Invisible

INVISIBLE

Jeanne Bannon

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

Publisher’s Note:

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

Solstice
Publishing - www.solsticepublishing.com

Jeanne Bannon

2011

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the women in my life.

In particular my mother, Nina, my grandmother “Mama” and my daughters, Nina and Sara.

Chapter One

“
Lola, get your suit on and help supervise the pool,” Justine, the athletic, sun-kissed, twenty-one-year-old camp director orders once we get off the bus. “The more eyes the better.”

Immediately my heart takes off in a sprint. “What? Why?” I try to hide the wobble in my voice.

Curious, expectant gazes turn to me as my fellow counsellors wait with evil half-smiles for my reaction. Although I haven’t told a soul, except my best friend Charlie, how I feel about wearing a bathing suit, they know my private horror. It’s the horror of every fat girl.

Justine flips through the sheets on her clipboard. She runs a finger down the column of names. “No campers will be sitting out today.”

The impossible has just happened. Not one kid was sick, or had left their bathing suit at home. In my three summers as a counsellor, not once has this happened.

For a long, awkward moment, I stand frozen in place wondering how to get out of this. A sudden migraine? My period? My mouth opens, but no words come.

Justine leaves and with her, my chance for escape. I’m left teary-eyed, searching through my bag for my black one piece. Stuffing away the panic, I march past the onlookers, who I have never considered my friends despite working with them the entire summer. In the change room, I find an empty stall and with great reluctance, pull on my suit.

It’s my last day of work as a camp counsellor at Inglewood Day Camp. My group of kids consists of eight six-year olds — four boys and four girls. On Thursdays we take the campers to the local outdoor swimming pool. It’s a short ride, only five minutes on the creaky old school bus and my job is to watch the kids who won’t be swimming; either because they don’t feel well, or they’ve forgotten their swimsuits. Believe me, this job suits me just fine. As a matter of fact, I volunteered for it.

Not only am I fat, I’m freakishly tall. God only knows why, since Mom is petite and Dad is on the short side. My older sister Eva is the spitting image of Mom, fair and fine boned. I take after Dad’s side, bulky, dark and thick. Dad says I must have gotten some of Uncle Sammy’s genes, the giant of the Savullo family, who tops out at 6ft 4 inches. Anyway, I’m sure you’re getting a good mental picture right about now.

My insides drop as if I placed a foot on a step that wasn’t there when I peer down at the coarse dark hair creeping from my calves to just past my knees, where it gradually peters out. Then I run a hand across the tops of my thighs. The triple bulge of my belly prevents me from a good look at my sorely neglected bikini area. Even in the blazing August sun, I wear baggy cotton Capri pants, never exposing more than an ankle. There’s never been a reason to shave. My eyes mist with tears, but I pinch them away. It’ll be hard enough to go out in public like this, but I won’t give
them
the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I lift my chin in resolve and open the door.

The whistle blows, signalling the beginning of the session. Screams of delight fill the air, as the kids jump into the pool to find relief from the 90-degree heat.

I fasten a towel around my waist as best I can. Towels never seem large enough to wrap completely and comfortably around the bulge of my stomach. To the pool I go, treading silently so as not to draw attention.

“
Where’s Lola?” Sonia, a fellow counsellor, asks.

At first I think she’s joking because I’m right in front of her. I toss her an annoyed look and don’t bother to answer as I trudge past to the edge of the pool, where I pull off my towel and slip into the water.

“
She’s probably taken off,” Jerod replies. He’s a year younger than I am, but looks older with his muscular build and chiselled jaw line. The girls love him. “I hope she doesn’t show,” he continues. “Who wants to see a hippo in a bathing suit anyway?”

Sonia laughs, a little too hard and places a hand on Jerod’s shoulder.

Puzzlement and anger compete on my face. I’m standing no more than three feet away from them. I’m used to rude comments and I know what everyone thinks of me, but this is way beyond mean. The tears in my eyes spill down my cheeks and I slip under the water, hoping to wash away the evidence of my pain. Not that anyone would care, but crying could give them more ammunition; just another reason to taunt me.

Kids bounce around me, laughing and playing. Justine stands like a sentinel, looking like a Bay Watch babe in her red suit, one hand gripping an emergency flotation device. Her steel blue eyes are focused on the activity in the pool.

Jerod jumps in, nearly landing on my back. I barely have time to leap out of the way. My anger boils; blood rushes to my temples and pounds there, giving me an instant headache. I hurl myself at him, pushing with all my might, elbows aimed at his chest. I hit nothing but air and fly into the rough concrete wall of the pool, scraping a hole in my one piece and rubbing raw a patch of skin. Small blood pinpricks rise to the surface.

“
Hey!” I scream, bewildered. How’d he manoeuver out of the way so fast?

Jerod slips under the water and emerges at the other end of the pool in one long, slick glide.

The steel in me comes up, anger replacing humiliation. I pull my bulk out of the water and march over to Justine.

“
Did you see what that asshole just did?” I bellow.

Justine brings the whistle that hangs from her neck to her lips and blows two sharp blasts, making my ears ring. “Stop horsing around,” she calls to a group of boys, who offer sheepish grins and stop instantly.

I step forward so she can see me. “Justine?” I reach to touch her shoulder but, impossibly, my hand falls
through
her.

“
Justine?” I call again, louder, my voice panic-laced. With both hands, I grab her, or
try
to. Again, it’s as if she’s not there.

My mind is swept along in a current of anxiety.
What’s happening?

Then it hits me... it’s me who’s not there.

Chapter Two

Eight months later
. . .

I love Sunday afternoons. That’s the day I spend time with Grandma Rose, my maternal grandmother. My sister Eva hasn’t bothered much with her since she found a boyfriend, not that she spent much time with Gran before that anyway. But now she has an excuse not to visit her eighty-year-old grandmother. Age doesn’t matter to me. Grandma Rose is the coolest person I know and I adore being with her. She’s very creative and loves to sketch and paint in watercolors, acrylics and oils. Her apartment is jam-packed with artwork.

After turning my key in the lock, I almost trip over a canvas as I make my way into her small one-bedroom apartment. Last year she gave me a key of my own and told me, “Just come on in anytime, Kiddo.” And so I do.

“
Hey, there’s my girl,” Grandma Rose says, a huge smile on her paint-smeared face. Her auburn hair sticks up in all directions, looking as if she hasn’t bothered to run a comb through it this morning. She was probably too eager to start painting. Nevertheless, you won’t find a white hair on Gran’s head. She’s diligent with her dye jobs. White hair makes a woman old, she says.

She’s standing in the solarium off the living room where the light’s best. A canvas almost as tall as she is sits on an easel. Grandma Rose is short and I feel like a beast beside her. I don’t think she’s even five feet tall.

“
Hi Gran,” I say as I walk over to take a peek at her latest creation. I’m met with a startlingly huge portrait of John Travolta from his “Welcome Back Kotter” days. I give my head a slow shake of wonder and stifle a giggle.

“
What made you paint this?” I ask.

“
Oh honey, I just go with whatever pops into my head and this morning it was John.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her the only way I knew it was John Travolta was by the picture resting on the table beside her paints. Grandma Rose may be bursting with creative juices, but she has little real artistic ability. But as long as she doesn’t know it, what does it matter? It’s what makes her happy and I’m happy when she’s happy.

Gran moves to the kitchen to rinse off her brushes and eyes me suspiciously. “Somethin’ the matter?” she asks.

She’s a human barometer of emotion. It’s like she’s psychic, at least when it comes to me. She can tell by one glance whenever something’s not quite right.

“
The usual,” I reply, throwing my bulk onto the overstuffed couch.

“
Did it happen again?” she asks.

Grandma Rose isn’t talking about the invisible thing. I haven’t told her about that. I haven’t told anyone. What could I say anyway? No one would believe me. Gran’s asking whether my mom has embarrassed me yet again; our usual topic of conversation and my usual complaint.

My vanishing episode happened eight months ago and so far, it hasn’t happened again. Thank God, ’cause I really freaked out when no one could see or hear me that day at the pool. It was only for a few minutes, but it felt like a small forever. I’d never been so happy to be the butt of a joke as I was when I heard the laughter and saw the fingers pointing in my direction. That’s when I knew I was back, hairy-legged and fat. Everything back to normal.

The events of that day roll around in my mind a lot and I’ve tried to figure out what happened. I even did a Google search and the only things I came up with were that I had a hallucination, or somehow slipped into another dimension. I’m not sure about either of those explanations and as time passes, the more unreal it seems. Maybe it was just a dream.

Grandma Rose heaves a sigh. Her shoulders rise and fall as she continues to clean paint-speckled bristles. “Your mom’s always been kinda different. I don’t know what else to tell you. She certainly doesn’t take after me.”