You are God and Lord of all you have created.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Eleven

Twila

Wednesdays I’m at Corners of the Mouth all day. The wind blows so hard today that the wood doors at the front of the store open a crack every few minutes and fill the entry with cold sea air. I turn the gas pot-bellied stove on to heat the place. The store is like, so quiet this morning. I guess most people are saving their errands until the wind dies down, though here, it could be spring before that happens.

I lean against the counter where the registers are and read a new pamphlet on the cancer-fighting properties of broccoli sprouts. I know most of the information, but make a note to order some of the pamphlets to keep in the choir loft/herb room next to the seeds for sprouting.

I hear one of the front doors bang again and move to shut it tight, but then I see Ellyn standing in front of the refrigerator case in the foyer. “Hi.”

“Twila, hi, I was hoping you’d be here.”

She’s pulling long pieces of red curly hair off her face and then pulls a band out of her pocket and puts it all back in a ponytail. That’s how I wore mine today too. “Pretty crazy wind, right?”

“No kidding. It came up off the headlands last night and battered my house all night long. I thought I’d find shingles on the lawn this morning, but the old thing is sturdy, I guess. It did keep me awake most of the night though, so now not only is my hair blown in a hundred different directions, but I also have bags under my eyes.”

I look at her and shrug. “You look good to me. Which house do you live in?”

“It’s the renovated water tower off of Little Lake. The one facing the headlands. It has natural cedar shingles and a widow’s walk on top.”

“I know the one. Cool. I love the old water towers around here. They have so much history.”

“I like them too. When I moved here and saw that one, I knew I had to have it. It’s unique—charming. I can say that because I just rent it. The owner refuses to sell it.”

“So what made you leave it on a day like today?” The front door bangs again. “Hey, come in here by the stove.”

We walk over to the stove, and Ellyn stands in front of it. “Oh, it feels so good. It makes me want to purr like a big orange cat.”

I laugh. “Yeah, it’s nice.”

“Well, to answer your question, I have a couple of coffee dates today—people meeting me at the restaurant—and I’m out of cream. Since it’s Wednesday and we’re only open Thursday through Sunday, I don’t get a delivery until tomorrow. So I thought I’d grab something here. Have any half-and-half?

“No, you’d have to go to Harvest for that, but we offer some great alternatives—good but healthy, you know?”

“Twila, honey, do I look like I know?”

I shrug again and smile. “I don’t know, I mean, you’re a chef, so . . .”

“That I am. Le Cordon Bleu trained—in Paris, no less—which means heavy cream is a staple in my repertoire and healthy alternatives aren’t a consideration.” She grins. “So teach me something new.”

“Sure. Follow me.” I lead her to the refrigerator cases in the back of the store. “We have soy creamer, or you could use a nut milk, like almond milk.”

“Soy?” She puts her hand to her throat like she’s gagging.

I laugh. “I’ll show you something else. C’mon.” She follows me to the center aisle of the store where I reach for a can on a low shelf. “Organic coconut milk. It’s rich and I hear it’s good in coffee.”

She takes the can from me and looks at the label. “Twila, do you know how many calories are in this stuff?”

“Sure. But it’s still good for you—it’s a good fat for your body. When you’re eating what your body needs, you don’t have to worry too much about calories. I mean, well, I know it’s hard not to think about the calories. I do. But . . .”

“Really? Honey, look at you. You look like Twiggy.”

“Who?”

She shakes her head. “Never mind. Are you sure about your information? Where’d you learn this stuff?”

“At UCSC. I have a masters in nutritional science.”

She stares at me for a minute. “So you’re a child prodigy? A girl with an Einstein IQ who graduated from college when you were, what, twelve, maybe?”

“No.” I take the can of coconut milk from her and put it back on the shelf.

“Oh no, you don’t, I want to try it.” She reaches down and takes it off the shelf again.

“Okay. It’s what Miles uses in his coffee.”

She looks at me again and I watch as her neck and then her face blush the color of, like, a Pink Lady apple, or something.

“Oh . . . so, you know about that . . . coffee thing he wanted to do?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” I’d asked my mom if Miles was interested in Ellyn after we went to dinner the other night. But I just guessed he might be one of her coffee dates today.

She looks back at the can in her hand and then bends to reach for a second one. I can tell bending isn’t easy for her.

“Do you have back problems?”

“Honey, I have body problems.” She sighs. “But back to the coffee thing. Don’t you think it’s odd that a man like Miles wants to have coffee with me?”

“Why?”

“Why? Because . . .”

She hesitates and looks, I don’t know, like, uncomfortable, maybe.

“Because . . . look at me.”

I shrug again. “Maybe others don’t see you the way you see yourself, you know?”

She shakes her head. “All others have to do is look at me to see what I see in the mirror.”

“It doesn’t always work like that.” I reach for the left sleeve of the sweater I’m wearing and pull it up. “See this?” I show Ellyn my wrist. She comes closer and takes my arm in her hands and turns her head so she can read what it says.

“Imago Dei? The image of God?”

“Right.”

I look at her and smile. “You know that you’re created in the image of God, right?”

She nods. “Sure, Genesis, chapter 1, but what’s your point?”

“Just that we’re each created in the image of God, but we’re all different. You have red hair, mine is brown. You’re tall, I’m not. But not only that, we all have different wiring on the inside too—things that make us unique. But all of us, in some way, reflect an image of God—of who He is. So who’s to say what’s right or what’s wrong about how we look?”

Her forehead creases like she’s thinking about what I’m saying.

“I mean, we’re supposed to take care of our bodies, but I think the best way we do that is just to be close to God. Intimate, you know? Then everything else sort of falls into place.”

“Huh. Pretty insightful. How old are you? Really?”

“Twenty-six.”

“You must have great genes, girly.” Then she looks at her watch. “Oh, I have to go!”

“I’ll ring you up.”

She follows me to the register where I key in her two cans of coconut milk.

“Twila, would you be willing to teach me some of what you know about nutrition—healthy nutrition?”

“Um, sure. But—”

“I have to run, but I’ll call you or come by again, okay? We can work on creating those vegan dishes too.”

“Okay.”

As she turns to go and heads for the door, I remember something. “Hey, make sure you heat or froth the coconut milk, so it isn’t chunky.”

She turns back. “Chunky?”

“Yeah, the fat from the coconut solids coagulates.”

“Right. Sounds . . . delicious?”

I laugh again. “Trust me.”

“You know, Twila, I think I already do. Thanks.”

After Ellyn leaves, I pull up the sleeve of my sweater again, and read the tattoo, something I do several times a day. Sometimes several times an hour. I need to remember why it’s there and what led me to have it forever inked where I’d see it.

Imago Dei.