Page 53 of The Art of Loving Ellie
Aunt Jane comes over to me and kisses the top of my head before they leave me to sit alone in my hurt. I’m a terrible niece for letting her shoulder her pain alone. I suppose she isn’t truly alone because she has Richard, but I know by her body language, and that pleading look in her eyes, that she would rather have me. But I can’t give her what she needs right now. Just like I can’t give Alexandre what he needs, or give my dad the second chance that he needed, or be sane enough for a few damn hours to give Tyler what he needs. Hell, I can’t even be whatIneed.
Anxiousness gnaws a giant hole through my gut as the last seven months of my life flash through my mind like an old picture reel; the weight of my inadequacies become a crushing mass I can no longer shoulder. I’m devastated by the loss of my father, but somewhere along the way, I’ve also completely lost what makes me,me. I can’t bear the thought that I will never be someone of worth, artistically or otherwise, and I ask myself for what feels like the fiftieth time,who is Ellie Clark?
At one point in time, I had a portfolio full to the brim of beautiful works of art in all different mediums, and I was confident and driven. Meeting Alex felt like my every dream come true, and moving to New York was surreal—but here I am, having nothing to show for the small amount of success I have achieved.
Where I should be adventurous, I’ve kept myself sheltered, and where I should be driven, I’ve allowed my fears to manifest into lack of motivation. I decided somewhere between my old life in Texas, and my new life in New York, that I was an unlovable, untalented, complete and total failure, and I’m desperately gasping for breath as I begin to drown under the reality that I’m not going to make it much longer.
All this time that I’ve been in New York, and all the time I’ve spent with Tyler, I thought that I was changing but in truth—I haven’t changed a bit. I’ve stayed the same old anxious Ellie, who doesn’t know what it’s like to feel loved, or loved by herself, and would rather fall back into her old habits than face the world head-on.
All of those negative emotions bombard me, and I have to close my eyes tightly as I try and make them disappear. My chest feels like someone has punched their fist straight through it, and a mental image of my dad’s translucent, sickly-looking hand flickers through my mind’s eye.
"Promise me that if happiness finds you, and you’re lucky enough to find love, you won’t let it go."
At the time, I agreed with him because I knew that’s what he wanted to hear, but somewhere deep down, a part of me hoped he was onto something. Now, I scoff at the idea of happiness. There is no such thing as true happiness because once you find it, something worse comes along to completely destroy it.
I stare into the fire for what feels like forever. This all could have been avoided had I just listened to myself from the very start. The thought wraps itself tightly around my throat, causing spots to dance across my vision as I take a back seat to the horror that is my anxiety.
It whispers to me that the blame for my current situation falls onto one single person. He's the reason that I’m even here in the first place. If it weren’t for meeting Tyler, I would have never shirked my responsibilities at my job, resulting in Alex firing me, and I most certainly never would have reached out to my father.
If I would have just ignored Robert’s texts and calls, he could have died a quiet death, without my involvement—and at this moment, I believe that would have been better for us both. Not only am I mourning his passing, but I’m gutted by the small taste of joy I was given, just to have it ripped from my hands right before his passing. I dared hope that he would make it through this, even though I knew in my soul there was never a chance.
My heart is aching, but the bruised organ continues to beat and the tears still refuse to come. They don’t fall when I reach for the ponytail holder on my wrist, and tie my hair back up for the first time in weeks. They don’t fall when I lay down in the fetal position in front of the dying fire, and they don’t fall as I watch the last of the embers from the fire completely perish.
I stare at the white tendrils of smoke coming off the blackened wood, and a thought dawns on me. The simmering beneath my skin I’ve felt for the past hour isn’t pain from what I thought was sadness. This pain is from pure, undeniable anger—and I amsoangry.
∞∞∞
The sound of dishes clinking together wakes me, and I roll onto my back, feeling soft carpet underneath my feet and palms. I blink around at my surroundings. I’m still on the floor in the living room, and at some point in the morning, either my aunt or Richard placed a thick wool blanket over me. I pull it tighter around me, grateful for their kindness.
Sunlight shines through the large window behind the Christmas tree, and I want to smile at the beauty and comfort of this space, but I’m swiftly reminded of last night’s events, and my mood is shifted harshly. The anger that overtook me last night manifests itself in the form of a dull ache against my skull.
“Good morning, baby girl.” Her soft voice comes from the couch behind me, and I turn around to face Aunt Jane. “Come up here and sit with me for a little while.” She pats a spot on the couch beside her, and I stand, stretching my limbs, and cracking my back, feeling the soreness in my muscles from sleeping on the ground.
Aunt Jane looks a little worse for wear. She flicks her gaze to my tied up hair, and I see a glimpse of sadness flash over her face that she tries to hide with a tired smile.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you last night.” I curl up into her side where she’s seated. She is soft and warm, and I find comfort in the scent of the oils floating off her.
“That’s alright. I know you needed your space.” She pats the top of my head gently, and we stay seated here for a while. My anger quickly dissipates when I realize that Aunt Jane and Richard are the only two family members I have left. I bury my head further into her side, wanting to wish away this rollercoaster of emotions that has taken over me.
Eventually, Richard brings us some hot tea, and I sit up thanking him. “Richard, I…” I start to tell him how sorry I am for how I acted last night, a look of regret marring my face. “I hope you can forgive me.” I take a sip of tea to ease the tightening muscles in my throat.
“There’s nothing to forgive darlin’. We all handle grief differently, and it’s never usually graceful.” He smiles gently and winks at me, causing an embarrassed blush to touch my cheeks.
After a moment of quiet, my aunt squeezes my leg. “I’m not sure that there’s a gentle way to bring this up right now, but we need to make funeral arrangements.” I nod my head in understanding, but thinking of anything funeral-related makes me sick to my stomach.
“Robert wanted to be cremated.” Her words hang heavily in the air for a few breaths. “If it’s okay with you, Ellie, I’d like to keep his ashes here.” She reaches up to wipe a tear from her eye, and I lay my head back down on her shoulder.
“Of course, Aunt Jane.” She squeezes my hand in thanks, and leaves it there for a while, gently swiping her thumb back and forth over the soft spot Tyler likes to touch when he knows I’m upset. I shove any thoughts of him or our tender moments out of my mind.
The afternoon passes by in silence, and after Helen makes us a light lunch, Aunt Jane drags me upstairs, telling me she needs to show me something important. I stand with her in the near empty spare bedroom as she digs through the closet.
“Last night, I couldn’t sleep, and I remembered that I had a box of your daddy’s things up here that he brought with him when he came from San Antonio.”
She finally finds the box she’s looking for and puts it on the bed for us to browse through. There are a few things that immediately catch my eye, and I’m surprised by how little I knew about his past. I pull out a large black binder full of clear plastic pages with pockets. Every page is filled with old baseball cards, some with autographs, and some without. They are all browning with age, but I can tell he kept them in the best condition he could.
The second thing I pull out is a black knife. It’s about the length of my open hand, and the blade has his name etched into it as if he might have done the engraving himself. I run my thumb over the scribbled writing and wonder how old he was when he did this. It feels oddly comforting to have these things here with me. I can almost feel his presence, encouraging me to continue looking through the secret parts of his past I never became familiar with.
My aunt smiles as she finds things that trigger memories, and she stops every few items to tell me a story about their childhood. “I was looking around for something else when I came up here last night, but look at what I found.” She hands me a thick sketchbook with a spark of excitement touching her eyes. The cover is green, but it’s worn and showing its age.
