Invisible

Invisible

By Sandra Mathis

Crap!”, I looked at the clock. I was already late; I should have left home 10 minutes. It will be fast food today. Two chicken and egg biscuits and 2 large coffees. I know what she likes from every restaurant between my house and work, although she prefers when I bring a home cooked meal.

Her name is April May June. April says her mother was a ‘character’. "She must have been to choose that name." I thought. She said her mother was always prone to “ups and downs”, but after her baby brother died of crib death when she was 9 years old, her mother never got over her grief and she went to heaven to take care of her baby, 4 years later. It was nearly a year before I got that much out of her about her life. She always wanted to hear about mine.

“You go places; do things. You got more to talk about. Nothing changes for me much. This bench is always here in the same place. Even the faces are the same. I watch them, study them, learn them. Like her,” she nodded towards the red head in the floral dress, “her hours changed. She used to have to be in at 8am. Now it’s 9am.”

The flower-clad woman walked past without a glance.

“You get used to it”, May said.

“Used to what?” I asked with a questioning look on my face.

“To being invisible”, she responded.

“What?”, I asked, confused by her answer.

“You was wonderin’ how these people just look right through you. You get used to it."

She was always doing that, reading my thoughts. It was unnerving at first, but I’ve gotten used to it now. “You did it,” she added.

“Did what?”, I frowned at her.

“Made me invisible.”

“What! No,” I sputtered. “How could you say such a thing? I bring you food every day. I’m sitting here with you now.” I sat my coffee cup down with as much indignation one could show with a paper cup. I think I got my point across.

Your gray suit, the one you like to wear with the light blue shirt with the frilly collar. You wore that on the day you interviewed for your job. You got the job too. You were so excited. You nearly ran into a man leaving the building in such a rush. I stared at her, trying to connect her to that day. She was right. I only noticed her when she tripped in front of me one day and nearly fell. I helped her to the bench. I couldn’t help but notice how light she was under her heavy coat. I wanted to get home. Work had been brutal, and I just wanted to take a shower, order in and marathon something on NexFlix, but I couldn’t get her off my mind. I ran into the Chinese restaurant and ordered 2 daily

specials with 2 egg drop soups, to go. I got back to the bench as quickly as I could. There she sat, right where I have left her.

“I hope you like Chinese food”, I said, swinging a bag towards her. She looked up, smiled broadly and reached for the bag.

“Thank you and I do”, she replied.

“May I?”, I pointed towards the bench.

“Please”, she answered back, moving over slightly to indicate she was making room for me. That’s when it all started. I would bring her breakfast and lunch every day. We talked about my life, my work, my failed relationships, my cat, my yearning to buy a house, my career goals.

I hate driving to work, but if I had any chance of eating with Ms. April, I had to drive today. I pulled into the garage and was lucky enough to find a front space. I pulled down the visor to put my parking ticket in it and a postcard sized painting fell out. I picked it up, smiling. Ms. April had painted it for me.

“Keep this,” she said, pressing a postcard into my palm. “It’ll be worth a lot of money someday," she laughed. I looked at the card.

“This is good”, I said, with amazement. “Really good.”

“Oh it’s just my little doodles,” she replied and promptly changed the subject.

It was a painting of the tree in front of her bench, in full bloom and glorious. It’s in stark contrast to today’s pewter sky and leafless, skeleton trees. She said that every time she pressed a new card into my palm.

I hastily grabbed our breakfast and power walked to the bench. She wasn’t there. I sat down and waited, but I had to start eating or I would be late. “Maybe she went to the restroom”, I thought to myself. Then I started wondering how she went the restroom or showered or shampooed her hair. She was usually fairly clean, and she didn’t smell bad. In the last days of Indian Summer, she smelled sweaty, but not unclean. I started growing impatient. I was done with my biscuit and she wasn’t back yet. I needed to leave. I was contemplating leaving her breakfast on the bench and checking on her when I could get a quick break. That's when a voice from behind me asked, “You Ms. April’s friend? You Charlotte?”

“Yes”, I said, startled, to the lady walking towards me. “Where is she? Is she okay?”, the words flooded from my mouth.

“They took her to the hospital. She said to tell you to come.”

“Oh my God. Here.” I shoved the food towards the woman. I rushed past her, fishing my phone from my purse as a ran to my car.

I called out of work.

“Family emergency. My----Aunt. I’m the only family in town.”

The drive to the emergency room was a blur. I rushed to intake nurse.

“I’m here for Ms. April June. I was told she was brought here by ambulance.”

The nurse stared at me over her glasses. “Follow me”, she said, coming from behind the sign in desk.

“Is she okay? May I see her?”.

She opened the door to a well appointed office. “You can wait here. The doctor will be in to speak with you soon.”

“Is she okay?” I asked again, urgently.

“The doctor will be in to speak with you soon.” She said again, meekly, as she retreated from my questions.

“Will you let her know that I’m here,” I pleaded. She smiled weakly and closed the door. I remember the doctor coming in. I remember something about a heart condition. Something I can’t pronounce. And the word, untreated. And the phrase, ticking time bomb. He was gone again and I was alone. I don’t remember him leaving, just him not being there. Then there was a short, round woman sitting her satchel next to me.

“She said to make sure you got this. Would you like to talk to someone?”, she asked softly in a very southern accent.

I shook my head no. I was afraid to speak. I knew talking would make the tears start and I was not sure I would be able to control them once the flood gate opened.

I rifled through the contents of her bag, sitting on my bedroom floor. I tried to find any contacts for her, but there was no one. I had her body blessed by the hospital chaplain and had her remains cremated. I went to her bench three days later. I wanted to pass along anything useful in her tent to other homeless people in the park.

“I tried to stop ‘em”, a familiar voice said, as I looked around at the scattered remains of her possessions, blowing the wind like garbage. It was the lady that told me she was taken to the hospital. I muttered my disdain for the thieves and headed back towards home. I hope I thanked her, but I’m not sure.

Her satchel remained relegated to the corner of my bedroom. I just couldn’t bring myself to go though it, until today. Her ashes arrived today. It took extra time because I ordered a special urn. It had a fully blossomed cherry tree etched onto the front, just like the one she painted for me. I placed her center on the mantle and went to retrieved her satchel. It didn’t feel like such an invasion if I went through her things with her watching me. In an inside pocket, that I missed in my haste before, was a zippered freezer bag full of her hand painted postcards. People, trees, flowers, skylines, all from the perspective of her bench. There was also a little black book with a key taped inside.

In what I have to assume is her handwriting, was a note:

If you are reading this, that means I’m dead. I want you to have what everybody wants and deserves. A home. The key is for safe deposit box 43 at the 1st National Bank on Burke St. Ask for Mr. John and show him your ID. He knows what to do.

The next day, I was at the bank when they opened. Mr. John was a big man with a red face and warm smile. When I gave him my ID, his eyes went soft.

“Damn”, he said softly. “I’m sorry for your loss. Ms. April was a very special lady.”

He led me into the safe deposit room, showed me drawer 43 and left me there. I opened the box and was met with more cash than I have ever seen in my life. There was another note:

You have power of attorney over my worldly possessions. I know you are wondering where I got all this money. Go to 100 Central Av. You will get your answer there.

I locked the box back and returned it to its slot.

The address took me to a gallery. The tailored and coiffed curator, acknowledged me and motioned for me to look around as she continued assisting the gentleman she was with. Paintings and drawings dunned the white walls. Then I reached the center room. There, plastered on one wall, were 4 large paintings of me! I stood, mouth agape, staring at myself. Me the day I interviewed for my job, looking nervous and unsure. One when I broke heal, looking frustrated and embarrassed. Another, of me wet and bewildered, running in the rain with my purse over my head. The last one of me smiling, eating lunch on her bench.

Someone lightly placed a hand on my shoulder. “Hello Charlotte”, the curator said warmly. “Ms. June spoke of you often and fondly”, she smiled. “I will miss her,” her eyes sad and misty.

“When? How?” I asked, confused, staring at the paintings. “I knew she was good, but this.” I gestured towards the paintings.

“You were her muse”, she smiled. “Follow me.” She took me to a viewing room. “We sold the 4 paintings out there for twenty thousand dollars. She wanted you to have this one.” She unveiled a large, framed painting, propped up on an easel, named: Invisible. It was a painting of her bench with her satchel propped against its side. It was from the perspective of the tree.

That picture now hangs above my bed. I placed half of her ashes around the base of that tree and the other half lives with me in the house that I bought using her generous gift as the down payment. She is right. Everyone wants and deserves to have a home.