Invisible (32 page)

“I don't know. I think it's just so he can feel good about himself.”

We reach the car. “Thanksgiving's?”

“Nah, I'm going home.”

“Twila . . .” I measure my words. “In different ways, we're both feeling rejected and maybe a little fragile emotionally. This is when we need to rely on God. Let His strength work through our weakness.”

“Sometimes, I don't, like, know how to do that—to let Him be strong.”

“Just remember who you are.” I reach for her wrist and pull up the sleeve of her hoodie. I turn her wrist so we can both see the tattoo there.

“Never forget that. Your dad can't take your identity from you—no one can. There are many of us who love you and appreciate who you are. We don't want to see you waste away. Don't let him defeat you.”

She looks at her wrist a moment longer, then looks at me, her eyes wide. She nods her head. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“So, Thanksgiving's?”

She nods again and opens the passenger side door of my car and gets in.

My error was my god . . .

Saint Augustine

Chapter Forty-Three

Sabina

I open my mouth,
but nothing comes out.
Oh, God, please. Please make the music stop.
I want to beg, to plead with Jesus to make it stop, but the words are lost to me—my voice nonexistent. Beethoven's Sontata for the Piano, No. 12, plays in A-flat. The chords drowning out my cries.

Stop! No more!

But still, only the strains of the dirge fill the candlelit chamber—wisps of smoke from the candles in the tall candelabras twist heavenward.

I look up—following the spirals of smoke—and then I see her. Her braids dangling, her neck at an awkward angle.
Jazzy! Jazzy!
One of her knee socks is scrunched around her ankle, the other still covering her calf.
Jazzy!
Her eyes, open, are without expression.

Help! Someone help!
I struggle, I fight to force the words from my mind to my mouth, but—nothing. Frustration heaves in my chest. My temples pound with the deafening strains of the sonata.

I run to get help, but my legs won't carry me. I run, but I don't move. Quicksand, or so it seems.

Jazzy! I have to help Jazzy!

“Sabina! Sabina! Where's Jazzy? Where?” My mamma shakes me, but I can say nothing. Instead, I lift a leaden arm, the movement slow, oh so slow. I point up—up to the branches of the climbing tree—the one in the backyard—the one now transplanted in the chamber.

There's Jazzy, Mamma.
She hangs from a branch, her neon-pink rubber jump rope—the one with the neon-green handles—tangled around the branch . . . and her neck.

Her braids dangle.

There's Jazzy, Mamma. There!

“Oh, Sweet Jesus, oh my Jesus . . . You've taken my baby. Jazzy! Oh, my Lord . . .” Mamma wails. “You've taken her home.”

Mamma drops to her knees in the dirt beneath the tree. The candles flicker and then go out. The smoke swirls. And Mamma cries.

“Jazz . . . y. Jazz . . . Jazz . . . y!” My tongue is thick as I thrash back and forth in bed. I pull at the tangled sheets, tying me down. I try to kick them off, but to no avail. Then I bolt upright—Beethoven's sonata ringing in my ears. I cover my face with my hands.

I gasp for breath. “Oh . . . oh, no. No. Please, not again. Never again.”

My temples still pound.

The nightmare has haunted me off and on for almost forty years. Since that fateful day when my mamma asked me to watch my little sister while she went next door to take a cake to the neighbors.

She'd stayed and visited a bit.

I was fifteen. Jazzy was eight.

One minute she was skipping rope in the backyard. The next minute, she was hanging, dead, from the climbing tree.

An unfortunate accident.

That's what the authorities said. Mamma said it was God's sovereign will. And later, days and even years later, Mamma would say, “Jazzy's jumpin' rope with Jesus now.” Then she'd shake her head. “Good Lord, I can't wait to see that,” she'd say to the ceiling.

My aunt Athena, an accomplished pianist, played Sonata for Piano No. 12 in A-flat, by Ludwig van Beethoven, at Jazzy's funeral. I've not listened to Beethoven since, at least not by choice.

I lean forward and untwist the sheet from around my legs. I get out of bed and go straight to the steam shower. I turn the water as hot as it will go and set the steam temperature to 115 degrees. I drop my nightgown on the floor and step into the shower. I will, as I have so many times before, attempt to wash the memories away.

For several years, the nightmare stopped. As part of the requirements for my degrees, I had to go through my own extensive therapy. I worked through my feelings of responsibility for Jazzy's death. And my grief.

But then . . . the twins were born.

Being responsible for the girls' little lives overwhelmed me. And the nightmare returned.

Needless to say, I never allowed the girls to learn how to jump rope. And it wasn't until they left for college, when they weren't under my roof, or my control—or at least, my sense of control—that the fear subsided.

A bit.

Then Ashley hung herself from one of the pull-up bars on her high-school campus. Another girl I was supposed to watch . . .

Dead.

I reach for the shampoo, lather it into the little hair I have. As I do, I breathe in hot, almost scorching, steam.

I let burning, pulsating water batter me.

I punish my body.

As I punish my soul.

After I shower, I
sit in front of the fireplace with a cup of coffee. The emotions of the nightmare lead me to reflection. I recognize there is a dichotomy between what I say I believe, or don't believe, and what's intrinsic to who I am.

God, who I cease to believe exists, is always a part of the nightmare. A part of Jazzy's death. I recognize His presence, though I construe it as negative. All the times I've woken from that same nightmare, I've never analyzed it. I've never given conscious thought to God and His role in the dream. Until now. I'm certain, as Ellyn pointed out, it's because I'm surrounded by believers. Happenstance, though Ellyn asserts otherwise. But with all the God-talk going on around me, it's no wonder I'm more aware now of God's role in the nightmare. I beg Him, plead with Him . . . all to no avail.

But it's more than that. Like it or not, God is woven into my being. He is present in my earliest recollections. Mama made sure of that. And there was a time, before Jazzy, that I loved Jesus. Or thought I did.

When I went through those years of required therapy, I vented my anger. I decided then that not only did I not believe in God, but that He in fact, does not exist. So what, now I'm saying I believe He exists, but it's impossible to know Him? Agnosticism versus atheism? Semantics, really. Of course, there are those who'd argue otherwise, but in the scheme of things, what difference does it make?

The Bible is clear: there is one way—and only one—to eternal salvation and relationship with God—through belief in Jesus, as part of the divine Trinity, belief in His death on the cross and His resurrection.

Oh, Ellyn was right, I was raised in church. I may refuse to acknowledge God, but I'm familiar with the teachings of the Bible. Those early lessons taught in Sunday school stayed with me.

I set my mug down, stand up, and pace the living room. I stop in front of the entertainment cabinet and turn on my iPod. A little Bach will soothe me. With Yo-Yo Ma manipulating the strings of his cello in the background, I turn toward the windows.

The blinds remain drawn.

I walk to the window in front of the leather chairs and reach for the cord, then pull up the blind. I will prove Ellyn and her theory wrong. I stand at the window and focus my gaze on the large cypress tree across the street.

It's a tree. So what? It's supposed to prove God's existence? Then a raven takes flight from somewhere deep within the branches. It flits around the tree and then lands on a branch at the very top. It sits facing me.

Staring at me.

Mocking me.

That is all the proof I need.

There is no reliable security except in You.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Forty-Four

Ellyn

I slip out of
my pajamas and step onto the scale. For once, I'm looking forward to seeing the number. After living on vegetables and odd sources of protein, the number can only be lower. But when I look down, my countenance drops.

The number is the same.

The same as it was last week.

And the week before.

Get used to it. You're a failure at weight loss, you know that.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I've heard it all before, Earl. Get some new material.”

I look down at the scale again. While Earl's snide comments don't wound like they used to, I still can't believe what the scale says. I've made major changes in my diet, cut out everything good, how is it possible I haven't lost even a pound? How? I step off the scale . . .

And then kick it.

“Ouch!” Not a good move with bare feet.

Pajamas back on, I walk out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, and head downstairs to the kitchen. Just as I get there, the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Did Miles save you from the rat?”

That's Sabina's greeting. I sigh. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did.”

“You're still irritated that you needed a man, aren't you?”

“Oh, hush. How are you?”

“I'm good. Are we walking this morning?”

“If we have to.”

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”

“I'd rather sit, drink coffee, and eat buttery croissants.”

“Wouldn't we all?” She laughs. “Same time, same place?”

“Sure. Well . . .” Wait a minute. “I'd really prefer walking on the headlands today. I could use a good dose of sea air. If you want to join me, great. If not, that's fine too.”

She hesitates. “O . . . kay. You don't think it's too cold out there?”

“Have you looked outside? The sun is shining. It's gorgeous. Wear one of those designer workout jackets of yours. You'll be fine.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“I'll park in the lot by the cypress grove, just down from Hesser and Lansing. See you there in thirty minutes.”

“Fine.”

I hang up the phone.
Oh Lord, open her eyes. Give her eyes to see You.

I'm in no mood to exert myself, or drink pond sludge, or eat a breakfast better suited for a squirrel. I look at the nut mixture in a container on my countertop. I sigh again and glance at the hot cereal I made before I went upstairs to weigh myself. I spoon a serving of the steel-cut oatmeal from the pan on the range into a bowl. It looks no more appealing in the bowl than it did in the pan. I sprinkle a handful of the nut mixture onto the cooked oats.

I shake my head. “I am so over veganism.”

Of course you are. You're a woman, not a rabbit. You need real food. You deserve it.

“Why thank you, Earl. I agree.” But even as I agree with Earl, something nags at me. Is it the tone of the voice I hear in my head? Or the words themselves that bother me? I cock my head to one side, like a dog who's heard a familiar voice. “Huh . . .”

Something about Earl is different. Or . . .

Maybe it's me who's different.

Changing.

I'm not sure.

I reach into the freezer and take out the pound of butter that I couldn't bear throwing away when I ventured into my little vegan experiment. I put a cube of the butter into the microwave for a few seconds. Then I pop two pieces of cinnamon swirl bread, also from the freezer, into the toaster. As I wait for the bread to toast, I attempt to ignore the red flag waving in my brain.

Agreeing with Earl, I've learned, is never wise. But just this once can't hurt. Right? I'll get back on track tomorrow.