{"product_id":"calling-invisible-women-isbn-9780307395061","title":"Calling Invisible Women","description":"\u003cb\u003eA delightfully funny novel packing a clever punch, from the author of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling \u003ci\u003eJulie and Romeo\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA  mom in her early fifties, Clover knows she no longer turns heads the  way she used to, and she's only really missed when dinner isn't on the  table on time. Then Clover wakes up one morning to discover she's  invisible--truly invisible. She panics even more when her family doesn't  notice a thing. Her best friend immediately observes the change, which  relieves Clover immensely--she's not losing her mind after all!--but she  is crushed by the realization that neither her husband nor her children  ever truly look at her. She was invisible even before she knew it.   \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClover  discovers that there are others like her, women of a certain age who  seem to have disappeared.  As she uses her invisibility to get to know  her family and her town better, Clover leads the way in helping  invisible women become recognized and appreciated no matter what their  role. Smart and hilarious, with indomitable female characters, \u003ci\u003eCalling Invisible Women\u003c\/i\u003e will appeal to anyone who has ever felt invisible.“Witty and thought-provoking, \u003ci\u003eInvisible Women\u003c\/i\u003e will call out to any female who’s ever been made to feel invisible by virtue of her age, her gender, or both.”  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e (3 ½ stars)\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In a story both whimsical and significant, Jeanne Ray addresses an all-too-familiar fate that many women seem to suffer as they grow older…. Heartfelt, inspirational and uplifting, \u003ci\u003eCalling Invisible Women\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003ecalls out to readers with a passionate and important message. This book is clearly one that deserves to be noticed.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eBookPage \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In her satirical tale of a woman trying to find herself, Ray, the mother of novelist Ann Patchett, offers a commentary about what it’s like for women to grow older.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eNew York Post\u003c\/i\u003e, Required Reading\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jeanne Ray’s newest novel, \u003ci\u003eCalling Invisible Women\u003c\/i\u003e, tells the humorous, touching story of how Clover reclaims her sense of self. Stripping off her clothes to go undetected, she becomes a sort of superhero: punishing bullies on the school bus, halting bank robberies, preventing her son from getting a tattoo—not to mention reigniting her career as an investigative journalist. Invisibility is hardly a subtle metaphor. But Ray argues persuasively that going undercover has its benefits.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eO, The Oprah Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e (Summer Pick), Abbe Wright\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is a perfectly fabulous read that speaks volumes about society’s lack of awareness of middle-aged women. Read it as fast as you can, before it disappears before your eyes.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“The heroine of bestselling novelist Jeanne Ray's \u003ci\u003eCalling Invisible Women\u003c\/i\u003e bands together with other invisible women in her town to fight back, gaining a new view of her town, her loved ones and herself… Ray, who didn't start writing novels until she was 60 - inspired partly by the urge to show that people \"of a certain age\" had as much fun and delight in their lives as younger folk - said a liking on her part for people with superpowers, like invisibility, gave the book its driving impetus… \u003ci\u003eJulie and Romeo\u003c\/i\u003e, the story of two people over 60 who find new romance - and the first of six novels, many of which center on women in their 50s and 60s and have led Ray to be dubbed \"the mother of senior literature,\" a title she says she finds hilarious. While still in the draft stage, Ray received advice on her first book from her daughter, award-winning novelist Ann Patchett, who has written \u003ci\u003eBel Canto\u003c\/i\u003e and other books.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eReuters \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Every homemaker who feels she's taken for granted should open \u003ci\u003eCalling Invisible Women\u003c\/i\u003e and meet Clover Hobart, who looks in the bathroom mirror one day and realizes that not only does she \u003ci\u003efeel\u003c\/i\u003e invisible, she \u003ci\u003eis\u003c\/i\u003e invisible…. Fans of Jeanne Ray know that (as with her 2003 debut \u003ci\u003eJulie and Romeo\u003c\/i\u003e) we'll come to feel that we know Clover and sympathize with her plight. It's readers' good fortune that Ray brings her light, smart touch to this comic take on women of a certain age who feel they've disappeared. A comic tale of a middle-aged woman whose family doesn't notice her--even when she actually disappears.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Shelf Awareness\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The characters in this fast, fun read are empowered and proactive.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Women of a certain age will devour Ray’s sly satire on the perils of big pharma, middle age, and the unseen consequences of living the quiet life.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Offers a lot of witty charm.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Jeanne Ray is truly wise and funny about family, friendship, and love—about the ways in which we see (and don’t see) each other.  \u003ci\u003eCalling Invisible Women\u003c\/i\u003e is an utter delight.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eHilma Wolitzer\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJeanne Ray\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eJulie and Romeo \u003c\/i\u003eand several other novels. She worked as a registered nurse for forty years  before she wrote her first novel at the age of sixty. She lives in  Nashville, Tennessee with her husband and her dog, Red.\u003cp\u003e9780307395054|excerpt\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ray \/ CALLING INVISIBLE WOMEN\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I first noticed I was missing on a Thursday. Red and I had        already been for our        walk and he went to sleep on the bath mat while I was taking my        shower. Red is        a Cairn terrier. He’s bath mat size. After the shower I was        standing in front        of the mirror in a toweling robe brushing my teeth. When I        looked up I was        gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It didn’t startle me at first, not exactly. I thought it was        just some trick of        the light, a fog that had built up on the mirror, but when I        wiped my sleeve        over the medicine cabinet I still wasn’t there. My toothbrush        was there,        floating by itself several inches out from the cuff of my robe,        and the robe        was there, the collar and shoulders filling out the bottom of        the mirror’s        frame, but I was missing. I moved from side to side a couple of        times trying to        fit myself back into the picture, but all I saw was the open        shower curtain        behind me, the tiles of the tub, the built-­in shelf that held        the shampoo and        conditioner. I spat out the toothpaste and there it was in the        sink looking        exactly like toothpaste. That was when I thought: stroke. Pieces        of my vision        were missing, even though I couldn’t imagine what kind of stroke        would just        remove a face, a neck, a hand. Leaning forward toward the        mirror, I gently        tapped my invisible fingers against my invisible cheek and what        had once been a        finger was stopped by what had once been a face. Curiosity was        quickly being        replaced by a rising wall of panic. I was fifty-­four years old,        and I was gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Red?” I said, trying out my voice. Unlike the rest of me, my        voice was still        there. Red lifted his head from the bath mat and looked straight        at me, his        brown eyes bright and full of recognition. He wagged his tail,        thinking that        maybe I wanted to go for another walk. Tentatively, I held out        my invisible        hand to him, wondering if I was dead and, if I was, what effect        it would have        on the poor dog. But Red sniffed the place where my hand should        have been and        gave it a couple of licks. I felt the rough wash of his tongue        working over my        phantom wrist, which I took to be a good sign, and so I went        back to the mirror        again. Still not there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I went into the bedroom feeling light-­headed, or feeling like        someone who        didn’t have a head, and, sitting down on the edge of the bed        (which gave a        creak of recognition), I picked up the phone and dialed the        back-­line number        at Arthur’s office. I suppose that any day one finds one’s self        to be invisible        was not going to shape up to be a lucky day, so when Arthur’s        nurse Mary        answered I shouldn’t have been surprised. Arthur has three        nurses and getting        Mary on the phone was the definite equivalent of drawing the        short straw.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Dr. Hobart’s office,” she said, impatient from the start.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Mary, it’s Clover. I need to speak to Arthur.” I was struggling        not to        hyperventilate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I could see her shaking her head. “He’s in with a patient. Is        there something I        can help you with?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Maybe she thought I was calling in regard to a sick child, even        though she knew        that Nick was twenty-­three and Evie was twenty. “Can you get        him for me?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He has patients waiting in all five of the exam rooms with        fourteen more in        the waiting room.” Her voice was both flat and brisk. “He’s in        with the mayor’s        wife now. Their second-­grader has a rash. It could be a tick        bite. We’ve got a        vomiting toddler in room three and a first-­time mother in room        one who has        brought in a week’s worth of used diapers that she has been        refrigerating        because she thinks the stool is inconsistent.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I get it,” I said, though there was nothing even notable about        her report.        This was Arthur’s day, all day, every day, from the minute he        walked in the        door of his office until the minute he left, and even when he        left, much of his        work managed to follow him home. I understood it was her job to        protect him in        any way possible, to use herself to create a human shield        between him and the        world, but I never did appreciate the fact that she applied that        same shield        against me. I almost never called the office.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Is it an emergency?” Mary asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It is.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Okay,” she said, but I could tell she had already been        distracted. I could        hear a shrill screaming in the background, and then, abruptly,        the line went        dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So there I was, the phone levitating in midair. I stared at it        for a minute        before hanging up. Even if I’d gotten Arthur on the line he no        doubt would have        told me that children don’t become invisible and so he wouldn’t        know anything        about it. Arthur had a way of making it sound like he had        attended some special        sort of junior medical school at which he had received        absolutely no        information whatsoever about the human body past the age of        sixteen. It was his        means of deflecting grown-­ups who casually hit him up for        Adderall        prescriptions at dinner parties, but it also meant he never was        much of a help        to the adult members of his own family.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And who’s to say I was invisible anyway? If I was cracking up,        if I’d just        suffered some sort of cerebral hemorrhage, I would in fact be a        poor judge of        the situation. I tightened the belt on my robe and I marched up        the stairs to        Nick’s room, Red right behind me. I could feel my bare feet        against the floor.        Nick is our oldest, and I opened the door to his room without        knocking because        he had gone away to college and stayed away for almost two years        after        graduating. I had made his room my office: a desk, a lamp, a        chair. My mother        had made my room a sewing room when I moved away. Now my        computer was back in        the kitchen. “Nick!” I said to the man who was sleeping face        down and shirtless        in a pile of crumpled sheets. “Nicky, wake up!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When he didn’t wake up I took hold of his heel with my invisible        hand and shook        it. I could see his entire leg turning back and forth inside the        flannel pajama        bottoms I had bought for him two Christmases ago; I could feel        the heat of his        heel in my palm. Red jumped into the bed and stood for a moment        on Nick’s back.        In our household, only Red had experienced unequivocal joy at        Nick’s return.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What?” he said into his pillow. It wasn’t quite eight in the        morning. It was        for Nick an unseen hour.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I need you to look at me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You look fine,” he said, or I think that’s what he said. He        hadn’t lifted his        head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I flicked the switch to the overhead lights, and then I went to        the windows and        snapped up the rolling shades. With admirably quick reflexes,        Nick drew himself        into a ball and howled the howl of all vampires exposed to        sunlight. In the        light I could see that the room, which I had told him he would        have to clean        himself when he moved home six months ago, had not been cleaned.        He scrunched        his          pillow down over the back of his head while Red buried          his nose into the covers in search of Nick’s nose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What?” he cried, either to me or the dog.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I need you to tell me if you can see me.” I was trying to keep        my voice steady        but I could hear the panic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He rolled over, blinking in my general direction. The light was        burning his        eyes. He pressed his chin down to his          chest, lengthening his neck like a turtle. “What’s this about?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Do. You. See. Me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You don’t like your bathrobe anymore? You want to know if it’s        becoming? I        don’t know what you’re asking.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “How can you not know what I’m asking? Am I here?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nick had been a history major at Oberlin, and though we had        begged him to        consider a minor in business, he had gone for women’s studies        instead. Women’s        studies, he informed us at the time, was a brilliant way to meet        girls. “Are        you having some sort of breakdown?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I might be.” My robe was shaking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “If you feel like I don’t appreciate you, well,” he said,        rubbing his eyes,        “it’s because I don’t. I will again, but not until at least ten,        okay?” He put        his arm over the dog and pulled him in tight like a wide        receiver ready for a        forty-­yard run. “Please pull the shades on your way out.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That was when I turned and looked in the mirror over          his dresser. There I was, my hair dripping and uncombed but        recently touched up        for gray, my cheeks bright red          from a combination of fear and rosacea. I was back, so        completely and utterly        returned it was as if I had never been gone at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Maybe it was just some weird aphasia, except instead of a        temporary loss of        speech I had experienced a selective loss of vision. As I dried        my hair and put        on the little bit of makeup that I associated with my own human        dignity, I        stared hard at my reflection, checking for any fuzziness          or missing spots. Even after I was dressed I kept going          back to the mirror to make sure I was still there. I couldn’t        spend more than        two minutes away. Sure, I could see my hands, my legs, but was        my face still        there? My neck? Back I would go to check again. Spending a        morning staring at        oneself was hardly the short path to peace of mind. It was          the mirror, after all, that had driven Snow White’s stepmother        around the bend        with its unrelentingly frank assessment of the situation. Soon        my worry about        invisibility had been replaced by a cataloguing of flaws: my        eyelids were        drooping in a weird way that made my entire face look        asymmetrical, and the        crease between my eyebrows made me look as if I had been struck        in the forehead        by a very small ax. And my mouth! Where had my lips disappeared        to over the        years? I preferred the picture of myself I kept in my        imagination, the one in        which my hair could still be braided into a thick rope and I was        in the        neighborhood of thirty-­five.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I went across the street and three houses down to the Kemptons’.        I knocked on        Gilda’s door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Have you ever noticed that my eyelids are uneven?” I asked her.        I was standing        on the porch. There was a cold wind prying the last of the red        leaves off the        maple tree in her front yard and I shivered. That time of year        thou mayst in me        behold when yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Come inside,” she said. She put her hands on my shoulders and        moved me around        in the light as if she was having trouble seeing me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Upon those boughs which shake against the cold. Bare          ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I need to get my glasses,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gilda and Steve Kempton had five children, all of them boys, and        their house        always had the vague aura of a summer camp, even though four of        those boys were        technically grown and three of them were actually gone. There        were always        helmets and hockey sticks in the front hallway, always an odd        number of tennis        shoes on the stairs. In the summer the floors had a vaguely        sandy crunch to        them even though we lived in Ohio, and nowhere near a beach.        Benny, the baby,        was in high school now, and Miller, who was the second to the        oldest, had        boomeranged straight back into his childhood bedroom the day        after graduating        from college and had been there for more than a year. I believed        that it was        Miller who set the bad example for Nick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gilda came back with a pair of readers and, looking through her        glasses, gave        my eyelids serious consideration. Then she put her thumb between        my eyebrows        and made little circles over the crease there. “I tried that,” I        said. “It        doesn’t go away.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Botox.” She tapped her own forehead, a smooth lake of        tranquillity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I did that once. You know I don’t like needles. And anyway, the        wrinkles grew        back.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She shrugged and looked again. “You don’t really notice it,” she        said, but not        in a way that made me feel better. Gilda and I had been friends        for twelve        years, ever since we’d moved into the neighborhood. It was her        honesty that I        counted on. If I needed a comforting lie I was perfectly capable        of telling one        to myself. She was walking into the kitchen, stepping over a        couple of tennis        racquets, and I followed her. She put the kettle on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “So if you aren’t interested in needles, why are you making an        assessment of        your face? Your only two options are to fix it or live with it.        There’s no        point in just beating yourself up about it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The thing is,” I started tentatively, not knowing how to talk        about what I        wasn’t really sure had happened, “this morning—­” I stopped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gilda, that source of constant motion, stopped as well. “This        morning,” she        said. I could tell she was thinking I was about to give her bad        news.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I was invisible.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gilda turned and got down two cups from the cabinet beside the        sink, let out a        dispirited sigh, and then dropped a tea bag in each of those        cups. “I hate        that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Something in my spine caught a small jolt of current          and straightened to attention—­it was understanding,        recognition. It was        everything I was hoping for. “It’s happened to you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gilda lowered her chin and looked up at me, a move I now        realized was meant to        stand in for a knitted brow. “Are you kidding me? Except for a        very few        breakout moments, I’ve been invisible since the new millennium.        The boys can be        looking at naked women on Facebook and they don’t so much as        twitch when I walk        into the room. I can ask Steve what time he wants to eat dinner        and he keeps on        texting like I wasn’t even there. A woman wheels her cart right        in front of        mine and cuts into the checkout lane, a car cuts me off in        traffic, I wave at        the waiter and he’s looking at the wall behind my head. It’s        just the plight of        women after a certain age. No one can see you. Sometimes I find        myself        daydreaming about that girl I used to be, how I could always get        a table in a        busy restaurant. I could raise my hand on a street corner in New        York in the        pouring rain and get a taxi.” She shook her head at such an        impossible memory.        “That’s just gone now. We’re nothing but the ghosts of our        former selves.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “True,” I said. I had forgotten the feeling of going into a very        busy        restaurant at eight on a Friday night and getting          a table without a reservation. “But that’s not what I’m talking        about.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “So what are you talking about?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Invisibility. Literal invisibility.” I sounded less than        certain. Gilda and I        told each other pretty much everything but I found these words        were heavy in my        mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You mean where you walk right up to someone and it’s as if they        can’t even see        you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “No, where I look in the mirror and can’t see myself.” There was        nothing        metaphorical about it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Does this have to do with Arthur?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He wasn’t even there. It was after he’d left for work.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “No, but I mean he’s been very busy lately. You’ve said it        yourself. You hardly        ever see him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Which is not the same thing as hardly ever seeing myself. Do        you think this is        hysterical invisibility? I’m developing some strange new disease        in an effort        to get the doctor’s attention? The only way I could get Arthur’s        attention, medically        speaking, is with a bad case of cradle cap.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He can’t help how busy he is,” Gilda said defensively. “He’s        busy because he’s        good. He’s busy because everybody loves him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Everybody including Gilda. Not long after we’d moved into the        neighborhood,        Arthur dislodged a grape from Benny’s windpipe at a Fourth of        July party and        saved his life.          Arthur had noticed that Benny, who was only three at the time,        was standing        stock-­still in the middle of a crowd of adults, just standing        there, not even        blinking. Arthur said later he knew something was wrong because        he’d never          seen Benny stand still before. He grabbed the boy’s ankles and,        flipping him        over in midair, shook him like a pillowcase. Out popped the        grape, which was        followed by the enormous wail the grape had blocked in his        throat. With a        little cajoling, Benny got over the shock of it almost        immediately. Gilda never        did. “This has nothing to do with Arthur,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Okay.” Gilda tilted her head slightly to the side. “So can you        see yourself        now?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Of course I can see myself now.” I held out my arm to show us        both. “I’m not        delusional, at least I don’t think I am. I got out of the shower        this morning        and for a few minutes I couldn’t see myself.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I don’t think I’d mind that,” Gilda said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I threw up my hands. “I swear to you this isn’t coming around to        a punch line.        I can’t explain what happened, but it did happen, and then it        was over. I guess        I was just wondering . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Wondering what?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “If it ever happened to you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The kettle let out its high-­pitched wail and Gilda rescued it        from the flame        and filled our cups. “No,” she said tentatively. “Not if we’re        talking about a        lack of physical matter. Have you had your eyes checked?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I shook my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I wonder if French women ever feel invisible,” she said, deftly        trying to        steer the subject away from the personal and toward the        cultural. “People are        always talking about how chic and secure French women are, but        if the twenty-­year-­old        Brigitte Bardot passed the seventy-­six-­year-­old Brigitte        Bardot on the        street, there isn’t going to be any contest as to who gets        noticed.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That was when I came to the conclusion that feeling invisible        was something        that could be talked about for hours on end but being invisible        was a        conversational no-­man’s-­land. I blew on my tea and looked at        my watch. “I        should probably get to work. I’ve got a column due. Is it okay        if I just take        the cup with me?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Of course you can take the cup, but I haven’t been any help at        all.” Gilda        sounded genuinely sorry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I waved her off. “I’m fine,” I said. “I just needed to talk.” In        truth, maybe        Gilda had been more of a help than she had realized. Maybe I had        suffered a        brief bout of insanity and by not acknowledging it, she was        allowing me to keep        my dignity. I had no real idea what had happened. I just had a        strange,        unsettled feeling, like you do when you’re out and think you        might have left        the oven on or the windows open in the rain. Later, of course, I        found out this        feeling was all part of it. Some of the women in the group call        it an        invisibility hangover, like every cell you’ve got has had a tiny        whiplash from        coming back into focus again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When I got back to the house, Nick was sitting at the kitchen        table eating a        bowl of cereal, and Red, who didn’t even turn his face in my        direction when I        came in, was staring up at him. Nick always let Red lap up the        last of the milk        when he was finished with it. “You’re stirring awfully early,” I        said without        thinking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Thank you very much for that,” he said. “What was up with you        this morning        anyway?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “This morning?” I asked, not wanting to do it all again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Do you see me?” Nick said, mimicking my panic in an unbecoming        manner. He was        working the crossword puzzle in the Times. His father must have        been in a rush        this morning. Since Nick had come home, Arthur usually        remembered to hide the        arts section so that he wasn’t left with the pathetic puzzle in        the local        paper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “My contact lens was stuck,” I said, coming up with a slightly        plausible lie.        “I think I’m going to have to stop wearing them. My optometrist        says I have dry        eyes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You don’t wear contact lenses, and even if you did, what would        that have to do        with whether or not I can see you?” He filled in an answer with        a ballpoint        pen. It was the Thursday puzzle. Not easy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I said, ‘I can’t see.’ I’m sorry. I just panicked for a        minute.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You didn’t say, ‘I can’t see.’ You said, ‘Can you see me?’        There’s a        difference. Mid-­arthropod, six letters.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Do you have anything?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Starts with T.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The T was what I needed because the word that had instantly come        to mind was        Lorax, a tufted Dr. Seuss character. “Thorax,” I said. “And        about the rest of        it, if you could just chalk it up to early dementia I would be        grateful.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nick wrote in the word and seeing how nicely it fit, he smiled.        My firstborn        child had such a lovely smile it could be given out as a gift.        “If you don’t        ask me whether or not I found a job today, I won’t ask you if        you’re losing        your mind.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s a deal,” I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then Nick put his cereal bowl on the floor, a few corn flakes        floating in a        thin lake of milk, sending Red into a frantic, lapping ecstasy.        Everybody was        happy.\u003c\/p\u003eNew York Times Bestselling Author of Julie and Romeo","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301397909733,"sku":"NP9780307395061","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307395061.jpg?v=1767723290","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/calling-invisible-women-isbn-9780307395061","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}