Invisible by Ginny L. Yttrup

He’s given me a heart—and the experience—to help people in pain. I may not feel their physical pain in my body, but I feel their pain in my spirit. It’s kind of hard to explain. But it’s like it makes my heart bleed.
    And I don’t just sense their physical pain—I get their emotions too. Emotional pain and physical pain go together. One breeds the other. If you begin with emotional pain and don’t resolve it, it manifests in the body.
    That’s what happened to me.
    And if you suffer from physical pain, your emotions often follow along. But I find people are more willing to open up and talk about their physical pain. It’s like a doorway to their emotional pain, right? That’s why I reference the Augustine quote about physical pain being the greatest evil—people can relate to that and then, a lot of times, they’ll open up. But they hold their emotional pain closer, keep it hidden longer.
    If I’ve learned anything from my own experiences, it’s that, most of the time, emotional pain is based in shame. And people don’t want to go there.
    I get that.
    All too well.
    It’s like when I met Ellyn at Corners. She smiles, but she’s in pain. She didn’t say that. But I know. See . . . that’s what I mean about it being hard to explain. I just know. Sometimes I even know it before they do.
    Weird. But that’s just how I’m wired. My mom says it’s a gift.
    I’m still deciding.
    â€œTwila? Are you with us?”
    My mom’s question—and the hint of concern in her eyes—pulls my thoughts back to the table, where we’re all sitting. I smile and nod. “Sure, Mom.” But we both know . . .
    For the most part, I’m just an observer here.
    I eat all of my salad—organic greens, roasted beets, pistachios, and a dressing of olive oil and black fig balsamic vinegar—while listening to my mom and Dr. Becker catch up.
    Dr. Becker tries to include me in the conversation, but I just want to listen. He seems to get that after the first several minutes.
    I watched him watch Ellyn when she walked back to the kitchen. He ran his hand through his hair as he watched her. She’s the reason he wanted to come here. Just one of those things I know—or at least suspect. I know him well enough to know that he only does that thing with his hair when he’s uncertain.
    My mom probably knew his reason for wanting to come, but she wouldn’t tell me. She’s a trustworthy friend.
    She became friends with Dr. Becker during Mrs. Becker’s illness. My mom already knew Mrs. Becker from the store, but she didn’t meet Dr. Becker until he came to her seeking a nutritional plan for his wife. By that time, it was already too late, but maybe the diet made him feel like he was doing everything he could.
    After Mrs. Becker died, I sort of hoped maybe Dr. Becker would ask my mom out, like when the time was right. But then I realized the time would never be right for my mom. She says God is her husband now. But that’s okay. I respect her decision.
    After our salads, Ellyn brings our dinners out to our table herself. She sets plates in front of each of us, and Dr. Becker and I look at each other and smile.
    He looks from me to her. “Ellyn, this looks great.”
    I look up at her standing next to the table. Her face is flushed—from the heat of the kitchen, I’m guessing—and she looks, like, radiant. Her long red hair is pulled back but there are little ringlet curls around her face, and her light green eyes shine. I only sort of notice her size, which is another sign that I’m getting better.
    I can see why Dr. Becker might, you know, be drawn to her even though she’s large. Like my mom said, she is engaging. She’s someone you just want to get to know. She’s like that saying, larger than life . I can think of her that way and not let her size bother me. “Wow, Ellyn,