Page 49 of The Art of Loving Ellie
Her southern twang gets a mind of its own when she’s mad. “Well, it’s kind of a long story but if I’m being honest, it’s because I haven’t been what he’s needed me to be lately.” Looking down at the shirt I’m holding I see that ironically, it’s a shirt from when we went to see Mariah Carey perform once in Times Square.
She comes over to me and wraps an arm around my shoulders, giving me the comfort that only a mother could give. “I'm so sorry, baby girl.”
Reaching up, I grasp her hand, giving her a sad smile, not knowing what’s going to happen to me once this is all over. Where will I work? What will I do? There are too many what-ifs floating around me right now, and I’m beginning to feel like a magnet for bad luck.
“It’s okay. I’ll figure it out just like I did before, and I will do it again.”
She squeezes me tightly. “That’s my girl!”
Leaving me to finish the few things I have left, I reach for a tan canvas bag at the very bottom of my suitcase. I open it to feel my various paintbrushes clacking around together, and my heart feels sick at their lack of use.
I was twelve years old when I acquired my first set, and though I always kept my passion a secret—sometimes just touching the brushes, and knowing they were mine would give my anxious soul some much needed peace.
I brought them for a sense of comfort, but standing here in the midst of what feels like the worst season of my life, I’m not sure that it was such a great idea. I run my fingers over the wooden handles of each brush, closing my eyes and hear them whisper to me that I’m capable and strong, even though I’m nothing of the sort at this moment.
Zipping the bag up, I shut my thoughts down and get ready for bed. Tomorrow is going to be scary, sad, and a little bit strange, but I’m going to face it head-on. I’m not going to back down just because I’m afraid. I’m going to show my dad that giving up isn’t an option.
Chapter Sixteen
Just like before, I wake to the intoxicating smell of breakfast foods cooking. It’s funny to me that Richard takes such pride in making breakfast when he could easily have Helen make it for us. I think that’s one of the reasons why I like him so much.
I make my way downstairs, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, and gasp at the view before me. With the exhaustion of traveling last night, I somehow missed the incredible Christmas display in Aunt Jane’s living room. I’ve never really been one to get too excited about Christmas, but when I see the entire house decked out in beautiful reds and whites with some gold touches here and there, I can’t help but smile.
There’s even fake snow around, and white cotton fluff to imitate snowbanks that hide little woodland creatures. Little figurines of reindeer and sweet snowbirds are sprinkled throughout the kitchen and living room, and right in front of the windows facing the circle drive is a big, beautiful Christmas tree.
My mouth falls open as I walk closer to it to gaze at the classic gold and white ornaments she has hanging on the branches. “Aunt Jane, this is stunning!”
Christmas was never a big tradition for me growing up, but standing here in front of this enormous tree, I feel like a child hoping Santa will come and give me the one thing I want to make all of my troubles go away.
“Come get some food, baby,” she calls to me from the kitchen. “We are going to go up to the hospital after we eat.”
I don’t really have much of an appetite, but I know I need to eat, so I force some eggs and bacon down, and drink my freshly brewed coffee.
“Now, Ellie, I don’t want to worry you, but,” Aunt Jane pauses, not knowing how to deliver the news she wants to give me, “your dad. He looks—”
“Rough,” Richard finishes for her, and she flinches at the bluntness of his words.
“Yes. He looks pretty rough.” Her face is so sad, and it breaks my whole heart that she will eventually lose her only brother.
Giving her a soft, reassuring smile, I take a bite of toast and they look at me gloomily. “It’s okay, I just want to see him.” I shift my gaze around uncomfortably, not sure that I care for their pity.
The hospital that we arrive at later that morning is huge, and beside the front doors resides a sign boasting how many awards they have gotten over the years for their excellence in care. I can’t help but dislike this place already. There’s nothing they can do for my father at this point, being excellent or not, and it makes me angry.
Aunt Jane, Richard, and I check in with the receptionist and make our way into an elevator that takes us to the eighth floor. When we exit, I look around at the cold, stark white walls, and wonder to myself what could possibly make this place feel comfortable to someone who is terminally ill. The smell of the hallway reminds me of a heavy-duty bathroom cleaner, and I wrap my arms around myself trying to keep warm in the freezing temperature they have set for the building.
“Sheesh. Why do they have to keep it so cold?” I ask my aunt, shivering from the chill.
“Germs don’t like the cold, I suppose.” Well, I guess that makes sense, but I still don’t forgive them.
My heart makes a full stop in my chest when we reach his room, and I’m terrified of what is on the other side of this door. Aunt Jane gives me a tight smile, and I lightly knock before entering.
The smell of sickness claws its way out of the door to greet us. It’s reminiscent of the sickly sweet smell of our old, trash filled home, and I’m overwhelmed with the urge to breakdown and cry. I manage to get my feet to move the rest of my body into the room, and over to the thin, frail figure that has become my father.
He has his eyes closed, and the first thing I notice is the numerous amounts of wires and tubing entering and exiting his body. A monitor close beside him beeps gently, and I assume it’s keeping track of his heartbeat.
I almost fall to my knees before him when I reach out and touch his translucent looking hand. He’s lost so much weight I barely even recognize him. He cracks open his hollow eyes and turns his head toward me. The light that sparks in them when he sees my face creates tears that begin to swell up in my matching blues.
“Ellie girl.” His voice is scratchy and rough, and I shake my head lightly, unable to process that this husk of a man could be the father I have known almost my entire life.
