Page 69 of Healing Eleanor

After Daria, Dad became a shell of himself. Not just quieter, but completely hollow, as if her death had carved out everything soft in him and left only edges.

It doesn’t feel right leaving Mama there with him in that house that used to be full of warmth. Now it holds only echoes of distant screaming, slammed doors, and the memory of glass shattering against walls.

I grip the steering wheel harder until my knuckles pale. It shouldn’t be like this. Our family needs a chance to heal, and that possibility seems so far off it may as well be a fairy tale.

The night air presses against the car windows, heavy and damp, and with each mile my chest tenses. My pulse pounds in my ears, my blood pressure rising like a volcano ready to erupt. The tension in my arms makes the wheel creak faintly beneath my hands.

I know it isn’t good to drive angry. The thought of going on the highway and driving far away from here is almost too tempting. Instead, I pull into the cracked asphalt of a small convenience store parking lot. The fluorescent sign above the door buzzes faintly, casting the lot in a sickly yellow glow.

I cut the engine, the sudden quiet deafening. My forehead drops against the steering wheel, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my heartbeat to slow in the thick stillness of the night.

All at once, my life veers off course, racing toward a finish line I can’t even see. My hands stay locked on the steering wheel, but my chest aches with something I can’t pinpoint. So instead of warring with the unknown, I pray.

“God… I feel lost. I don’t have a single clue what I’m doing.” My voice is barely a whisper in the stillness of the car. “But I trust You. I pray You guide my steps, my words… everything I can’t control.”

Mama’s words press into my thoughts, soft but firm. You don’t like it because that heart of yours may feel something for her.

I let out a shaky breath and squeeze my eyes tighter. “I pray for Eleanor,” I murmur, unwittingly. “Give me eyes to see her, ears to hear her the way You do. Lord, if You can use me for anything… let me be a vessel.”

The last word catches in my throat, trembling as it leaves me. “Amen.”

As soon as the prayer leaves my lips, my heartbeat begins to slow. My shoulders ease against the seat, and the tight coil of anxiety that’s been twisting through me minutes ago seems to unravel into the night air.

Thank You, Jesus.

The stillness that follows is fragile, but real. With my head a little clearer than before, I realized I don’t want to go home and sit in a silent house with nothing but my thoughts clawing at me.

Evelyn has always been a voice of reason—I guess she has to be, being a therapist and all—and right now, I need that.

I duck into the convenience store before leaving the lot. A small bouquet of flowers by the register catches my eye, and I grab them without thinking. A small way to make up for not being able to cheer Grace on tonight.

With the flowers riding shotgun, I pull back onto the dark road, the glow of the Ellis’ house marking my destination.

Thick trees arch over the street, their branches weaving shadows across the pavement under the streetlights. The driveway looks different than the last time I was here—fresh soil, and new plants edging the walkway. Lily’s touch, no doubt.

I cut the ignition and let the engine tick down into silence. I’m never one to intrude, and while I know Evelyn won’t mind, there’s a nagging thought in the back of my head. What does it say about me, that I can’t be alone right now?

My dad would call it weakness. He’d say it made me less of a man—like everything else I did in his eyes. But Evelyn is like a second mom to me, and more importantly, a voice of reason.

With that thought, I force myself out of the car, flowers in hand, before I can second-guess it. The night air is cool and damp against my skin as I walk up the driveway.

I knock on their door. A moment later, it swings open to a wide-eyed Lily. “Nik? What are you doing here? Are you okay?” Her voice drops into a gasp. “Is it Irina?”

“Lily, who is it?” Evelyn’s voice floats from somewhere deeper in the house. A second later, her head appears over Lily’s shoulder, a dishtowel in hand.

“Well, what a pleasant surprise!” She nudges her daughter gently to the side and wraps me in a hug. “What brings you here? And why are you still standing on the porch?”

Before I can answer, she hooks her arm through mine and drags me into the light and soft tenor of their home.

“I’m making sloppy joes. You’re more than welcome to stay for dinner, dear,” Evelyn says as she guides me straight into the kitchen, slipping back into her rhythm at the cutting board. The sharp scent of onion filling the air.

“Sure… that would be great, actually.” A wave of relief dulls the edge in my voice.

Lily hops up beside me at the kitchen island, curious eyes fixed on me.

“And no,” I assure her quietly, catching the concern on Lily’s face. “It isn’t Mama. She’s… as good as she can be.”

Evelyn’s knife pauses mid-slice, the smallest crease forming between her brows. I know she’s taking Mama’s sickness just as hard as I am.