Invisible (39 page)

I pull the plastic
dry cleaner's wrap off a blue oxford shirt in my closet. As I button the shirt, Ellyn's words come back to me:
“I wondered if I could buy you a cup of coffee sometime.”
The same words I used when asking her out for coffee. Her phrasing had been intentional. But what did it mean? Is she asking if we can start over? Or is that hopeful thinking on my part? And if it's “hopeful thinking,” then why am I dreading the time with her?

Lord?

I sit on the bench at the end of the bed and slip on my loafers. Then, with my elbows on my knees, I put my head in my hands.

Lord . . . I want Your will, but I'm not sure what that is when it comes to Ellyn. Maybe it's still too soon for me to think of getting involved with someone—maybe that's why the rejection from Ellyn hurt so much. I want to reflect You to her, Father, if that's Your call for me. But if there's another way, I pray You'll show me. Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

I get up from the bench, walk back into my closet—the one I shared with Sarah—and reach for my wool blazer. It's one of those gray, December days, where the fog feels like it goes right through you. You never know what you'll wake to here.

As I put the jacket on, something Sarah used to say runs through my mind:
“Remember, Miles, you're not the savior, that's Jesus' role.”
She'd point her finger at me in mock exasperation and I'd get her meaning. I don't have to be all things to all people. I'm not the only person God will use in someone's life.

I haven't thought of that in ages.

Lord, is that Your answer? I know You don't need me—You can do all things and use anyone. Are You freeing me from the responsibility I feel to represent You to Ellyn?

A sense of peace settles over me and remains with me as I drive to meet Ellyn at the café.

“I like those cookies.”
I look at the plate on the table—the table set just as it was the first time we met at her café for coffee.

“Thank you.”

“That's one of the things I miss”—I hesitate—“Sorry. I was going to say that's one of the things I miss about Sarah—homemade cookies.”

“You don't ever have to apologize for missing your wife. Or her cookies.”

Her voice is tender and I see compassion in her eyes.

“Thanks.”

“Have a seat, I'll get our coffee.”

Ellyn disappears into the kitchen, giving me a couple of minutes to collect my thoughts . . . and emotions. When she returns, she sets a cup in front of me and then sits across from me.

“Thanks for coming, Miles.”

“Sure. You look great.” For the first time since I've known her, Ellyn is wearing makeup . . . or at least more makeup. Whatever she's done makes her clear green eyes stand out. And she's wearing something different. She's taken time with her appearance, which makes me wonder again why she's asked me here.

I reach for a cookie and put it on the small plate in front of me.

“The cookies are a small thank-you for taking care of the rat.” She brushes a crumb off the table. “I made enough for you to take some home too.”

“Thank you, but you didn't need to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

We make small talk for a few minutes and then land on the subject of Sabina. Ellyn tells me more about her friend's decision to reengage in her relationship with God.

“It's amazing the way God works.” I smile. “Not only that, but I'm getting a golf partner when her husband comes.”

“She mentioned that.” Ellyn looks down at the table and then back at me. She fidgets with her spoon. “Miles, I know I've already apologized for the way I”—her face colors—“I treated you. But again, I'm so sorry.”

I don't say anything. It seems safer that way.

“I'm learning some things about myself. I think God used our . . . friendship to show me some areas in my life where He . . . wants to heal me.” She looks down at the table again. “I told you that I don't date, but I didn't tell you that . . .” She takes a deep breath. “I've never dated. In fact”—she blushes again—“you were my . . .”

She stops, then she peeks up at me through those long eyelashes. “Well, never mind, I just wanted you to know that I—”

“Ellyn, I was your what?” I keep the question gentle, but I want her to finish what she was going to say. I watch as tears come to her eyes, and understanding hits me. She's embarrassed by what she's sharing with me.

I want to put my arms around her and tell her it's okay.

“You were my first . . . kiss.”

She whispers the word
kiss
. In fact, her voice is so soft I wouldn't be sure of what she'd said if I hadn't been able to also read her lips. She looks away from me again.

It takes me a minute to assimilate the information she's just imparted.
Lord, how do I respond?
Then it comes to me. “Ellyn, look at me . . . please.” She looks up again and I read the pain in her eyes. “I'm honored. I really am. And, by the way”—I chuckle—“it was great.” Now
I'm
the one blushing.

“Oh.”

I'm not certain if she's going to giggle or cry. “So now what?”

She rolls the spoon between her fingers. “Well, I wondered if we could start over with our . . . friendship? And maybe, later, we . . . you know, could just see what happens?”

I can see how much it's cost her to ask—to make herself vulnerable. I hesitate—Do I really want to do this? Does God want me to do it?—but then I remember my earlier sense of peace. I run my hand through my hair. “Ellyn, I appreciate your honesty. I want to match your honesty with my own.” I pick up my spoon and stir my coffee. Now I'm the one fidgeting. “I can't do that—I can't put myself in that position.”

“Oh. Okay. I understand.” She looks away.

“I want to make sure you do understand. Ellyn?” She looks back at me and I see her shoulders slump, just a bit. I know I'm hurting her, but I fear I'll hurt her more by leading her to believe I'm content with friendship. “I care about you. I care deeply. I want more—”

I clear my throat. “More than just a friendship with you. If you reach a point where you'd also like more, let me know. I know I'm taking a risk here. You may never want anything from me but friendship, but I . . .”

What? How do I tell her all I'm feeling? Maybe I've said enough.

I shrug and then stand. “I'm sorry . . . Listen, thank you. For the cookies and coffee. But mostly, thank you for your honesty.”

Ellyn stands. She says nothing more.

As I head to the door, I put my hand on her shoulder. “You're a very special woman, Ellyn.”

Then I make my way through the kitchen, out the back door, and to my car. I just want to go home.

I did not relapse into my original condition, but stood my ground very close to the point of deciding and recovered my breath.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Fifty-Two

Ellyn

I go back to
the kitchen and look at the plate of cookies I'd made for Miles to take home. How could I be so
stupid?
To think he'd still want to be friends? Or want anything to do with me, for that matter. I felt his discomfort the moment he arrived. I felt it the day I offered to make him breakfast, and invited him to stay for lunch at the café. And again, at the restaurant when we ran into him. He'd said he wanted to remain friends, but I knew.

Something had changed.

So what did I do? I set myself up for disappointment.

Rejection.

I told you he was only after one thing. When a man says he wants more, what do you think he's referring to. Don't be naïve. Have a cookie, you'll feel better.

I look at the plate of cookies, but they don't even tempt me. My stomach is tied in knots. I slump against the kitchen counter and let the tears fall. They come as much from humiliation as disappointment. I stand up straight again and reach for a paper towel to wipe my eyes and nose. When I do, I see the cookies again.

Go ahead, have one. I made them for you. They'll make you feel better.

I look at the plate and a memory, long buried, digs its way to my consciousness.

I'd just come home from school—my freshman year of high school. My dream had come true: Eric Neilson had asked me to the Homecoming Dance. Eric Neilson, a junior, had asked me, a freshman, to the dance! I burst through the front door.

“Mom, I'm home!”

“In the library, Ellyn.”

I ran into the room off the large foyer, where my mother took her afternoon tea. She isn't English, but she adopted the custom after vacationing in London with my father. “Guess
what
?”

“What? Goodness, Ellyn, your face is beet-red. Slow down.”

“Eric Neilson asked me to Homecoming! I have to get a dress. Can we go shopping? Can we go today?”

I remember her taking a sip of her tea and then setting the cup on its saucer. “Ellyn, sit down. I have something to tell you.”

“But can we go shopping?” I went to the sofa and sat down.

“No, we're not going shopping.”

“But—”

She held up her hand. “We're not going shopping because you're not going to the dance. I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but . . . Eric Neilson is making a joke of you. His invitation wasn't serious. Some of his schoolmates dared him to ask you. The vice principal called me today and informed me of this unfortunate scheme.”

I just stared at her. It wasn't true,
couldn't
be true. Eric was so kind—we'd become friends. I shook my head. “I don't believe it.”

“It is true. I'm sure you're humiliated, but you're better off this way. Boys . . . men . . . rarely have a woman's best interest at heart. It is better that you learn this lesson early.”

I continued to shake my head, wanting to deny what she'd said.

“Really, dear, are you that surprised? Look at you—that hair of yours alone would scare off most boys. You must have suspected something.”

That's when it happened.

She reached for the plate of cookies next to her teacup, then held it out toward me. “Go ahead, have one. I made them for you. They'll make you feel better.”

When I returned to school the next day, I found Eric. I wanted to ask him if it was true, but when he saw me, he turned and walked the other way. It was clear he was ignoring me.

He never spoke to me again.

I look now at the plate of cookies on the counter, the cookies I baked for Miles, and the same sick feeling that cloaked me that day so long ago, the day I ate not just one or two of the cookies my mother made for me, but—at her encouraging—the whole plate of cookies, settles over me.

I ate that day until I was sick.

Why would she encourage me to eat like that?

That was the first time I remember her doing it, but not the last. No. There were many such occasions when she encouraged me to stuff myself. Did she
want
me to get fat?

No. That's ridiculous. Isn't it?

She was always the one pointing out my weight—admonishing me.

Condemning me.

I pick up the plate of cookies and carry them back to the office to jot a note on a sticky pad. I put the note on the covered plate, and then take it to the kitchen and leave it on the counter for Paco to take home to his little ones.

Then I go back to the office and reach for the phone number Twila gave me when I called her.

It's time to schedule an appointment.

Nothing can restore hope to us except your mercy, known since you began to transform us.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Fifty-Three

Twila

On Christmas morning, I
wake to the sound of rain beating against the house. The wind howls and the windows rattle. I pull the covers up and snuggle down into the bed, where I think about what this day means. As a kid, I woke up thinking about what I wanted and what I'd get. Now, those things don't matter to me.