late, I
became
a long time ago.”

“We're always becoming, Ellyn. Always growing and changing, unless we're stuck, the way I've been. The way I think you may be too. But no, it's never too late to change—to become—it's a lifetime process. I'm a living example of that. So what's her role in your life?”

“My mother?” I shrug. “After my father died, I ran away—from her, I think. I was an only child and I felt . . . I don't know, sort of suffocated by her, I guess. I think she meant well and loved me, in her own way, but”—I shrug again—“now, I keep distance between us. It feels better that way, at least to me. And yet . . . she's always with me. In Earl.”

Even as I say these things, I marvel at them. So this is how it feels to have an epiphany. “I guess I've always known, on some level, that Earl was my mother, or at least born of my relationship with her. It's sort of like Earl is the evil spawn of my mother.” I raise my eyebrows and smile.

“Which would make your mother an alien or a fish?”

“Well, not exactly, but I'm not sure she's human, either. Unless a human can survive without a heart.”

“Oh, Ellyn. I'm sorry.”

Sabina's response carries none of the levity I'm trying to maintain. I try to laugh, but the laughter catches against the lump forming in my throat.

“Oh.” I look away from Sabina and try to put what I'm feeling into words. “I . . . I've never let myself . . . I've never really thought about this, or analyzed it. It just is and always has been. I try to ignore what Earl says in my head, but I've heard those accusations for so long . . .”

“How much of what Earl says are things your mother actually said or says to you?”

I turn away from her. “Oh. No . . . she didn't . . . I mean, maybe . . . but . . .” This conversation is sitting on my chest like a circus elephant. I turn back to Sabina and shake my head. “I thought I wanted to talk about this, but . . .”

“We don't have to talk about it. But I think talking about it with someone, a counselor, is important.”

“Oh great, we're back to me seeing a shrink?”

“Ellyn, it sounds like you've listened to that voice for most of your life. It might be good to have support, someone who can help you change something so woven into your being.”

She has a point. I don't know that I've ever
not
heard Earl. Or my mother. Or . . . I can't believe all those accusations, all those condemnations, are the voice of my mother. But for the first time, I'm certain that is who they began with.

It is my own mother's voice the enemy has used against me.

“Of course, that is
if
you want to change.”

What? “If? Why wouldn't I want to?”

“Change, even good change, can be frightening. It leads to an unfamiliar emotional landscape. A place where things are new, different, unknown. Sometimes we prefer the known to the unknown.”

A twitch, just above my eye, nags as Sabina talks. “Look at me, I'm a nervous wreck just at the thought of it. Maybe I'll ask Twila who she sees.”

“Now that”—her warm smile spreads across her features—“is a great idea.”

After Sabina and I
part ways, I head to the café, but her comment plays on my mind:
Of course, that is if you want to change.
Figuring out how much of Earl is really Earleen could prove . . . healing.

For me.

And for my relationship with my mom.

Oh.

Is a healthy relationship with my mom even possible? If so, do I want that?

No.

Nope.

Not even a little bit.

I sigh. What's
wrong
with me that I wouldn't want a better relationship with my mom? Haven't I forgiven her? Yes, I have. Over and over and over again!

The circus elephant is now tap-dancing on my chest.

I set my purse on the desk in the office and then go to the kitchen to take care of a few things.

Forgiven me? For what? You're the one who let me down. Over and over and over again, I might add.

I walk into the refrigerator, the cold air a slap on my hot face. I stand for a moment and stare at the trays filled with ramekins of cooling crème brûlée. One of our most popular desserts. I developed the recipe myself. The secret is the lavender steeped in the boiling milk and cream.

But as much as I want to concentrate on that, I can't. Earl's accusation demands my attention.

Okay. Yes, I did and do let my mother down on a regular basis. Earl speaks truth. As a child and through my teen years, I was a daddy's girl. My mother always pointed that out, and never in a good way. Always as though it was a bad thing. Almost as though . . .

My eyes widen.

It almost seemed as though my mother was jealous of my relationship with my dad.

But that's ridiculous.

I shake my head. Whatever the case, I was a disappointment to her as a daughter.

I turn and walk out of the refrigerator, cross the kitchen, and take a spoon from the trays of flatware. I am, and always have been, everything my mother isn't. She's a tall, slender, beautiful brunette. Hair coiffed and nails manicured at all times. I, her only child, got my father's red curls and green eyes. As for manicures?

Never in my life had one.

If I hadn't given birth to you myself, I'd think you belonged to someone else.

“Come on, Earl. Like I haven't heard that from you a million times.”

Not just from Earl, though. I can hear my mother saying it. See her expression, as though she's taken a bite of something bitter.

Standing back in the refrigerator, I take a ramekin off the tray and dip the spoon into the cool custard. Later, one of the staff will use a small torch to burn sugar into a caramelized crust on top of each crème brûlée. But now, it's just the creamy custard base. I put a bite in my mouth and savor the sweet concoction.

I take another bite.

Enjoy it. In fact, when you finish that one, help yourself to another.

No. One is enough. I am made in the image of God. Made in the image of God. Made in the image . . .

I take the last bite and then scrape the spoon around the edge of the ramekin to get any of the remaining custard.

I lick the spoon clean.

You're made in the image of your father, who betrayed me, just like you're going to betray me. Who are you kidding, Ellyn?

I frown at that. Dad betrayed you, Earl? What do you mean?

You know what I mean. He was just like all the others, Ellyn. Just like all men. You know that. I've told you so. They all want just one thing and once they get it, they'll toss you aside. It happened over and over again. Men will ruin you. Have another crème brûlée.

I reach for another ramekin and dip the spoon into the custard. I lift it to my mouth—

And stop.

My father wouldn't have betrayed my mother. He wouldn't. He was a man of God. I know he was. But . . .

I lift the spoon to my lips.

“No!”

I hurl the spoon across the refrigerator and it clangs against one of the metal shelves and then falls to the ground. “No! No! No! I'm done with your lies!” I lift my arm—and the ramekin of crème brûlée over my head—ready to smash it too. But again—

I stop.

I walk out of the refrigerator, go to the sink, turn on the hot water, and rinse the custard from the cup. I watch as it goes down the drain. Why smash it and make a big mess for myself to clean up?

I lean against the countertop and wipe away the tears I didn't even realize I'd shed. Somehow, my mother's pain, her dysfunction, is wound around my soul, suffocating who I am . . . or who I was meant to be. It's not her fault.

My eyes widen again.

It's not her fault.

All those things she said . . . they came from hurt. Deep, piercing pain. And I was never strong enough to stand against the power of that pain when it came out in her words.

But that is all changing now.

Now that I know who I am.

I am a woman created in the image of God. And that image fills me with awe.

I go get the flying spoon from the refrigerator, put it in the sink, and then go to the office. I sit down at the desk and pick up the phone.

“Hi, Twila. Honey, I'd like to get a name and phone number from you.”

May your mercy illuminate me . . .

Saint Augustine

Chapter Fifty-One

Miles