Invisible (12 page)

Yep, I'm relieved.

I roll over and pull the covers close around me.

Now, it's time for sleep.

But it is still a long time in coming . . .

“Wha . . .”
I reach out, batting the air, feeling . . . “What . . .” I roll over still feeling for . . . something.

The phone.

I close my fingers around it, lift it from the base. “Hel . . . um . . . Hello?” I try to sit up, but instead my head hits the pillow again. “Hel . . . lo?” My voice sounds like I have a throat full of gravel.

“Ellyn, are you sick?”

“Um . . . sick?”

“Bella, are you okay? We were supposed to meet early this morning with the new produce vendor, remember?”

“Oh no, no I . . . yes . . . but no.”

“What? Bella, wake up.”

Again, I try to sit up, but pain pushes me back down. “Paco?”

“Yes . . .”

“I'm not . . . feeling well. I'm sorry. You handle the vendor, okay?”

“No problem. Do you need anything?”

“No. Just . . . just give me some time. I'll call you in”—I turn my head and look at the neon blue numbers on the digital clock on my nightstand—“an hour.” Then I hang up the phone.

I close my eyes again, still on my side after reaching for the phone. My legs ache. My hip burns, as do the arm and shoulder I'm lying on. The sheet and blanket weigh on the sunny-side-up part of my body, causing it to hurt too.

I think back to yesterday and last night. Coffee and cookies—caffeine and sugar. I lift my arm, which feels like a bag of cement mix, and put my palm on my forehead. How many cookies did I eat?

You know better.

I do know better. I'm so . . . lame.

I can't imagine getting out of bed, nor can I imagine staying in bed. There are no good options.

And there's no one to blame but myself.

I set myself up with the caffeine and sugar, which led to the lack of sleep, which only exacerbates the symptoms—or at least they do sometimes. There's no real pattern. But not even my memory-foam mattress can help me this morning.

Fibromyalgia.

The diagnosis I've tried to ignore. After all, if I deny it, it will go away. That's my theory. Or was my theory. I still think the pain just comes from the extra weight on my frame.

You're fat; therefore you deserve to hurt.

I scoot to the edge of the bed, each movement a chore, and then I sort of roll myself into a sitting position. I put my feet on the floor and stand, pushing myself up from the mattress, but my knees buckle under me and I fall back into a sitting position. I look down at my body, searching for the tread marks left behind by the eighteen-wheeler that must have run over me sometime after I fell asleep. Instead, I notice the rolls of fat making my pajama top protrude.

This morning, I relate to Sabina's depression.

I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling until I can no longer stand the pain in my back. Then I sit back up, reach for the phone, and call Paco back.

“Hey, I'll be there by noon.”

“Don't push. Everything here is under control.”

“I'm fine. I'll be there by 1:00 at the latest.”

I won't give in to this. I hang up the phone and then push myself up, this time using the nightstand as leverage. Once standing, I wait until I feel steady and then edge my way along the bed, letting go only when I've run out of mattress to hold on to. I take halting steps to the bathroom, where I'll soak in a hot tub until the pain eases.

I hope.

I don't climb out of the tub until long after the water is tepid. My first step onto the bathmat tells me the bath didn't do the trick.

I sigh.

Maybe it's time to call Twila and set an appointment to meet.

Maybe?

Okay, okay. It is time to call.

She's my last hope.

What is more pitiable than a wretch without pity for himself who weeps over death . . . but not weeping over himself dying for his lack of love for you . . .

Saint Augustine

Chapter Fifteen

Sabina

It isn't that I
don't love Antwone. I do. But I find it difficult, at this juncture, to relate to him. I discussed this with Jana, my therapist, before I left. I knew I owed it to myself and to my family to seek help, after all that occurred. And I owed it to my clients to take care of my own emotional health as I was transitioning them into new counseling relationships.

I am, after all, a professional.

Jana was helpful, although, my own education and experience far outweigh hers, but that doesn't mean she isn't effective. She asked many questions about my relationship with Antwone, but that wasn't really the issue I was there to address.

In simple terms, what Jana and I came up with was that, for a time, I've lost track of myself, of who I am. Having done so makes it difficult to engage with the person who knows me best—or who thinks he knows me best. My need for distance from Antwone is a symptom of the issue—not the issue itself. Although Jana wanted to unearth deeper reasons for our unsettled relationship, I assured her there is nothing more to uncover.

Once I heal from the core issue, the presenting symptoms will vanish. That is my professional opinion, not Jana's. But I haven't lost all of myself. I still know myself well enough to know what I need. I explained that to Antwone again last night when I called him. He may not understand, but the fact that I called and checked in soothed him. He is respectful of my need for space and wise enough to know it isn't about him.

Nor is it all about me.

I do recognize that as well now. But I lost sight of that in the haze of emotional pain. I also shared that with Antwone last night. He deserves more than I'm able to give him now. But time is a healer. I can't expect him to put his life on hold for a year while I wait and work toward healing. So my decision, my need for space, comes with risk.

But I see my shift in thinking—the new awareness that my isolation is keeping me focused on self rather than including others in my thinking and choices. The awareness came again after my long afternoon with Ellyn.

I take a sip from the mug of coffee I'm warming my hands around.

Not only are my hands warming, but my heart is thawing as well, I hope. Perhaps it was the laughter, or the natural way in which we connected, or maybe it was Ellyn herself—the warmth that radiates from her. Maybe just her presence broke through a layer of ice encapsulating my heart. My soul.

I look forward to spending more time with her.

I get up from the leather chair, my back to the view, and go into the kitchen and rinse my now-empty mug. As I finish rinsing and reach for a towel, something catches my attention outside the window over the sink. Something flits in the pine tree across the street. I stand for a moment trying to see it among the branches, whatever it was that caught my eye. Just as I'm ready to turn away, it darts from the branches, a silhouette against the gray afternoon sky. As it spreads its wings, snippets of a poem taunt me.

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!”

I turn from the sink, turn away from the raven outside the window, but the stanza repeats in my mind.

. . . bird or devil!

I stop in the doorway between the kitchen and the bedroom and close my eyes. I see the lines of poetry scrawled across my mind.

“On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

I open my eyes and walk to the bed, my vision blurs with tears.

Nevermore

Nevermore . . .

I rip the coverlet off the bed, and tear the blankets and sheet back before collapsing across the bed. Tears slip down my cheeks and soon turn to sobs, which rack my body. But the sobs go unheard. They are buried in a pillow.

They are mine alone.

There is no balm.

No comfort.

Nor will there ever be.

I am ruined.

[Friendship] is not possible unless you bond together those who cleave to one another by the love which is “poured into our hearts by the Holy Spirit who is given to us” (Rom. 5:5).

Saint Augustine

Chapter Sixteen

Miles

“How was your coffee
date yesterday?”

I'm sitting across from Nerissa at a table next to the Living Light Café in the old Company Store building in Fort Bragg, where we each ordered a Green Giant, which Nerissa recommended. It's an acquired taste, I assume.

“It wasn't a date. She says she doesn't date. So it was two friends having coffee together.”

“So how was your coffee klatch with your friend Ellyn?”

I chuckle. “It was good. I enjoyed the time.” I lean back in my seat. “I enjoyed her.”

Nerissa nods and then moves on.

“Thank you again for dinner the other night. I didn't intend for you to pay for it when I invited you. But I did appreciate it. I think Twila enjoyed it too.”

I take another sip of the green drink, shake my head, and then set it aside. “Hold on a minute. Is that it? That's all you're going to ask me about the time with Ellyn? I thought female friends pried things out of their male counterparts.”

Nerissa's smile reaches her gray eyes. “Ah, so that's how it is.” She sets her cup on the table and leans forward. “So, Miles, what did your time with Ellyn evoke in you? How did you feel?” She winks.

“Thank you for asking, Nerissa.” I smile and then turn serious. “It evoked . . . confusion.”

Her smile fades and is replaced by a look of compassion.

“What confused you?”

I look past Nerissa. Sarah and I were together for so long it seemed she most always knew what I was feeling, most of the time she knew what I felt before I did. I'm rusty at putting words to feelings. But then it comes to me and I look back at Nerissa. “For the ninety minutes I was with Ellyn, Sarah only came to mind once or twice.”

“Are you struggling with guilt?”

“Maybe. But I know that's not from God. I think it's more grief—the idea of moving on.”

“Moving on won't diminish your love for Sarah.”

“I guess not.” I pick up my cup again and put the straw in my mouth and give the Giant one more try. “What is in this?”

“Greens, celery, ginger—”

I hold up my hand. “Never mind. It's good for me.”

“Would I lead you astray, my friend?”

I laugh. “No.” I lean forward again. “Look at us,
our
friendship is easy. I didn't feel that ease with Ellyn. I enjoyed her, but I don't think she was at ease.”

“Our friendship developed naturally—you came into the store looking for help—I was there. And you were going through so much, Miles. You needed a friend. And besides that, our boundaries were clear.”

“I was married.”

She nods. “Right. I also needed a friend, someone to help me work through the issues with Twila. You were the natural person to do that. And after Sarah passed, we were and are content to remain friends.”

I look across at Nerissa—long dark hair, steel-gray eyes, and milky complexion. No makeup. Simple clothing. She embodies Mendocino's organic and holistic culture. We didn't meet women like her in Danville when we lived there. As much as I appreciate her, I've never felt more than friendship for her.

But with Ellyn . . .

“What are you thinking?”

I reach across the table and give her hand a squeeze. “I'm thinking how much I appreciate you, gal, and your friendship.” I pull my hand back. “I'm also thinking about Ellyn and what I want.”

She cocks her head to one side. “What do you want?”

“I want to get to know her better—spend time with her.”

“And?”

“And if we enjoy each other, I want the possibility of more. But, she's told me twice now that she doesn't date. She seemed to enjoy our time together too, but . . .”