Invisible (41 page)

Turns out, Rosa was right all along.

I'm terrified.

Or I was.

Some of that is subsiding as I work through my history. What's more, my weight is no longer the issue it was.

Wow, Ellyn, roll that one around in your mind for a moment . . .
My weight is no longer the issue it was.
That doesn't mean I've lost weight. No, that would take an act of God—He seems to have given me the economy metabolism, whereas others sport a racecar metabolism. Oh, well.

Instead, the act God deemed important was that I accept myself as one created in
His
image. I, Ellyn DeMoss, am created in the image of the most holy, majestic, and awesome God. Not in a physical sense, although Jesus did come in bodily form, but rather in a
spiritual
sense. And that is what's important. I am, I'm coming to believe, beautiful from the inside out. As I accept that fact, I'm also seeing myself as beautiful from the outside in.

Somehow that knowledge empowers me for what I need to do today.

Too much remains either unknown or misunderstood between me and my mom. The time has come to sort it out.

I reach to the passenger seat of the car and pick up the cyclamen plant I brought for my mother, along with a gift bag containing a silk, hand-painted scarf made by a Mendocino artist.

She'll hate it.

Which, at the moment, gives me great satisfaction.

I've learned I can't win with her, so I gave up trying, at least in the gift-giving department, long ago.

Oh Lord, remind me that this confrontation is an act of love and respect for both myself, and my mom. It is not retaliation for years of pain.

I take a deep breath, get out of the car, and then climb the front steps of the home in the Marina District of San Francisco, where my mother has lived since before I was born. I stand at the grand front door and ring the bell. I'm no longer free to walk in. When she answers, I'm struck again by her beauty and the care she takes, even at seventy-five, with her looks. Her hair is lighter now—dyed and highlighted, I'd guess, to cover the gray, and her skin is still smooth. Her nails are perfect, as are her black wool pants and cranberry silk blouse.

“Ellyn, so good to see you. How long has it been? A year or more?”

“Hello, Mother. Merry Christmas. These are for you.” I hand her the plant and the gift bag, which saves me from one of her faux hugs and air kisses.

“Well, come in, don't just stand out there.”

I step into the large foyer which jettisons me back thirty-five years. Nothing much has changed in the house since then.

She sets the plant and bag down on the round entry table in the middle of the foyer. Well, one thing has changed. The flowers in the vase on the table are fresh. A florist replaces the arrangement each week. This one is made up of what look like redwood boughs, pinecones, and poinsettias.

“Let me look at you.” My mother lifts her head, just a bit, and looks down her nose at me. The typical inspection. “Why, Ellyn, is that a new outfit?”

“Yes.”

“It's lovely. I didn't know they made such nice things in your size. Come dear, I've waited so long for you, I fear the food is cold.”

I look at my watch. “I thought we weren't eating until 4:00.”

“We're not. But we have appetizers, of course.”

I follow her into the library, where I find a spread fit for a party. “Who else is coming? I thought it was just us.”

“It is just us, Christmas is a family day. You know that.”

“But Mother, there's enough food here for a dozen people.”

“Nonsense. Here, take a plate, and help yourself. I'm sure you're starved after your long drive.”

Anger, a simmering pot, is ready to boil over. But I put a lid on it and turn down the heat.
Oh Lord, help me.
I look at the spread of hors d'oeuvres and for the first time wonder how my mother keeps her trim figure. Genetics, I'm certain. I'm built like my father. But still, there's no way she could eat all she prepares and not gain weight.

I take the plate she hands me and choose a few samplings.

“Oh, Ellyn, try the stuffed mushrooms. It's a new recipe.”

Habits are hard to break, and I bow to her wishes, even though I don't want a stuffed mushroom. But it's easier than saying no.

As is always the case with her.

When we sit down
for dinner, I'm already stuffed, but she's made a traditional Christmas dinner: prime rib, Yorkshire pudding, and the works.

“Mom, how do you expect me to eat so much?”

“You have a large appetite, Ellyn. You always have.”

The pot simmers again.

I put the linen napkin on my lap. “Evidently my appetite isn't as large as you think. I'm already stuffed. I can't eat all this.”

“Can't or won't? Are you dieting?”

“No, I'm not dieting. And both—I can't
and
I won't eat any more. I'm sorry you went to all this work, but . . . you'll have to save it for leftovers.”

Just like that, I'm breaking away. From the expected. From the old habit.

“Don't be ridiculous. Here, have a slice of meat—rare, just the way you like it.” She hands me the platter of prime rib.

“Mom . . .” My tone is tender though I was going for firm. Tears prick my eyes.
Oh, great.
I am
never
vulnerable with my mother. In fact, I don't think I've allowed her to see me cry since that afternoon when I was a freshman and she told me about Eric Neilson. I clear my throat. “Please, listen to me.”

“Fine, don't eat the meat. You don't need the calories, that's for sure.”

“Mom, why do you do that? Why do you press me to eat and then condemn my weight? Why?”

“I just want you to be happy, and food has always made you happy.”

I get up from the table, leave the dining room, cross the foyer, and go into the library to collect my thoughts for a minute.

Oh Lord, I feel crazy. I don't know how to do this with her. I don't know what to say.

I hear my mother's heels tapping across the travertine floor of the foyer. By the time she enters the library a few seconds later, God's answered my plea for help.

I don't know what to say, but I know how to say it. God is asking me to trust Him by offering my vulnerability to my mother. It isn't
her
response I count on—it's His.

“Ellyn, it's Christmas. I can see you're upset about something, but can't we just enjoy our day together? I have a few gifts for you—let's go sit by the tree and you can open them.”

She says all this to my back. When I turn to look at her, tears are leaving tracks on my cheeks. “Mom, sit down. I . . . want to talk. I need help understanding a few things.”

“Ellyn, you're crying. Let me get you some tissue. You know if you cry that fair skin of yours will blotch something fierce.”

“It doesn't matter, please, just sit for a minute.”

“Oh, fine.” She drops into one of the damask-upholstered wingback chairs. “What is it?”

“This isn't about food, Mother. It's about . . . men.”

“Men? Oh, Ellyn, you don't need a man. You have a fine career and someday this house and all I have will go to you—”

“Stop. Just stop! Listen to me.” My plea comes out with a sob. “
Please
. . .”

She crosses one leg over the other and leans back in the chair. “I'm listening.”

I take a deep breath and ask a question that's nagged for some time. “Did . . . Dad betray you? Did he have an affair?”

She stiffens. “If you're asking if I have proof, no. But I didn't need proof to know the truth. Your father, as much as you loved him, was just a man, Ellyn.”

“But just because he was a man doesn't mean he was unfaithful. Daddy was a man of God, you know that.”

She looks away from me. But when she looks back, I see pain etched in her features, which now look aged. “First and foremost, he . . . was . . . a . . .
man
.”

I'm quiet for a moment, not sure what to say, but then it comes to me. “Mom, what, or who, turned you against men? Who hurt you?”

She sucks in her breath. “Plenty of men hurt me. I'm not going through my sordid history with you. There is no need to dredge up the past. But trust me, they only have one thing on their minds and they will use you!”

She spits her words like a cobra spewing venom.

Already exhausted, I sit on the sofa across from her. “Just one more question.” I hesitate, but the question has pounded at me since the memory surfaced. “Did Eric Neilson really just . . . make a joke of me?”

“Who?”

“Eric Neilson. High school. He asked me to the Homecoming Dance.”

She waves me off as though it doesn't matter.

“Mother, you told me he asked me to the dance on a dare, that it was a joke.”

“Ellyn, that was more than thirty years ago, how do you expect me to remember that?”

“I think you remember.” I watch as her features become set—and then I know. “You lied to me, didn't you?”

Stony silence is all she offers.

“Mother, did you lie to me?”

In a sudden movement, she stands. “No, Ellyn. I
protected
you! That's all I've ever done is protect you! I wanted the best for you. And . . . and this is what I get? Your accusations?”

Now she is the one crying. She turns and leaves the library.

I lean back against the sofa, my emotions spent. Protected me? Yes, I see it now, in her mind, she thinks that's what she did. I sigh, pull myself up from the sofa, and follow her. I find her in the kitchen standing at the sink. I watch her for a minute and then walk up behind her. I put my hand on her back. “Mom, I'm seeing a counselor and she's helping me. Maybe . . . you could do the same and we could both get healthy, you know?”

She turns and faces me. “Healthy? Ellyn, I'm the picture of health.”

“I mean emotionally healthy.”

She searches my face.
Oh Lord, let her lay down her fears. Let her follow You to health.

“Some man has finally gotten his claws into you, hasn't he? Has he defiled you? Have you given him the one precious gift you should have saved?”

“Mother—”

“Emotional health, Ellyn? Don't be ridiculous. There's nothing wrong with my emotional health. I know the truth and I live by it. Just as I taught you to do. But now, clearly, you've turned on me and on that truth. What is it? Do you fancy yourself in love with him? Let me tell you, it will only end in heartbreak. Heartbreak, Ellyn, do you hear me? The very thing I worked so hard to keep you from.”

Her face crumples as she talks. Deep lines form around her eyes and mouth as bitterness seeps from her.

She straightens, then turns to leave the kitchen. But she looks over her shoulder at me. “I have a headache. I'm going to bed. I expect you to be gone when I get up.
Merry Christmas.
”

With that, she stalks out of the kitchen and her heels tap through the foyer and up the stairs.

I just stand there.

What happened?

You spoke truth, My daughter, and the truth will set you free.

The voice of the Spirit—gentle, tender, and loving—whispers to my soul.

I go to the dining room and begin clearing the table. My movements are slow and my heart is heavy. Yet, with the grief also comes a sense of peace.

Only in the realm of God do the two comingle.

I put food in containers and put them in her refrigerator and then I do up the dishes. I wipe her counters clean. And before I leave, I go to the desk in the kitchen, take a notepad out of the drawer, and leave her a note on the center island.

I love you.

I sign my name and tuck the note under a decorative plate on the island.

The words for my mother are not my own, because, believe me, I'm not feeling love right now. Instead, I know they are God's words for my mother, written through me. Part of being created in the image of God is reflecting Him to others. That is difficult to do when you're mired in bitterness or focused on your own pain. God, through my counselor and friends, is teaching me.

And freeing me.

I get my purse and my coat.

And I leave.

But I do so weighing less than I did when I arrived.

My entire hope is exclusively in your very great mercy. Grant what you command, and command what you will.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Fifty-Six

Ellyn

“How did it go?”

I'm sitting next to Sabina at the dining-room table in her rental. The blinds are up, and we're both sitting on the side of the table that affords the view of the surf crashing in the cove. The day is every shade of gray and gorgeous in its own way.

I take a sip of my coffee and then answer. “It was hard, like having your gallbladder removed without anesthesia hard.”