Invisible (34 page)

Miles's words in the ER, his answer when I asked if he blamed himself when his wife died, return to me now.

“To blame myself would mean that I consider myself on the same plane as God. That I see myself as omnipotent. God is the only One who holds life and death in His grasp.”

I leave the dead trees and walk a few more paces into the edge of the grove—the clearing Ellyn called the cathedral.

A breeze rustles the foliage of the cypress trees, far overhead.

These trees . . .

Move.

Breathe.

Live.

The surf crashes on jagged rocks below the cliffs. The sound I've worked so hard to ignore since my arrival here. The irritant that, for a moment in time, turned to serenade on Ellyn's balcony.

I walk into the center of the clearing, though it feels more like I'm pushed there.

I am not alone. A recognition that, oddly enough, brings peace rather than fear. I have been, I know now, called here.

Summoned.

I look up at the canopy of branches—shafts of sunlight filter in through the foliage, the breeze sends patches of sunlight dancing on the earthen floor. I stand in one of the patches of light and watch as the breeze stills and one shaft of light from above seems to encircle me.

My heart swells.

I smile. It's as though Mozart's “Magic Flute” is the song of the surf as joy fills my empty soul. I turn in a slow circle, arms out, face upturned. The scents of salt, seaweed, and the pungent aroma of cedar waft around me. Somewhere deep within I know that what's taking place in my spirit has little to do with me.

God, yes,
God,
the creator of the universe, of the magnificence surrounding me, has called me to Himself. Ellyn was right. I couldn't see His creation,
can't
see His creation, without seeing Him. I was, I am, without excuse.

I will resist no longer.

I can resist no longer.

He invades my opening soul.

The months, maybe years, of anger—my fist clenched and shaking in the face of God, and then the years spent denying His existence—melt away as I glimpse, for the first time, His mercy and grace—an inkling of more to come. So much more.

I pull my arms in and cross them over my chest, and my eyes close. I am awash in the wind, in the very breath of the Creator. It embraces me, caresses my cheek like a Father calming a frightened babe.

Shame is no more.

Guilt is replaced by grace.

“Yes, Lord. Yes.” I whisper my surrender into the breeze as it stirs again. And then I hear my mamma's sweet soprano in my mind, singing the words of her favorite hymn:

“Come home, come home, “Ye who are weary, come home; “Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling, “Calling, O sinner, come home!”

Mamma said the hymn was sung at Martin Luther King's memorial service back home. She said Jesus had called Martin home to rest. Just like years later she'd say Jesus had called Jazzy home. The song, I see now, was her comfort.

Today, God has called me home. Not to eternity—not yet—but home to His lap, where my mother prayed I'd stay for all my years. Instead, I wandered. But today . . .

I've come home.

I walk out to the end of the clearing, to the picnic table that seems to hang on the edge of the cliff. I sit on the bench nearest the water and let the wind wash over me. As it does, tears come. I don't stop them, as I've done for so long. Tears for Jazzy, and for Ashley. Tears for my mamma. Cleansing tears mixed with tears of gratitude.

I sit for hours watching the constant motion of the sea and wiping away tears now and then. The seascape changes moment by moment—the surf rolls in, crashes, and then returns from whence it came. Over and over. As constant and dependable as the love of God. As the sun moves lower in the sky, the water changes from aqua to sea foam to a dark gray-blue. Finally, as the sun drops to the horizon, the water reflects back the colors of the sky—the brilliant orange and peach and lavender of a perfect sunset.

I've grown cold, but I can't take my eyes off the display in front of me. I've missed so much. The time has come to pick up the threads of my life, to reengage, to complete the work with a counselor that I began so long ago. But this time, I will leave nothing to chance. It is time to return to the roles I've known: wife, mother, and perhaps, one day, counselor.

But first, I will live my purpose. The purpose Twila spoke of . . . I will engage, fully, in a relationship with God. I will get to know Him. I will rest in, or at least try to rest in, the role my mama claimed for herself and her girls: daughter of the King.

I breathe contentment out on a sigh, and then reach into the pocket of my sweatshirt jacket and take out my cell phone. There are few places in the area where I have cell coverage, but maybe here, on the edge of the world, I can make a call. I turn on the phone, see a few bars, and then dial.

Antwone answers after the first ring.

“Sabina?”

When I hear his deep baritone, the tears begin again. “Hi, baby.”

“Are you all right?”

I nod and choke back a sob. “I'm . . . better than all right. Really. I've . . . I've come home, baby. God brought me back. To Himself.” What I was so certain of just moments ago now feels foolish when I hear myself say it out loud. “Antwone?”

“I'm here.”

“Do I . . . sound crazy?” I look around me—the evidence remains. God is who He says He is. I am not crazy.

“No, baby. You sound”—he clears his throat—“good. You sound good.”

A hush comes between us—a silence of reverence—a oneness we've not experienced together, ever. Yet, it also feels familiar.

It is the Spirit within us, connecting us.

I close my eyes. “I want to see you—I want you to come here. There's so . . . much. So much to say, so much time to make up for. I want to experience this”—I make a sweeping gesture with one arm—“with you. I want to experience God, with you.”

“I'll come soon. Soon, Sabina. I have some things to take care of, and then I'll come. But baby, now, while you're alone, He wants you to Himself. Okay?”

“Yes, I understand.” My words are hurried, breathless. As strong as my desire was for Antwone's presence, just moments ago, my desire, my hunger now is for God.

And Him alone.

There are also acts which resemble a vicious or injurious act but are not sins, because they do not offend you, Lord our God . . .

Saint Augustine

Chapter Forty-Six

Twila

I love early mornings
in the store, before the doors open and customers arrive. I wander the aisles making sure the shelves are stocked and check the refrigerator cases one last time. I hang out in the produce section for a few minutes just looking at the colors and textures of the fruits and vegetables. I'm always awed by the way God packed so many nutrients into the coolest colors and shapes.

It isn't my usual day to work, but I covered for Anna this morning, who had a dental appointment. Because Corners of the Mouth is a co-op, we're all part owners of the store. Most of the proceeds go back into the store and the community. We're also like family. This may seem like a small job to some, but, like, for me, it has meaning. I'm contributing to something important.

The time here helps me forget the other stuff going on in life right now—like my dad. He's been here several days, but I still don't get why. After spending some time with Miles, talking to my mom, and my counselor, I'm feeling sort of better and eating a little bit. I still have to work through my feelings though . . . and talk to my dad. But for now, while I'm here, it's sort of like a reprieve. When Anna comes in, I'll have to get back to the rest of my life.

I sit across the
kitchen table from my dad, who seems uncomfortable. “Where's your mother?”

“She's around.”

My counselor suggested I have this conversation someplace where I feel safe. Not because she thinks my dad will flip, but because I'll feel, like, more confident or in control if we meet on my terms. So when he called and asked me to go to lunch with him, I said no. When he said he wanted to see me, I told him he'd have to come here.

I could tell he didn't like that. But for some reason he came anyway.

“So let's go somewhere. Do something.” He moves to stand.

“No, wait. I want to ask you something.” He settles back in his seat but I can hear his foot tapping against the wood floor. “Why are you here?”

He looks at me like I'm stupid. “Because you didn't want to go to lunch and said to come—”

“No. Why are you in Mendocino? Why did you come here?”

“To see you. Believe me, there's nothing else to do here.”

I sit up straighter. “You never cared about seeing me before.”

“Listen, Twila, I may not win any father-of-the-year awards, but I've always provided for you, and provided well. You can't deny that. But my life took a different turn. After I remarried, I had other responsibilities.”

“And now?”

He's quiet for a moment and then he smiles. His gray eyes shine. For a moment I see the daddy whose love I clamored for. The “charmer,” as I've heard my mother call him.

“I was going to wait to tell you this, wait until we'd spent more time together, but since you're pushing me, I'll tell you now. I have a business opportunity, the one I've worked my whole life for—it's finally come through—and I want you to come with me to New York. You can leave Hippyville behind and get a taste of the real world. It's time you begin acting like the adult you are, Twila. I'll set you up in your own place, an apartment near my penthouse. In turn, you can help me—act as hostess when I have business dinners or associates over for drinks. You can take care of things for me. It's a generous offer, and you certainly don't have anything going on here.”

I try to ignore his barbs and focus on the point. “But why? Can't your wife do that?”

He shrugs. “I'm not taking her with me. I filed for divorce last month.”

I ball my hands into fists under the table. “What about your kids?”

“They'll be fine.”

“Just like I was fine?”

“You're great. Look at you.”

Tears fill my eyes. “You . . . don't know. You don't know what I . . . went through.”

“C'mon. It's all in the past. We can start fresh. Share an adventure together.”

I shake my head. The charm he exudes is replaced by manipulation.

“Twila.” His voice is firm now. “I've supported you all these years—made sure you had everything you needed. The best schools, medical care, whatever you needed. Now it's your chance to support me.”

I choke back my tears and ask the question I've wanted to ask since I was a child. “Do you . . . love me?”

His foot starts tapping under the table again. He blows out a breath through his teeth. “Of course I love you, I'm your father. Now, why don't you go pack a bag and we can send for the rest of your things later. Now that you know the plan, there's no reason to hang around here any longer.”

As I've watched him and listened to him, my stomach has clenched and unclenched over and over. Bile rises in my throat. I take a deep breath, praying I won't be sick right here, right now.

“No.” I take another breath. “I won't go.” Then I speak the truth I've always known but denied. “You don't love me. You never have.” Tears blur my vision again. “But for some reason, now you need me, or think you need me. It's never been about me. Like, all you can see, all you can love, is yourself.” As I speak and accept the truth, my stomach relaxes. “You . . . starved me. I was so hungry for your—”

“Listen, young lady, I don't need your—”

“No!
You
listen.” I stand up. “I was so hungry for your love. I just wanted to please you, to make you love me. But now . . . now I get it. You won't . . . you won't ever love anyone but yourself.”

His face reddens and I see the vein in his neck throb.

“Twila?”

I turn and see my mom standing in the opening between the kitchen and living room.

“I'm okay.” I turn back to my father. “I want you to leave now. I don't want to see you and I don't want your money. I can support myself. Please, just go.” Tears stream down my face. I sniff and point to the back door. “Go.”

He stands and looks at my mother. “Nerissa, are you going to talk some sense into her? I make her a generous offer and this is how she acts?”

My mom steps into the kitchen. “I believe she asked you to leave. Please go.”

He shakes his head. “You two are a pair. You've made a big mistake, Twila.”

His eyes, steel now, bore through me. But I stand still, firm. I have some of his steel in me too and I will use it now. I will stand strong. No, I take that back. I have nothing of him in me except his chromosomes. It's my heavenly Father's strength that sustains me. “If you don't leave now, I will call 911 and tell them I've asked you to leave and you won't. Go!” I point to the door again.