13. You’re Just in the Vinegar #2
On my drive home, anxiety sizzles beneath my skin, crawling through every nerve like static.
The dark road stretches out in front of me, headlights cutting narrow tunnels through the foggy fall night.
Streetlamps flicker past in slow, lonely intervals, their glow making the shadows in between feel suffocating.
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.
I exhale and rub the back of my neck. “I’m actually here for me.”
Evelyn turns fully toward me, knife still in hand. “I’m always here for you. Is everything okay?”
“No. Just… a lot on my mind.” My palms press against the cool countertop, grounding me. “I feel lost… like I don’t know what I’m doing. Mama has an agenda… so here I am.”
Evelyn points the knife at me, her lips curving into a smile. “Lay it on me,” she says, and returns to chopping.
So I do, telling her everything.
What happened with Eleanor in the studio, how Mama insists she’s in my life for some reason, how her words don’t match her eyes when she talks about chemo, and the way it all gnaws at me.
The entire time, Evelyn doesn’t interrupt once. She just listens with that quiet patience she always has. Even Lily remains uncharacteristically silent beside me, though I catch her biting back questions more than once.
When I finally run out of words, Evelyn sets down the knife and wipes her hands on the dish towel. “Well,” she says thoughtfully, “that sounds like one big pickle. And right now, you’re just in the vinegar.”
Beside me, Lily sighs dramatically. “Pickles sound so good right now.”
Evelyn shoots her a look. “Control yourself, Lillian. You had nachos, popcorn, and a soda at the game.” Then she turns back to me, her expression softening. “What I mean, Nik, is I heard everything you said. But what I didn’t hear is how you feel about it.”
Before I can reply, the sound of light footsteps reach the kitchen. Grace appears in the doorway, her cheeks still pink from the football game. “It smells amazing in here. What are you making?” She spots me at the counter. “Oh—hey, Nik,” she says, giving me a small wave.
I pick up the bouquet from the chair and extend my hand toward her. “For you… since I couldn’t be at the game tonight.”
Lily cranes her neck. “Wait. When did you even bring those in?”
Grace’s eyes widen as she takes them, lifting the flowers to her nose, breathing in their scent. “Thank you.” Her lips curve into a shy, grateful smile.
“No problem, kiddo.” I pat her lightly on the back.
“Grace, check my room. I think there’s a vase in there,” Evelyn says with a pointed look that sends her youngest toward the hallway.
The second she disappears, Lily rests her chin in her hand and shoots me a mock glare. “Why don’t I get flowers after my performances?”
Despite everything sitting heavy in my chest, a reluctant laugh breaks free. Lily always has a way of knocking down walls without even trying. “I’ll get you flowers next time.”
Her pout immediately turns into a grin. “You better.”
Evelyn’s voice returns, loving but grounded. “All right, back to this pickle you’re in.” Her eyes meet mine with quiet patience. “Tell me how you feel, Nik.”
I have never been comfortable with sharing my feelings. There’s something about dragging my deepest thoughts into the open air that makes me want to shove them back inside twice as fast. But if anyone can give me real advice, it’s her.
By some miracle, Lily saves me from my own hesitation. “I’m going to go help Grace. I just can’t stand the thought of her hacking the stems on those poor roses.” She clutches her chest dramatically before dashing out of the kitchen like she’s been sent on a rescue mission.
Thank goodness for Lily’s green thumb and her obsession with flowers. With her gone, the room feels a little more mellow. It’s not that I think she’ll judge me, but right now I need the steady counsel of someone who can see past my walls, not the teasing of a friend.
Evelyn gazes at me with those steady, expectant eyes. “I can’t help if I don’t know how you feel, dear.” She moves to the stove, the soft sizzle of beef filling the air as she stirs. “Here, would it help if I wasn’t looking at you?”
“Actually, yes.” My shoulders loosen a fraction. Without her gaze pinning me, it doesn’t feel like I’m sitting under a blinding spotlight, waiting to confess every bad thing I’ve ever done. “I’m not even sure where to start.”
Evelyn’s wooden spoon scrapes against the pan as she folds in the chopped vegetables. “How about we start with Irina. You said you think she isn’t telling you the truth?”
I release a slow breath. “Yes. She wouldn’t look me in the eye when I asked about Dad, or why her chemo is more expensive this time.”
Evelyn glances over her shoulder, brow raised. “And?”