You have taught me that I should come to take food in the way I take medicines. But while I pass from the discomfort of need to the tranquility of satisfaction, the very transition contains for me an insidious trap of uncontrolled desire.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Seven

Twila

When I told my mom about meeting Ellyn at the store and wanting to try her restaurant, she seemed surprised. I don’t eat out much. I told her it wasn’t about the food, just that I thought Ellyn was sort of interesting. “Like, intriguing. You know?”

“She’s engaging. I’ve always enjoyed her when she’s come into the store. I love her restaurant.” She didn’t look up from the cutting board where she was cutting carrots into sticks.

“Engaging? Yeah, that’s it. So do you want to go?”

“Of course. Miles mentioned wanting to eat at Ellyn’s again.”

That time she did look up at me.

“Mind if I invite him to join us?”

I did sort of mind. “Um . . . okay. He’s for sure not my doctor anymore, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Let me know when it works for both of you.”

I met Dr. Becker when my mom was working with him at Corners, putting together a plant-based, cancer-fighting diet for his wife. I’d dropped out of school at that point and had been home for four or five months. He was the one who helped my mom get me diagnosed. Not that she didn’t know what was going on with me—the diagnosis just had to be official to get me into a treatment program. Miles helped her choose the treatment center too.

I’d like to put that behind me, but I guess it will always be with me.

The thought of having dinner with Dr. Becker was sort of weird, but not because he was my doctor. The last time I had dinner with my mom and a man, the man was my dad. That was a long time ago. But still, it was hard not to make that connection.

“Any word from Dad?” She’d looked up again and I saw the concern in her eyes when I asked her.

“No, not since the last check he sent for your tuition. Did you hear from him when you graduated?”

She knew not to ask me about him unless I brought him up. “Yeah, the usual. He wrote Happy Graduation on the memo section of the check, so that was nice, I guess.” I looked at the clock hanging on the wall in the small kitchen. “I’ve got to go. I open this morning.”

“Did you have breakfast?” The concern was there again—in her eyes.

“Yeah, I did. Really.”

“I believe you, Twila.”

She did, I could tell.

She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and then came over to put her hands on my face, so that I had to look at her. “I’m sorry about your dad. I wish I could love you enough for both of us—to make up for . . .”

“Mom, it’s okay. I know.”

She kissed my forehead. “I’ll see you at the store later. And I’ll give Miles a call and see when he’s free for dinner, then we can compare calendars. Okay?”

“Okay.”

As I walked out to my car, I thought about the check my dad sent for graduation. I used the money to get my tattoos. Maybe because I knew he wouldn’t approve. Or maybe just because I knew what I wanted and he happened to provide the money.

It doesn’t matter either way.

I don’t look old enough to have tattoos or a degree, or so people tell me. My mom says I look twelve but have the maturity of a forty-year-old. She says I was born with wisdom in my eyes—an old soul.

But, she’s my mom, so, you know.

When I tell people I’m twenty-six, they laugh and say things like No way or That’s not possible. Someday, I’ll be old enough to take their surprise as a compliment—but now, it makes it hard to do my job—for people to trust me with their health.

I grew up hanging around Corners of the Mouth and listening to my mom talk about the benefits of whole foods, herbs, minerals, and supplements. She quoted Hippocrates daily. Let food be thy medicine . . .

Kind of ironic, when I think about it.

Nutrition is part of my genetic makeup, I think. But I didn’t follow my mom’s path without exploring first. She believed that if she let me go, like a butterfly, I’d come back.

Which I did.

I left home after I graduated from high school and went to UCSC—University of California, Santa Cruz. It felt the most like home—but away from home. I fit there.

Even though there were similarities to where I came from—there were differences too. My mom wasn’t there. I was free to explore other life paths, and other belief systems. I watched and listened and checked things out on my own.

I explored Paganism, a belief in gods other than the one true God. I had friends who worshipped the god of the moon—the god of the sea. I was drawn to worshipping creation because of its beauty, but each time I tried to put my mind on the god of the sea, all I could think of was the One I knew who created the sea.

So that year, I accepted, on my own, my mom’s belief in Jesus and the truth of one God. But the Bible also was responsible for the personal philosophies I’m trying to live by now. Some of those philosophies are my own—rather than my mom’s.

I’m not, like, big on limiting people with labels: evangelical, environmentalist, liberal, conservative, fat, thin, or . . . anorexic. Though it’s taken me awhile to get past the fat and thin labels. But I began labeling myself as a vegan that year because it’s a word people recognize. For me it’s about a belief system, not a label.

Like when I read in Genesis that humans didn’t begin eating meat until after the flood—I thought, whoa . . . we were originally created for a plant-based diet? Meat was God’s provision for sure, but maybe not His original intent? I’m not sure.

Anyway, meat is hard for me to eat.

But then . . . a lot of things are hard for me to eat.

Funny thing is, since coming back, I’ve developed this . . . sense. I saw too many hurting people, especially when I did my stint at an in-house treatment facility. But a lot of hurting people come into Corners of the Mouth too. Usually after they’ve tried everything else. You know, when their doctor can’t help them.

When they’re desperate.

So . . . about this sense. I believe God’s called me to help. 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.

“Twila? 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, this smells really good. Thanks for coming up with something vegan for me.”

“No problem. You know, Twila, I’ve meant to get some vegan offerings on the menu. Maybe we could sit down sometime and you could help me create a few menu ideas.”

“Really?”

“Of course, if that’s something you’re interested in doing.”

I look at my plate and nod. “I’m not, I mean, I don’t eat . . .” I hesitate. “I’m not like a foodie or anything, but I could give you ideas of ingredients to use. I’d like that.”

“Then we’ll do it soon.”

“Nice.”

I see my mom wink at Ellyn. My mom’s just like that, always grateful and always ready to share her gratitude.

Dr. Becker picks up his fork and digs into polenta with what looks like a sauce of crushed tomatoes, fresh vegetables, and herbs.

“Mmm . . . Ellyn, this is fantastic! This is vegan? I knew I needed to come back here.”

Ellyn smiles, her eyes shining at Dr. Becker.

“Thank you.”

Then she seems to get serious. “Dr. Beck—I mean, Miles, I hadn’t heard about your wife until recently. I’m so . . . sorry.”

He sets his fork down. “Thank you, Ellyn. That means a lot. It’s been two years now and, like I told you the last time I saw you, it’s time to start living again.”

She nods and smiles at him. Then she looks at all of us. “Well, I better get back to the kitchen. Enjoy your dinner. Thanks again for coming in.”

“Thanks, Ellyn.” My mom blows her a kiss.

I take the first bite of the dish Ellyn made, and my mouth savors the fresh flavors. The polenta is perfect—not too crisp on the outside, and creamy on the inside.

It is so good.

I mean it’s really good.

So good that it scares me.

I set my fork down and look around the restaurant, trying to distract myself.

I notice an African American woman sitting at a table near a window. I loved the cultural diversity at UCSC. The woman looks up and sees me looking at her. She looks away without smiling back, like I made her think of something unpleasant. But all I can think about is the food in front of me. The scent makes my mouth water.

I turn back to my plate and take another small bite. And then—

I set my fork down and scoot back from the table. Just like a half inch or so, but enough that I see my mom notice. Oh, please, don’t say anything, please . . .

Instead, she motions to someone behind me, and then the hostess appears next to our table. “Rosa, could we get a box to go—we’ll never finish all of this.”

“I be right back with boxes. No problem.”

Once Rosa is gone, my mom glances at me and picks up her fork and continues eating. And then Dr. Becker puts his arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. He doesn’t say anything, just sits there with his arm around me and takes another bite of his dinner.

Something, whatever it is, makes it hard for me to swallow the lump in my throat.

And it has nothing to do with the food.