Page 8 of Mine to Worship

“There are three reasons. Love, possessiveness, fear.” I draw patterns on my thigh. “I wanted to show them all he’s mine. I love him. And his father threatened me.”

“Richard.” A shiver shakes her body.

I raise my eyebrows in question, waiting for her to elaborate.

“He was a teenager when I met him, and furious at me—at the world, at his father. With every year, he became more bitter about what he called our ‘indiscretion’. He hated how my presence impacted his mother’s image. It’s not that he wasn’t right, but his father never allowed him to be disrespectful to me. I am sure he even blames me for his Olivia’s death.”

She gives my knee a little squeeze.

“You can still love me and not accept what I did.”

Love is a strange thing. It screws up your moral code like nothing else, tests you and makes you question your loyalty. I still love her, she’s still the best aunt possible, and still she was a mistress, something I abhor.

“Your mother lost it when I gave you your first paint brush and you began to paint right away. You are the greatest gift to me. I love you, sweetie.”

“I love you, too, and you’re the best aunt.”

“Ellia,” she says, and places her hand on her chest, touched.

After our smiles fade, I ask, “Do you love Jake?”

“I do. He’s so easy to love.”

“But are you happy?”

“I am, but that’s not how life works, sweetie. Happiness is moments we chase, hoping they last. That’s why we should cherish them, because eventually they fade.”

As I look at her smiling face, I swallow my misery down.

“It’s odd how we fell in love with men from the same family.”

“Yes, I hoped you wouldn’t.”

But I did and there is no need to delve into the past any longer. Still, I am not ready to face my present either. Someday, maybe, but not yet.

I wake up with nausea climbing up my throat. I stumble out of bed, making it to the bathroom barely in time to empty my stomach in the toilet. Once it passes, the only thing I have strength for is hugging the toilet seat.

My aunt rushes to my side, panic striking her features. “What’s wrong?”

Another wave of nausea hits me, and I hurl in the toilet bowl. The force of my vomiting has me shivering from head to toe. Aunt Esther turns on the faucet and wets a small towel before dabbing it on my face. I moan at the comforting sensation.

She helps me up and on shaky legs, I wobble back to bed, depleted of strength. She tucks me in and I fall asleep, only to wake up hours later and run to the toilet again.

“We’re going to a doctor,” she says.

I shake my head. “No, I am sure it’s the stomach flu.”

We stare at each other, my eyes pleading with her. I don’t have the energy to face what I already suspect. I just want to sleep and ignore it for as long as possible.

I manage to convince her the second day, too, but by the third, Jake lifts me out of the bed and carries my shivering body to his car. Any protest dies on my lips, the weakness weighing me down. Jake buckles me in and rubs his hands along my arms.

“Everything is going to be okay,” he assures me.

I want to believe him, but I know it won’t.

I curl into myself, dreading the visit to the hospital.

Once I’m through intake, assigned a room, and wrapped up in a gown that is far too baggy, I lie there dehydrated from vomiting, watching fluid dripping from an IV bag. Each drop causes a ripple of knowledge in my brain, making it impossible for me to ignore the reason I’m here. Not naming it won’t make it any less real.

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