Invisible (23 page)

Until I no longer exist.

It's that part of myself, that void, I'm learning to open to God.

A cold wind blows around me, but I'm like a caterpillar cocooned in the layers I'm wearing. As I stare at the bright blues of the sea and sky, at the sun lowering on the horizon, my eyes water. Soon, I can't tell the difference between the tears that come from the sun and the tears that come from the Son. My breath catches. They are like one in a way, filled with the mystique of God.

I pull my now-warm hands out of my pockets and rest them, palms up and open, on my knees. I close my eyes against the brightness, but tears still drip. I wait. I mean, I don't know what I'm waiting for, but because this is my ritual—my experience—I'll recognize it when it comes.

The mantra plays, reverberating through me now. I feel the pounding surf in each pounding beat of my heart. The beats reminding me that I am here, visible, exposed. But I am not here alone.

There is nothing to fear, there is nothing to fear, there is nothing to fear . . .

The growling void settles.

When the sun is hovering just above that horizontal line between sea and sky and the blue tones are washed with yellow, orange, red, lavender, and purple, I stretch out my legs and stand again. My back end is numb from sitting on cold, hard earth. I walk to the edge of the cliff, and stretch my arms high—palms still open.

I close my eyes. “Thank You, thank You, thank You . . .” I whisper it over and over.

When I head back through the grove to my bike, I understand my purpose with Ellyn—the purpose my mom asked about. It's not like I understand what to do or how to do it. It's more like a knowing, an assurance—that God is doing it.

Through me.

I just have to show up.

Before I get on my bike, I push the sleeve of my hoodie back and look at my wrist.

Imago Dei.

Then I hop on my bike and head to Ellyn's café.

While I pass from the discomfort of need to the tranquility of satisfaction, the very transition contains for me the insidious trap of uncontrolled desire.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Thirty

Ellyn

I look up from
the steaming pot and see Twila peeking into the kitchen. I wave her in. “Hi, there. What's up?” I wipe my hands on my apron and meet her just past the swinging doors into the kitchen.

“Hey, I thought I'd come by and say hi, but I know you're busy.”

I give her a hug—she's wrapped in her usual layers. “Wow, you're cold.”

“I've been out on the headlands and then rode my bike here.”

“Ah . . . did you watch the sun set?”

She nods.

“Good. Well, it's the busy time of the evening, but I'm always happy to see you. Want to just hang out, or do you have other plans?”

“Hang out?”

“Sure. Pull up a stool and watch the action.”

“Really? Nice.”

I go to the back of the kitchen and take the tall stool we keep by the phone. I set it where it's out of the way, but where Twila can see what's going on and we can talk a bit. I look back at her. “Are you . . . hungry?”

Does it bother her that I ask?

She puts her hand over her tummy and nods. “Yeah.”

Her smile warms my heart. “Well then, I'll make you a plate of something.”

“Um, I don't have any . . . you know . . . money with me.”

“Oh, no. You don't have to pay for it. You're practically an employee now—you help me develop the vegan dishes.” I smile and wave her concern away. “Anyway, I love feeding my friends.”

“Thanks. So, can I have the polenta dish again?”

I nod. “Sure. That's what I had for my dinner earlier. Give me a few minutes.” I plate a few orders, making certain they're perfect down to the last garnish. Then I prepare an order of the polenta with the sauce of fresh herbed vegetables for Twila. The dish I came up with under duress the first night she came in for dinner with Nerissa and . . . Miles.

“Twila, go grab yourself a napkin and utensils while I plate this.”

Once it's finished, I set it on the table in the back of the kitchen and Twila takes a seat.

“It smells so good. Thanks, Ellyn.”

“Anytime. So, have you seen or talked to Miles?”

She puts the napkin on her lap and picks up her fork. “Not since the other night at your place. Why?”

“No reason.”

“Have you seen him?” Her gray eyes stare up at me through her dark lashes.

“Me? Oh, no. I've had lots going on.” I watch as she moves the food around on her plate and then takes a tiny bite. She looks up and smiles.

“It's so good.”

“Well, enjoy it, Honey. I need to get back to work.”

“Okay.”

I watch as she takes another bite, if it can even be called a bite, it's more of a bit. But as I see her push herself to eat and push herself to let go of whatever fear or wound drove her to the extreme of anorexia, I'm reminded again of her strength.

I admire Twila.

Almost as much as I envy her.

I turn the juicer
off, look at the green sludge in the glass beneath the spout, and remind myself that it's good for me. Before drinking it, I open the fridge, take out a container of fresh blackberries, and wash four or five. I set them on a folded paper towel, and then, holding my breath, I down the juice. I reach for the berries and pop them in my mouth and chew them before letting myself breathe again.

The berries, or whatever fruit I choose, were Twila's solution to my resistance to the taste of my morning kale and carrot juice. Bless her. I'm drinking the juice for the nutrients now rather than as an end-all weight loss plan, as I'd attempted before.

I look at the scum left around the edges of the juice glass. “You've come a long way, baby.” I never expected I'd come to enjoy the morning pond-sludge ritual—but, though I may not enjoy the taste, I'm sensing the benefits. I'm not sure what they are exactly, but I feel better about myself when I drink it.

For now, that's enough.

I wander out to the living room and sit on the sofa for a few minutes. The sun is just peeking over the mountains. I put my slipper-clad feet up on the coffee table and that's when I notice it—or rather, notice it missing—the piece of sea glass Miles gave me. That's what he picked up and put in his pocket the other night?

Friends.

A weight lodges itself in my chest and sits there like a five-pound bag of flour. I don't know if it's loss or anger, but I feel something.

Maybe Earl was right. Maybe Miles's offer of friendship was just a means to an end. But no. That makes no sense. There are plenty of beautiful women he could take to bed if that were his goal. He wouldn't choose me.

Like it matters anyway.

I get up and go back to the kitchen, where I consider my breakfast options and put Miles out of my mind. I settle on steel-cut oatmeal with the “granola” topping I created with Twila's help: flaxseeds, hemp seeds, sunflower seeds, slivered raw almonds, and an assortment of dried berries. Do I miss my morning croissant? Yes! But like the kale juice, I'm finding satisfaction in the oatmeal and other natural, vegan meals I've created.

Mid-morning, at the café, I'll make a protein shake with berries, a few banana slices, a plant-based protein powder, and flaxseed oil.

I haven't lost weight.

Yet.

But the pounds have to start dropping soon.

I mean, with the exception of my croissant binge the other night, I haven't eaten anything good in weeks. I've also noticed that my cravings are waning. Who'd have thought? I haven't wanted butter cookies or butter cake in, well, at least a couple of hours.

Though, now that they've come to mind, my taste buds beg me for them.

What I'm not noticing is an increase in my energy level.

I set the oats to boil and then sit down at the kitchen table for a few minutes until the oats need stirring.

I'm pooped.

Sure the café was busy last night—but that's nothing new. And okay, maybe I did lose some sleep over the way I treated Miles last week. I guess he had every right to take his gift back. But . . . I did what I had to do.

I see steam rising from the pot on the stove and get up to stir the oatmeal, but as I do, the room begins spinning around me. I reach for the kitchen chair I was sitting in and steady myself before I plop down in the chair again.

“Wow, what's
that
about?” I take a couple of deep breaths and then stand again, but slower this time. The spinning continues, but it's less pronounced and I'm able to make my way to the range and stir the oats to completion.

Maybe hunger got the best of me this morning? I spoon some extra oatmeal into my bowl, hoping it will fill me and alleviate the dizziness.

After I eat, I trudge upstairs to dress for the morning and church later. But by the time I reach the small landing, I'm winded, clammy, and dizzy again. When I make it to my bedroom, all I want to do is go back to bed. Instead, I make myself shower, dress, and then drag myself to the café.

It is, I fear, going to be a long day.

By the time I reach the café, I notice I have a message on my cell phone from Sabina. “Ellyn, I thought we were going to set a time to talk. Call me.” I sigh. Yes, we need to talk—or, I suspect, Sabina needs to talk and God's using me to draw her out. Or, okay, maybe vice versa. But the thought of it is exhausting. I make a mental note to call her later.

Lord, help me. I need Your strength today.

If you weren't so fat you'd have more energy.

I put my hands up and cover my ears. And please, Lord, Shut. Earl. Up.

Nice try, Tubby.

I take my hands off my ears. It does no good trying to block the sound of a voice that comes from within. Instead, I turn on the radio in the kitchen and listen to the eclectic pop selections ranging several decades on KUNK FM—The Skunk—a Fort Bragg station I've grown to love. Listening to everyone from The Bee Gees' “Stayin Alive” to Lady Gaga's “Paparazzi” has me be-bopping in no time—well, okay, if not be-bopping, at least moving through the kitchen with more energy.

And it shuts Earl up. For the moment, anyway.

After a couple hours of work, I feel rejuvenated. I pick up the phone and call Sabina.

“Ellyn?”

“Hi there, how are you?”

“Good. Where've you been hiding?”

“In the kitchen—work. Hey, are you free tomorrow afternoon for a walk and talk?”

“Walk and talk?”

“Yes. I think I need the exercise and I think you need to talk.”

She laughs. “I need the exercise too, but I thought you were the one who needed to talk.”

“Nah, that was just a ruse to get you to talk. So how about it—1:00?”

“Sounds good. Monday at 1:00. Meeting at the usual spot?”

“Yep.”

“See you then, girl.”

I hang up. All I need is a little more exercise and I'll feel better.

You never abandon what you have begun. Make perfect my imperfections.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Thirty-One

Miles

After the early church
service, I glance at my watch. 9:45. In the time it will take me to drive over to the village, the shops will be open. I hit Highway 1—I have an errand to take care of. When I reach Mendocino, I park near the Gallery Bookshop. Once inside, I go to the gift section, where I bought Ellyn's piece of sea glass. I look at the pieces of glass in a basket and turn them over looking for another one engraved with the word
Friend
. But after looking at each one, I don't find what I want.

I go to the counter. “Do you have any more of the sea glass in the back—the ones in the basket over there?”

“Let me check.” The clerk gets up and sets the book she was reading on the counter next to the register. Then she makes her way to the back of the store. I wander through the aisles looking at book covers, but not really seeing them as I wait.