Invisible (5 page)

“Dat what you think? You just scared.”

“Scared? I'm not scared. Rosa, there's nothing wrong with being single.” I thrum my fingers on the table. “I love my life. I'm content. What do I need a man for?”

“You terrified.”

I get up from the table. “Oh, hush. What do you know?” As I walk away, I hear Rosa chuckle. “Glad you find me so entertaining,” I say over my shoulder on my way back to the kitchen. I remind myself, as I often do, about the apostle Paul's words:
“An unmarried woman is concerned about the Lord's affairs: Her aim is to be devoted to the Lord in both body and spirit. But a married woman is concerned about the affairs of this world—how she can please her husband.”

Do I use the verse as justification? Or am I as concerned about God's affairs as I profess? Sometimes . . . I'm not sure.

Terrified?

Oh, Lord, am I? I want Your will for me.

Honest.

I think.

I found myself heavily weighed down by a sense of being tired of living and scared of dying.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Five

Sabina

I lift one leaden
leg to the seat of the wooden bench on the front porch and bend to tie the loosed laces of my walking shoe. Then I pull my sweatshirt on and tighten the batik scarf I've tied around my hair—or what's left of it. The week before I left Tiburon, I had Gloria, my hairstylist, remove the weave I've worn for years. Once she'd removed the extensions, I had her shear my hair close to my head so I could go natural.

When was the last time I went natural? Just before heading to Stanford at eighteen—thirty-four years ago. All those years, I've followed the hair trends of African American women. It's a cultural thing, those dos. I wasn't sure if I was punishing myself with the extreme cut or setting myself free. Either way, it was necessary. No self-respecting African American woman would pay that much for a do and then subject her hair to the damp, coastal elements.

When deciding where I'd spend a year, I knew I wanted solitude. A client spent a month in Mendocino County and declared it a place of healing—whole foods, holistic healing approaches, and fresh air. When I Googled information regarding the area, I saw that African Americans accounted for 0.9 percent of the population. Which means, among other things, that it's a good thing I don't have much hair left. No one in Mendocino County would know what to do with it.

When I came home from seeing Gloria, I saw the stunned look on Antwone's face. I hadn't prepared him, nor was there a need to. It was my choice. But, as always, he handled the change with grace.

“You're beautiful, baby.” He leaned in to give me a kiss, but I avoided him.

He didn't know yet—didn't know what was going on inside me or that I was leaving. I couldn't take his love, his grace. I didn't deserve it.

I still don't.

I bend and stretch before I walk. After two weeks of almost complete inactivity, I already feel my muscles atrophying. I took my first dose of the antidepressant on Tuesday morning, the day after my appointment with Dr. Norman. This morning, I committed myself to a walk.

Not that anyone would know if I broke my commitment.

But I'm going. I have to.
It's time to get with it, girl.
God helps them who help themselves, right?

Wrong.

This has nothing to do with God.

I straighten and follow the curved driveway to the street. Lansing Street runs from the village out to Highway 1—it's the northern entrance and exit to Mendocino. On this Tuesday morning, the road is quiet. But there are no sidewalks, or even bike lanes—just two lanes without shoulders. I shimmy along the road's edge, past the Agate Cove Bed and Breakfast Inn, and the Sea Rock Inn, and then before the road curves, I cross the street and step over the guardrail and follow a narrow path between the guardrail and the cliff overlooking Agate Cove.

The morning dawned in pale shades of gray. The white foam of crashing waves is the exception in the palette. I slow my pace, and then stop to look down at the jagged rocks and roaring surf below. The small beach below is strewn with driftwood and what look like abalone shell halves and pieces. The only access to the beach is a steep trail on the other side of the cove. You'd have to be committed to your desire to reach the beach to try that trail.

As I look back down at the beach and the waves hugging the shore, I feel a pull. Almost magnetic. It would take just one step to lose myself in the stark vortex of white foam. I lean forward.

It would be so easy.

No.

I step back and reach for the guardrail to steady myself, my heart pounding like a grandioso movement.

We spent many evenings in our seats at Davies Symphony Hall, listening to the San Francisco Symphony's Classical Series. I am like the harsh dissonance—lacking harmony with myself.

I am the incomplete chord unwilling to resolve itself.

I turn and look back toward the house I've rented. Its warmth and safety woo me. But I turn back and trudge on, drawing not on feelings but rather on almost dormant determination. I crest the hill and follow the road back down to Heeser Drive, which turns toward Headlands State Park. I pass Hesser and follow the road into the village. When I see a couple walking toward me on the same side of the street, I turn, check for cars, and then cross to the other side. The last thing I want is a social interaction.

I look up at the gray, cloud-strewn sky and sense our kinship today.

A battering wind blows, its direction unchangeable. I thrust my hands inside the deep pockets of my jacket. Will I allow the wind to form and shape me as it does the surrounding cypress trees? Or will I break under the battering?

I walk into the wind, wanting to give in—to let it snap me in two.

I swallow my self-pity, sickened by my own weakness. I've never had patience with clients who wallow. Yet, here I am.

The hypocrite surfaces again.

I sigh and force myself to keep walking. Once I reach the edge of the village, I turn around and, with heavy steps, drag myself back toward the house. As I do, I catch a glimpse of a lighthouse jutting out on a distant point—charming, until its light winks at me as if it knows my secret.

I spend most of
the afternoon in one of the large leather chairs seated in front of the picture window, positioned now to face into the living room. I resist the urge to stretch out on the sofa. Though I'm not hungry, I fix myself a salad for lunch and make myself eat it. Then I place my iPod on its speaker dock and select Esa-Pekka Salonen and the Los Angeles Philharmonic playing orchestral arrangements of Bach. I set the iPod to repeat, then settle in the chair. I let the strains of Bach play over and through me. My eyes drift shut, and the music floods the aching void within, expressing with its lifts and falls what I am unable to express.

I sit for hours, lost in the music, until the rumbling in my stomach begins to compete with the Philharmonic. I haven't really been hungry in weeks and I expected the antidepressant might further suppress my appetite, but perhaps not.

I stand, stretch, and wander out to the kitchen. I stand in front of the open freezer and peruse the frozen entrees that all seem to taste the same. I close the freezer and stand in the shadowed kitchen. Through the window, I notice the sun lowering in the sky—a blaze of orange, coral, and purple streaks the horizon. I turn on the kitchen light and see its reflection in the window instead.

Only the whir of the refrigerator and the dull, annoying roar of the surf break the silence. For the first time since my arrival, I feel my aloneness.

I stand in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, looking for what, I'm not certain. What about the restaurant on Main Street that I'd thought looked interesting? Do I have the energy to dress and go out?

The clock on the microwave blinks the time: 5:11 p.m. I want something good to eat, the comfort of conversation murmuring around me—conversation in which I don't have to participate.

The walk this morning must have done its work and nudged my endorphins from their state of slumber.

So, tonight, I shall dine.

When I step into
the restaurant, it's as though I've stepped into a café in the south of France. The walls of the dining room are textured and faux-painted, and have the worn look of old-world plaster. Rough-hewn beams run across the ceiling, and the floors are distressed wood. The amber blown-glass light fixtures shed a warm glow over the linen-clad tables. An old bicycle with a basket leans against the hostess stand—the basket filled with fresh flowers. There are lit candles on each table, along with a vase of flowers matching the arrangement in the bicycle basket. I imagine the flowers are grown in the area.

Lovely. The restaurant may prove as healing as the antidepressant Dr. Norman prescribed.

“Reservation?”

The word is spoken in a thick, Hispanic accent—the only thing that reminds me I'm still in California.

“No.”

“No problem. You early. You come and enjoy.”

Glancing at my black pants, the hostess reaches for a black linen napkin along with the menu. She seats me at a corner table in front of the window that, if I could see, would look out over the street and another cove—the name of which I don't remember. But neither are visible now. Instead, the interior warmth and lighting reflect in the dark windows . . .

My lungs constrict with the memory of another time and place. Antwone and I took the twins to France to celebrate their high school graduations—

“You visiting de village?” The hostess picks up the white folded napkin from the table and replaces it with the black. She opens the menu and hands it to me and places a wine list on the table.

“In a way. I've rented a house here for the next year.”

“Then we see you lots. Okay?”

I look around the dining room and offer my first genuine smile since arriving in Mendocino. “Yes, I think I'll see you often.”

“Good. Enjoy.”

A server comes to the table just after I've been seated. He places a glass of iced water at my setting, and a butter dish along with a cup filled with fragrant breadsticks on the table. I read the offerings on the menu and my mouth waters. The constant ache in my neck and shoulders relaxes a bit. And for the first time in many months . . .

I don't wish I no longer lived.

The light . . . is obscured by a cloud, the truth is not perceived.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Six

Ellyn

“Guess who jest make
a reservation for tonight?”

I shrug. “No idea, who?”

“De Doctor. Dr. Becker—6:00 p.m., party of three.”

Three? I nod at Rosa. “Good.” I look at the clock above the desk. 5:14 p.m. “Busy night.” So Dr. Becker keeps his word. Not that it matters.

“Si.”

I walk back into the kitchen, Rosa on my heels. “Show time, Paco.”

“Let's do it, Bella. Another Saturday night.”

“I let you know when he get here so you can say hello.” Rosa pushes through the swinging doors to the dining room before I can respond. Great.

“Paco, you've got to drop the
Bella
. Have some respect for my position as owner and executive chef. Your boss, remember?”

Paco laughs. “I know, Bella, I know.”

I love the banter with Paco, a man who loves his wife and kids more than dessert. Just as it should be. We've worked together for eight years and settled into our routine early on.

As far as me being the boss, we all know it's Rosa who runs the place and keeps us in line.

“Hey, I'll be right back.” I head back to the office, grab my purse out of the top filing cabinet drawer, and pull out my compact and lipstick. I open the compact, brush some of the matte powder across my nose, cheeks, and chin. It sounds like Rosa will have me make the rounds in the dining room tonight, so I might as well be ready. I don't take a second look into the small mirror. Instead, I reach for a clean apron and then head back to work.