Invisible (8 page)

I was honest with her—yes, her weight may exacerbate the symptoms of those diagnoses. Otherwise, her weight didn't seem like much of an issue.

But now . . .

I'm not looking at her from a medical standpoint anymore. If we become friends, or more—especially if we become more—how will I handle the issue of her weight? I set the mug on a coaster on the side table next to the chair and push the ottoman out of the way.

I get up from the chair and pace. Time to face the real question: Am I willing to risk my heart with a woman who might face potential serious health issues because of her weight?

Your heart is Mine, Miles.

Yes, Lord. But can I let myself care about her, if . . .

Could I talk to her about it? Ask her to consider the future ramifications of her weight? Why hadn't I done that as her doctor? Why hadn't I suggested she lose weight? Maybe I could talk to Courtney, she's her doctor now, and make certain she's having those conversations with her.

I sit in my desk chair and put my head in my hands.
Lord, how do I handle this?
I sit in silence, hoping for an answer. But nothing comes. I've learned enough through the years that when God is silent, it's my cue to hold tight. Do nothing. Wait on Him.

I sigh and lift my head. When I do, I see the family picture that sits on my desk—Sarah and me with the boys. It was taken the Christmas after we moved into the house and the kids were home for the holiday. I feel the familiar stab of grief. For myself. And for my sons.

I can't go through that again, Lord.

I stand, walk back to the corner of the room, and retrieve my mug. Then I walk out of the study, turning off the light as I go.

Trust Me.

I stop in the hallway outside my study, and an image of Ellyn, the way she looked in the kitchen tonight, comes back to me. There, in the dark hallway, in my quiet house, the answer to my earlier question comes to me. How do I handle Ellyn's weight and potential health issues?

Simple.

I don't.

Some would disagree. Friends speak truth in love, they'd say. I believe that too.

But, as a medical professional, I know that just because someone is overweight it doesn't always mean they're unhealthy.

Anyway, Ellyn belongs to God. She's not mine to fix. That was a hard-won lesson I had to learn with Sarah.

But I did learn it.

I trust You, Lord. Strengthen me for whatever You hold in store. I want to follow You with an undivided heart.

Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Pride imitates what is lofty . . .

Saint Augustine

Chapter Nine

Sabina

I wake on Sunday
morning after my evening out with pale sunlight streaming through the shutters I forgot to close last night. The room, bathed in gray, is cold. I reach for the robe draped across the foot of the bed, climb out from the warm swathe I've slept in, and step into the robe.

I close the shutters against the dull November sky and then debate: back to bed or to the kitchen for coffee? I look at the digital clock on the nightstand—9:33? Already? I'm sleeping my life away. Not that it matters. I have nothing pressing me to get out of bed. But I am accustomed to rising with the sun.

Coffee it is. I push my feet into my slippers and walk the few steps from the bedroom to the kitchen. I like the size and floor plan of the rental. The master bedroom, just off the kitchen, is separated from the other two bedrooms, and has a private entrance from the front deck. I could see living here and converting the bedroom into an office, where I could see clients.

But then my memory wakes and slaps me across the face.
I no longer see clients.
I work to push the memory back into its state of slumber as I watch a pot of coffee brew. Instead, I let thoughts of last night take over.

Getting out, I discovered, was a great distraction. Good food, listening to the conversations of others, and even entering conversations myself—with the hostess, whose name I learned is Rosa, and the owner of the café, Ellyn.

It gave me space to breathe in an environment where daunting memories had no place. The café, the people, were not connected to my former life.

My
former
life?

Is letting go really so simple?

No. But the escape was good. I will own it and call it what it was, because I'm too smart to fool myself. But sometimes there is a place for escapism—when it can be used as a tool to help transition one's thinking from an area of hyper-focus to something else. At least, that's what I tell myself.

One thing I know for certain is that isolation doesn't help depression. I need people, yet I've moved to a place where I know no one. Why? Because I want anonymity. I don't want to have to explain myself or answer questions.
Why aren't you practicing anymore? What are you doing with your time?
Or worse,
Rumor has
it . . .

I reach for one of the pottery mugs in the cabinet above the coffeemaker and then fill it. Back in the living room, I turn the iPod speakers on and click my iPod to play Yo-Yo Ma's
Bach: The Cello Suites
. I turn the volume low, so the strains of music are an accompaniment to my thoughts rather than the focal point. As I head for the sofa, I recall an article I read not long ago about Bach's compositions. The author felt there was an emotional detachment about Bach's music.

I shake my head at the ridiculous assertion. I wouldn't be drawn to Bach's work if I sensed an emotional detachment.

I settle on the sofa, cradling my coffee. Living here affords me new opportunities. I am free to embark on a new journey—to redefine myself rather than allowing my past to define me. I am still me, Sabina Louise Jackson, PhD. I'm proud of who I am. Those letters behind my name mean something. I worked hard for them. I won't hide. I'm not using an alias. Instead, I'm looking forward.

And allowing those I invite into my life to do the same, rather than be waylaid by my history.

Am I ready to invite others into my life? I don't know. But ready or not, it's time. Last night reminded me that I am a people person—one who needs the companionship and conversations of others to enhance my life experience.

I'll not only stay depressed if I remain alone, but I'll go crazy.

Maybe I'll call the restaurant this afternoon and see if I can reach Ellyn.

There's an ease about her. I noticed it in the doctor's office too as she spoke to the receptionist. It would be good to have a female friend. How long has it been since I've had one? Several colleagues come to mind, but friends?

I haven't had time.

Well, time is
all
I have now.

How many kinds of questions there are . . .

Saint Augustine

Chapter Ten

Ellyn

I sidle into a
pew in the Mendocino Baptist Church and plop down on the hard wood, so grateful to be where no one can reach me. I pull my cell phone out of my sweater pocket and turn it off, then drop it into my purse. I look around and recognize a few regulars, and what look like a handful of tourists. It's never a large congregation.

I settle in for the next hour.

I may just stay all day.

I wondered if I could buy you a cup of coffee sometime?

May I? Call?

No, you may not call. If you have something to say, say it now. Don't leave me hanging.

My part in this imagined conversation changes each time it plays. I say something, anything, rather than offering that nod. I'm a nodding bobblehead. Soon you'll see my bobbling figurines at drug stores everywhere. You'll buy them as stocking stuffers for your kids.
Bobblehead Ellyn.

Why didn't I just say what I was thinking? Most of the time words flow out my mouth before ever going through that flimsy filter in my brain. But last night? No. They were trapped, deep inside. They're still there too. I didn't know what to say. Still don't. I keep turning the options over in my head as the conversation repeats, but I haven't landed on the response yet.

If you have something to say, say it now.

Has Dr. Norman sent you as the bearer of bad news? You don't have to buy me coffee to soften the blow.

My eyes widen. Is
that
it? Did something come back in my lab work that Dr. Norman asked Dr. Becker to tell me about? Did she think it would be easier for me to hear it from him because I was his patient for so long?

Others around me begin to shuffle. I look down at the end of the pew I'm sitting on and see the woman who was sitting there is now standing and holding a hymnal. Oh. I reach for the hymnal in front of me and stand too. I let it fall open rather than turning to whatever number hymn the pastor mentioned.

The church is so small that Pastor Cleveland wears all the hats—worship leader, preacher, treasurer, secretary . . .

I stare at the page of the hymnal while those around me raise their voices in worship.

No, Dr. Norman wouldn't do that. Neither would Dr. Becker. They're professionals.

I wondered if I could buy you a cup of coffee sometime?

Why does he want to buy me a cup of coffee?

My stomach clenches.

That's it. That's the question I want to ask.

Why? Why do you want to buy me a cup of coffee?

What possible reason could you have for wanting to buy me coffee?

Why?

His answers come back, rapid-fire.

Because I just discovered this great pyramid scheme.

Because Rosa paid me to ask you out.

Because Nerissa's not enough woman for me.

Ha! Yeah right.

Or . . .

Because while I was your doctor I forgot to tell you that you're fat!

What
is
it with men? They always make me feel like I'm in trouble.

I feel a tap on my back, and I turn and see a gray-haired woman motioning me to sit. Besides Pastor Cleveland, I'm the only one still standing in the sanctuary.
Oh.

I sit down and slide the hymnal in its place on the back of the pew in front of me. Then I reach for the bulletin I'd tucked into my Bible. I want to at least look like I'm paying attention.

Because I find you irresistible.

“Good one, Earl.”

“Shhh!”

The church lady pokes me in the back again.

Oops.

Well, at least now I know what I want to say when, or if, he calls.

Why? Why do you want to buy me coffee?

Hey, at least I got it settled before the sermon. And that's what I'd like to say to the biddy behind me.

Laughter fills the kitchen,
as it always does on Sunday afternoons as the staff and their families gather for our weekly Meal and Meet. No one works on Sunday mornings—that's my policy, but because we serve dinner on Sunday nights, early Sunday afternoon is the perfect time for the family to gather.

It's also the time I get to mother them—cook for them, try out new recipes, and spoil them with a scrumptious dessert. Rosa fills us in on new policies or practices, and everyone is free to make suggestions—whether for the menu, the dining room, or kitchen.

Paco's little ones have grown up at the rustic rectangular table in the back of the kitchen. And when Rosa's daughter, Pia, turned sixteen a couple of years ago, she asked to celebrate it at the table in the kitchen. With the family gathered.

The only thing we allow to disrupt our time is the ringing of the phone. Whoever is closest to it, answers. This is the time of day requests for reservations come in.

But today, I'm more observer than participant. I serve the food and try to listen and join in, but each time the phone rings, it's as though a starting pistol goes off and my heart takes off. After about the fourth call, I swear I'll have a heart attack before the day is over.