Entrust to the truth whatever has come to you from the truth. You will lose nothing.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Eighteen

Miles

I watch Twila, her gray eyes the size of silver dollars in her thin face. Her long, dark hair is pulled back, and the tattoo of thorns is black against her pale skin. Her frame is hidden beneath layers of clothes.

But her emotions are bare.

My training as a physician has taught me patience, to wait and encourage when a patient is struggling to tell me something. But this afternoon . . . I’m not a doctor.

It’s my training as a man of God I rely on today. Though she’s twenty-six, Twila is just a girl. She spent her teenage and college years battling a disorder that separated her from her peers. Her suffering has given her wisdom beyond her years. But socially, she’s still a kid.

It’s the kid sitting with me today.

So I wait. I pray. I let her gather herself. I am here to offer mercy and love. I pray she will sense Christ, through me.

I reach out again and put my hand on her shoulder and give her another gentle squeeze. “Your tears are okay, Twila.”

She turns on me, almost fierce, her eyes now like molten metal. “Stop! Just stop it!”

I pull my hand back from her shoulder, slow so I don’t startle her, and wait. Lord, comfort her . . .

Her tears flow now.

“Stop being so . . . so . . . nice to me. It just . . . makes this harder.”

I shift on the bench. “Whatever you have to say to me, Twila, just say it.”

“Okay . . . okay.” She takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket. “The other night . . . at dinner, um, I got triggered. You know? The eating disorder.” She takes a deep breath. “I figured out . . . why. I learned those triggers are fears—fears, I have to face. So I’m facing it now. I’m talking to you, because I need you to know that you were the trigger. It’s not your fault. It just is what it is. So, I can’t eat with you again, you know? With you and my mom. I can’t do that again.”

Her words come out fast now, though she doesn’t look at me as she talks. I think a moment, waiting for the Holy Spirit to give me His words. “Twila, thank you for your courage and your honesty. I respect it. I respect you.”

She glances at me, her dark lashes wet. Then she looks back down at her lap.

“May I ask you a question?”

She nods, still looking at her lap.

“Is part of facing the fear also working through the fear?”

She glances at me again, a question in her large gray eyes. She dips her head in a hesitant nod. “Yeah, that’s what I’m doing by telling you.”

“What if we took it a step further—you and me—what if we worked to overcome the fear? Do you think that’s possible?”

“What do you mean? How?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t understand how I triggered you, so I’m not sure what the best plan is. But it seems important to not only face your fear but also work through it—beyond it. Maybe together we can come up with a way to do that.” I have her full attention now. Her eyes are wide—focused on me.

“You’d . . . do that? For . . . me?”

“You bet.” I stretch out my legs. “Do you have any thoughts on what might help?”

She shrugs.

“Well, what if we eat together again? We could talk . . . and eat. Just give it a try. Maybe before we do that though, you could run it by your counselor. See what she thinks.”

“Yeah, I can call her. That’s a good idea. I don’t know about the eating part, but . . . Can I, you know, think about it?”

“Sure. There’s no pressure. How about this, let’s both pray about it and you give your counselor a call and then get back to me. Deal?”

She smiles and takes her right hand out of her pocket and sticks it out toward me. I take her hand and shake it.

“Deal.”

“Great. Now, do you want to talk about your customer’s condition?”

On Monday, one of my patients doesn’t show up. I use the time at my desk to chart some information and then decide to give Ellyn a call. I know the restaurant is closed on Mondays, but that’s the only number I have. I could pull her patient file and find her home phone number, but that would be a breach of privacy. So I look up the number of the café and call there and leave a message for her.

If divine providence is on my side, Rosa will pick up the message.

Four patients later, when I check my messages again, Dee has written a note that Rosa called and left the number I need. I smile. Probably Ellyn’s home phone number. God bless Rosa.

I pick up the phone and punch in the number.

“Hello.”

“Ellyn, it’s Miles Becker.”

“Oh.”

“Is this your home number?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home. I left a message for you at the restaurant and—”

“And Rosa called and gave you my number?”

“Right.”

“Ah . . . Rosa. Well, no problem, I suppose. It’s not like you’re an ax murderer, right?”

“Not the last time I checked.” I hesitate. Do I dare ask? “I . . . wondered if you’d given any thought to having dinner together?”

“Oh, well, yes, I mean, I haven’t dwelled on it or anything, but sure, dinner as friends would be fine. It’s good for me to get out and check in on the competition every now and then.”

I chuckle. “Well, glad I can help then. So dinner as friends it is. Are you free tomorrow evening?”

“Oh. Well, yes, I am. Let’s see, tomorrow is Tuesday . . . Café Beaujolias serves on Tuesdays, would that work?”

“You bet. May I pick you up?”

She’s quiet on the other end, but I don’t jump in. I give her time to think.

“I can just meet you there.”

“Sure, though there’s not a lot of parking—just the spaces along the street.”

“Oh, right.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Okay, well then . . . let’s go together.”

She gives me directions to her house, but as soon as she describes it, I know which one it is. We agree on a time and I tell her I’ll make a reservation. “All right, gal, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow. Great. And thank you.”

“You bet.”

I hang up the phone and lean back in my desk chair. Am I pushing this, Lord?

I don’t sense a red light from God. So until then, as Nerissa advised, I’ll take it one step at a time—and the next step is dinner tomorrow evening.

With a woman who couldn’t seem less enthused.