Invisible (31 page)

“Oh, Lord. I can't!”

You're such a wimp, Ellyn. It's just a dead rat. Just get down on your hands and knees and dig it out.

I bend down, pick up the gardening gloves I was wearing before calling Sabina, and put them back on. I get back down on my hands and knees, grab the shovel, take a deep breath, hold it, and put my head back inside the cabinet. I reach toward the area in the open sheetrock where the fur came from and I dip the shovel back inside and begin to dig again. As I pull out more of the pink fluff, some of it brushes against my wrist just above one of the gloves.

I scream.

I'm back on my feet so fast it's a miracle.

I run from the kitchen back to the front door and out to the step. I throw the shovel down, rip the gloves off my hands, and choke back a sob. “I can't. I can't do it.” Defeated, I plop down on the step again.

I can think of nothing else to do.

I bury my head in my hands and bang a fist against my knee.

I sit there a few minutes, then I get up and storm back into the house, slamming the door as I go. I climb the stairs to my bedroom, rip my damp robe off, and toss it across the foot of my bed. Then I go to the bathroom to blow my nose. As I do, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

My hair is a mass of chaotic red frizz, my green eyes are bloodshot, and my eyelids swollen and as red as my nose. I look down at the loose yellow flannel pajamas I'm wearing. The back bottoms of the legs are tucked into my socks and on my feet are my fuzzy slippers.

Call Miles? Looking like this? Yeah, right.

I move back toward the mirror and look at my reflection again. I take a brief inventory and let my mind go where I've fought for so long to keep it from going. I focus into my own eyes staring back at me from the mirror. And there . . . I see the truth.

I am afraid.

Afraid of men. Just as Rosa said.

But why?

Shivering now, I wrap my arms around myself.

As I look at myself—I see me. Not me, the chef. Not me, the friend. Just me, and me alone.

Alone.

Fat.

Ugly.

“No, Earl. You're wrong.” The words come out on a whisper. “I'm created in the image of God.”

The words embarrass me. They are foreign—not something I've applied to myself before. But I swallow my fear—or try to. I look in the mirror again and still see just me. But there is determination shining in my green eyes.

That's when I make a decision.

I shut the bathroom door, turn the shower on, undress, and step inside the steaming stall. I lather my hair with floral shampoo and stand long enough to allow the hot water to ease the tension in my shoulders.

After I shower, I blow-dry my long hair. I use product. I even dig out and plug in a long-ignored straightening iron. And then, I put on a little of the department store makeup.

That done, I head for my closet.

I pull the pair of black sweat pants off the shelf and reach for an olive sweater that I know sets off the color of my eyes. I put on shoes and earrings. I glance at myself in the full-length mirror—but just glance. If I look too long or think too much, I'll change my mind.

Then I go to the bed, take my phone out of the pocket of my robe, and I call. “Hello, Miles? It's Ellyn.”

Yet let us seek more diligently and not lose heart.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Forty-Two

Miles

“Ellyn? Are you feeling
all right?” I assume she's calling with a medical issue.

“Yes, I'm fine. I've been fine, good actually, since last Monday.”

“No more problems?”

“Not at all.”

I relax. “Good. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I have another type of problem and I was wondering if . . . well, I could use some help. I mean, if you're free.”

I hesitate. There's a part of me that wants to tell her to call someone else, but I know that's not what God would have me do. “I was going to head to church, but tell me what's going on.”

After she's explained her predicament, I chuckle. “I bet it smells bad.”

“Really bad.”

“I'll come on over.”

“Do you want to go to church and then come? It can . . . wait.”

I smile. “It can?”

“Oh. Well, sure.”

I laugh. “I'm on my way.”

I make a quick change from church clothes to jeans and a sweatshirt. As I do, I remind myself that God's asked me to love Ellyn in the way He loves her, which also means sacrificing for her. Not that getting a rat out of her wall is a big deal. The sacrifice will come with the tug on my heart when I see her.

I grab my car keys and go.

When Ellyn opens her
front door, I'm struck by two things: her—and a reeking stench. “Wow . . .”

“I told you it was bad. I can't believe I didn't notice it when I came in last night, but it was late and I went straight up to bed without even turning on a light down here. I didn't even go into the kitchen. Then I woke up around 4:00 and something smelled, so I got up and . . .”

She's nervous. Why? And what did she do to her hair? It looks so soft. I jam my hands into my pockets to keep myself from reaching out and touching her hair. Oh Lord, help me.

“I'm babbling. Sorry. Here, come in out of that weather.”

I step inside. Her house is cold—all the windows open, though it's not helping the smell much. I follow her into the kitchen, where she covers her nose and mouth with her hand and points to an open cabinet with a mess in front of it.

I look from the mess to her. “Do you have a plastic garbage bag?”

“Sure.”

She goes to her sink, and grabs a bag out from the cabinet underneath, and hands it to me. “Great. I've got this, you go back outside.”

“No. I can . . . help or . . . wait.”

“Out!” I smile and point back toward her front door. Once she's gone, I take a deep breath, hold it, and pick up the gardening shovel she left on the floor near the cabinet. I dig in the wall until I feel the problem, then shovel out the dead rat. I drop it in the open garbage bag, tie the top of the bag in a knot, and then run to the front door. I do it all in one breath.

“Got it.” I hold up the bag and then join her out on her front step. “Where's your garbage can?”

“That was fast. You're amazing! It's on the side of the house on the other side of the driveway.”

I run through the rain, dispose of the rat, and then run back. I shake the water off and go back inside, leaving the front door open so the house can continue to air out. I find Ellyn in the kitchen, sweeping the mess out of the cabinet and off the floor. I get another garbage bag out from under her sink and hold it open as she, using a dustpan, fills it with bits of insulation, droppings, and sheetrock.

“Do you have any rat poison?”

“No. I've never needed it.”

“I'm surprised—seems like mice and rats would come with living on the headlands. You've been lucky.”

“I guess so.” She empties the dustpan one more time.

“I can pick some up, and then come back and patch the wall. I can just screw a piece of plywood against the hole since it's inside the cabinet—that's easier than patching the sheetrock. I'll drop some poison in first.”

“Really? You don't . . . mind?”

“No.” Her smile makes it worth it.

“Miles, thank you so much. I tried to do it myself. I should have been able to, but . . .” She shakes her head.

“Don't be so hard on yourself. You did an amazing job. How did you pinpoint exactly where the rat was?”

She laughs. “I have a great nose.”

“Evidently.” I chuckle.

She empties the last of the debris into the bag. “I need to disinfect the floor and cabinet.” She looks up at me. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Not yet.”

“This will only take me a few minutes. Why don't you come over to the café and I'll make you breakfast? It's Sunday, so I need to get over there. If you'd like, you could even stay . . .”

I watch as her face colors, the freckles on her cheeks almost disappearing with the color.

“I mean, if you want to, you could stay for lunch. It's our Sunday tradition—the staff and their families.”

Her invitation entices me. I think a minute. “Thanks, Ellyn. It sounds great, but I have some things I need to get done today. Why don't you leave your key under your mat and I'll go get the rat poison and a piece of plywood. I'll get this patched up and then head home.”

“Oh. If you're sure . . .” She looks down at the cabinet—away from me.

“Yes, thanks for the invitation. Maybe another time.”

“Okay.”

After I finish, I
put Ellyn's key back under her mat. I get in my car and turn toward the headlands. I'll take Hesser Drive around the loop. The rain has let up and the sun is breaking through the clouds. I glance out at the water and sky as I go. I round the corner, heading toward Lansing, and see someone, hood up, hands in pockets, walking the trail out to the point. I slow to a stop and watch her.

Then, as if she knows she's being watched, she turns and looks at me. I pull into the nearby parking area, get out of the car, and wave at her. She doesn't wave back, but she starts walking toward me. I step over the log between the parking lot and trail and go to meet her.

“Hey, gal. Good to see you.”

“Hi.”

“Taking advantage of a break in the weather?” She doesn't look well.

She nods. “What are you doing out here?”

“I just came from Ellyn's. She had a dead rat in her wall.” I smile. “I got it out for her and patched up her wall.”

“Yuck.”

“That's how she felt.”

She doesn't say any more. Something isn't right with her. “How are you doing?”

“Okay.”

“You sure?”

Her thin shoulders lift and then drop.

“I don't want to interrupt your walk, but how about joining me for a cup of coffee or lunch. I could use the company.”

“Why?”

I hesitate. “Because I'm hungry?”

“No, I mean, why could you use the company?”

I run my hand through my hair and look out at the changing clouds. Twila deserves my honesty. I look back at her. “Guess I'm a little lonely.”

“Things aren't going well with Ellyn?”

Because Twila still looks and talks like a teenager, I often forget she's twenty-six and quite astute. “Well, we're friends. And that's good.”

“But you wanted more, right?”

“Right.”

“She doesn't, like, see herself the way others see her or the way God sees her.”

“I think you're right. So, what about lunch?”

Twila looks at the ground. “I can't . . . eat.” She looks back at me.

That explains the gaunt look and the circles under her eyes. “What's going on, gal?”

“My dad . . . he showed up here on Friday.”

“I see. So you're experiencing a setback?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

As she's talked, I've noted her mouth is dry. “It seems to me like we could both use some company today. Why don't you come with me to Thanksgiving's, and I'll grab a sandwich for myself and a bottle of water and a smoothie for you.”

“No, but thanks.”

“Twila, when's the last time you ate or had anything to drink?”

She twists a piece of her long hair, sticking out from under her hood, around one finger. “I left a message for my counselor, I'm going to see her tomorrow.”

“Good. When's the last time you ate or had anything to drink?”

She sighs. “It hasn't been that long.”

“How long?”

“Lunch on Friday—I had a salad. I drank a glass of water on Friday night.”

“Did you keep it down?” I read the shame on her face.

“I thought . . . I always thought . . .”

I see tears in her eyes. One slips down her cheek, which alleviates some of my concern. She's not as dehydrated as I suspected.

“. . . that if he came back, it would be different . . . you know?”

“Different in what way?” I take a few slow steps toward the parking lot hoping she'll follow me.

“I guess I thought he was . . . different, or that he'd be different. I figured out that my memories of him are sort of warped.”

She's in step with me as I head to the car. “I don't think that's unusual. When we care about someone, we remember the best about them. Since Sarah died, I've recreated her in my mind—recalling only the good things about her. She wasn't perfect, but you'd have a hard time convincing me of that now.”

“But at least Sarah really loved you, right?”

“Right.”

“I don't think my dad cares about me.”

I put my arm around her shoulders as we walk. “That's his loss. Do you know why he's here?”