Invisible (3 page)

There's something exotic about her that I find intriguing, even if she is scrawny.

Her dark hair is cropped close to her head, accentuating her dark eyes and full lips. I notice the earrings dangling against her long neck—small turquoise stones hanging from chandelier-type drops. Those babies must weigh at least four ounces all on their own. But then, she doesn't need to worry about that, does she?

She must sense my stare because she looks up from the book she's reading and flashes a tight smile in my direction. I smile back and reach for a magazine,
Highlights
, my skin turning the color of a Big-Boy tomato, I'm sure.

“Sabina Jackson.”

We both look up at the nurse's call.

“Dr. Norman will see you now.”

The woman closes her book, drops it in her purse, and gets up.

Sabina.
Her name is as exotic as she is. And it appears to be Sabina's lucky day—it's the pudgy nurse who will weigh her. The pudgy nurse never comments on my weight.

But who is Dr. Norman?

Camie calls my name—tanned, toned Camie, who, with my chart open in her hand, leads me to the scale. “Date of birth?”

“April 12.”

Camie looks from the chart to me. “Year? Just to confirm . . .”

“Nineteen”—I swallow—“sixty-six.”

“Okay, please step on the scale.”

The Event.

I set my purse on the chair next to the scale and slip out of my shoes. I take a deep breath, step up onto the scale, and close my eyes. I hear Camie moving the little weight thingy.

Then I peek.

Big mistake.

“What? Wait. Are you sure? I mean, I know. But . . . I was hoping my scale at home was . . . wrong.”

“You're up six pounds from last year.”

Oh good. Chastisement. As if I don't feel bad enough already.

The juice cleanse did me no favors. That first morning of juicing kale, carrots, and apples left me holding a glass filled with green sludge. It looked like something scraped from the bottom of a stagnant pond. It smelled like it too. I pinched my nose closed and slammed the juice down. Oh, but the aftertaste . . . I chased the juice with a small bite of a buttery croissant I'd brought home from the café.

And, well, one bite led to another.

Failed diet plan number 1,358. Or something like that.

“Ah well, I'm a chef, you know.”

She gets me settled, runs me through the usual routine, and then hands me the paper gown. “Doctor Becker will be with you in a few minutes.”

I undress, stuff myself into the gown, climb up on the examining table, and wait.

A few minutes later I hear Doctor Becker's familiar
rat-a-tat-tat
on the door.

“Come in.” I pull the gown tighter as he opens the door.

“Hey, gal, how are you?” He holds out his hand.

I reach for his hand, which swallows up mine, and we shake.

“How long have I been seeing you now?” He looks at the file. “Six years? So, may I call you Ellyn rather than Ms. DeMoss?”

“Sure. I mean, after all, you've seen all of me every year for the last half dozen.” I smile while clenching my teeth. Why does everything that goes through my brain come out my mouth?

Dr. Becker laughs and I notice, as I have before, the sparkle in his blue eyes. The doctor is a large man—tall, broad, and, if not for that sparkle, imposing in the small space of the examining room.

He takes a seat on the rolling stool in front of the table I'm sitting on and stretches his long legs out in front of him. His feet, clad in running shoes, land just beneath mine, which hang over the edge of the table. He smiles up at me—my file sits on his lap. “How's the restaurant business?”

I cross my bare legs, and consider suggesting the good doctor don a pair of shades to avoid the glare coming from the white sheen of my shins. “It's good, considering the economy. The tourists keep us going.”

He nods. “I'll have to come by for dinner soon. It's been awhile since I've meandered around the village.”

“Well, it's still there.”
Brilliant, Ellyn, like he thought it fell into the sea?
“So . . . um . . .” I look to the side and eye the blood-pressure cuff hanging on the wall. “. . . I guess blood pressure's first?”
Let's get this over with.

Dr. Becker glances toward the wall and then looks down at my file, still unopened. He seems hesitant. He finally pats the file with his left hand and clears his throat. “Actually, Ellyn, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

He looks at me, eyebrows raised.

“Okay.” A knot begins to form in my stomach. Is he going to start with my weight? Did he look at my chart before he came in and see how much I've gained?

“I've taken on a partner. Dr. Courtney Norman? Maybe you'd heard?”

I shake my head. Thank heaven! No awkward discussion about my weight.

He looks from me to the floor, but before he does, I see a flash of emotion cross his face. Sadness? What's up, Doc? But the expression is gone when he looks back at me.

“It's time to live a little.” He smiles and runs one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “And Dr. Norman was ready for small-town life after doing her internship in Chicago. She's excellent. Really.” He waves one of his large paws in my direction. “And she's familiar with women's issues.”

“So . . . you're . . .”

He waits for me to finish my sentence but I don't. Although I'd guess him to be in his early fifties, he still seems too young to retire and I don't want to offend him. But where is he going with his glowing report of Dr. Norman?

Once he realizes nothing else is coming out of my mouth, he begins again. “I'm lightening my case load—taking a day or two off each week to pursue other interests.”

“Oh, great. I bet your wife is looking forward to that.” He's always spoken of his wife and the time they spend together. I've met her at the café, they're regulars. Or were. I haven't seen them in some time.

He stares at me, and something clouds his expression again. I glance down at his left hand . . .

And see his bare ring finger.

Oh no. “Did I stick my foot in my mouth? It's the only acrobatic move I do well.”

“No. No.” He looks at the floor and doesn't even break a smile at my joke. “Anyway, I'd like to transfer you over to Dr. Norman. I think she'd be great for you and helpful with some of the issues you've struggled with. But I didn't want to do that without discussing it with you.”

He's fidgeting with the corner of my file.

“Oh, okay. Sure, that's great. I've often thought a female would . . . I mean . . . you're great . . .”

He holds up one hand and smiles. “I understand.”

He's dumping you, honey. Too much butter on your thighs. He's handing the fat girls off to the lady doctor.

He stands and reaches his hand toward me again, but this time when I shake his hand, he seems to hold mine for a moment or two longer than usual. “Ellyn, it's always good seeing you. I'll look forward, I hope, to seeing you at the café?”

“Sure. I'm always there.”

“Great. Dr. Norman will be right in.” He turns and leaves the examining room.

The warmth of his hand lingers on mine.

Well, at least it was a nice dumping. And you've wanted a female doctor, right?

“Right.” I pull the paper drape closer around my ample stomach and chest as I wait for Dr. Norman, who I'm certain is young, skinny, and beautiful.

Maybe
she's
what happened to Dr. Becker's wedding ring.

See him at the café? Yeah, I bet. Nice way to soften the dumping, Doc. Although, maybe I deserve the dumping. Six more pounds?
Oh, Lord, I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to You.

Even more of a disappointment than I am to myself.

Grief darkened my heart (Lam. 5:17). Everything on which I set my gaze was death.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Two

Sabina

I leave the doctor's
office, prescription in hand. How often have I said to a client, “There is no shame in taking an antidepressant”? Yet I now understand that feeling firsthand. My mind knows the truth, but my psyche argues the point.

I'm a hypocrite.

I wouldn't even make an appointment with a psychiatrist. Instead, I scheduled a physical with an internist, explaining that I was spending some time in the village and wanted to establish with a doctor as a precaution. In case I encountered a need. And oh, by the way, I believe I'm fighting a mild depression . . .

Dr. Norman had paused and looked at my file, at the information sheet I'd completed. “You're a counselor?”

“Yes. Though I'm taking a sabbatical.”

“How's life? Any cause you're aware of for the depression?”

“Just . . . stress. Hence the sabbatical. It may be hormonal. I'm about that age and, as you suggested, in the beginning stages of menopause.” Not a total hypocrite though. It's true, the depression is the result of stress, of that I'm certain.

She nodded. “Well, I can prescribe something if you'd like.”

As she wrote the prescription I recalled my momma's cure-all for every ailment:
It's nothing a plate of collard greens won't cure.
Usually, the collard greens were followed by a piece of her peach cobbler, which, I knew, was the true cure. But then came the opportunity to attend Stanford, and a bright new world: California. I left Georgia, the simplicity of youth, and the collard greens behind.

And moved up to sophistication, at least in my mind, a successful career, and a level of stress I hadn't imagined possible.

I thanked Dr. Norman when she handed me the prescription.

I click the button
on my key fob and the doors unlock on my black BMW 550i. I stand in the parking lot of the doctors' office and peruse the sedan. I loved the car when Antwone surprised me with it. A gift to celebrate twenty-five years of a thriving counseling practice.

Now the car is a painful reminder of what was.

I sigh, get in, and head for the pharmacy.

After the pharmacy, I stop at Harvest Market in Fort Bragg, pick up a few necessities, and then make the ten-minute drive along Highway 1 to Mendocino. I've been here almost a week and I've barely noticed the grandeur of the rugged northern California coastline.

The house I've rented is at the north end of the village overlooking Agate Cove, where the crashing waves provide the resounding rhythm I hope will prove healing. But rather than take the exit that leads to the house, I take the second exit—into the heart of the village.

Just having the antidepressants infuses me with more hope than I've felt in weeks. And hope generates energy. For the first time since arriving in this place, I'm curious as to what's available. Heaven knows I'll die of starvation if I have to cook all my own meals, so it's time to find some alternatives to the frozen meals I've microwaved all week long.

It appears I can crisscross the grid of the village in less than five minutes. The narrow streets are lined with a combination of grand Victorians and simple, New England, saltbox homes. Miscellaneous other buildings—all housing businesses ranging from a corner bookstore, clothiers, jewelers, and art galleries—line the street. Scattered among the businesses are multiple restaurants and bed-and-breakfast inns.

There's a timeworn bohemian charm to the community. As I head two blocks west, the businesses give way to an eclectic array of houses. A few blocks further and I reach Mendocino Headlands State Park, which surrounds Mendocino on three sides. I only know it's a state park because of the research I did online before I arrived—otherwise, there is little to advertise that fact beyond a small sign at both entrances. The protected land includes trails on the bluffs with areas that overlook wave tunnels, blowholes, tide pools, and beaches, or so I read. A few people dot the landscape of the headlands—walking, or standing cliff-side mesmerized, it seems, by the swirling Pacific.

The headlands are only a few blocks from the house but I don't intend to spend much time there. I've barely ventured out of the house until today.

But girl, you will. You have to. You've let yourself languish in a state of melancholy too long.

I make a three-point turn where the street goes into the park, and turn back toward town and select a restaurant that looks interesting. Perhaps rather than slipping back into the robe I've worn all week, once back at the house I'll stay dressed and take myself out to dinner this evening.

Or not.

It will depend, I know, on whether or not this wave of energy wanes.

As I make the short drive back to the house, my cell phone rings and I start. I have a new number and the only people who have it are family. They're not scheduled to call, at least not yet. I glance at the screen of the phone sitting on the middle console . . .