The Amnesiac

Chapter Four

Eloise Grove held a crinkled sheet of journal paper close to her face. It was well worn by the frequent occasion of being handled, turned over, clutched, and cried on. She had a box filled with notes of the same hand, but this was among her favorites.

"Eloise, light of my life, truth of my heart. My reason, redemption, and resurrection.

Like a wild blast of morning air, a promise of a new day's start. I wish I could lay at your feet all the finest words of love's description. Yet aghast I find I lack the prowess.

If I were a singer I'd write you a million stirring ballads. If I were a poet I'd invent new words to describe how you amaze me. Alas, I am a thief. Here's my latest bounty:

El-Oh-Ees: The tip of my tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tuck, at three, beneath the teeth. El. Oh. Ees.

You're El, plain El, in the morning, standing five feet four in one sock. You're Ellie in a sundress. You're Elle to your friends. You're Ms. Grove on the dotted line. But in my arms you will always be Eloise.

Shall I compare thee to a summer day? Thou art more lovely. Are you an angel? I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads upon the ground.

Your eyes are like ... I must not be mistaken. There are no eyes like yours in the world. There exists only one creature who can concentrate for me all the vivacity and meaning of life. You. My Eloise.

Still I tremble with the knowledge that these words are not enough. Not even the tongues of history's highest genius are apt to speak your name.  In all that I pilfer I have but one meaning, and yet I know I've failed again to sum up your sublime nature. I'm a hopeless wanderer, my dear, ever searching for the right words to sing to you. In the end perhaps I should leave it at this: As long as I'm alive, Eloise, I swear to god that I'll love you."

She reached the end of the letter as she always did, breathless.

Eloise sat down on the end of her bed. Where'd it all go wrong? What'd I do?

Ladies and gentleman, witness this tangle of thorns...

Eloise was born in January of 1998, in New York City. Her father was a painter, a rising star. Her mother was his muse. They lived high above the ground in a castle made of glass. She grew up counting clouds with three younger sisters and a brother to keep her company. Elizabeth, Emily, Erica, and Evan. All E's, for no reason except that Mr. and Mrs. Grove had thought themselves clever.

Her mother was the sort of woman who stands cloaked in wisdom like a gown. Her hair, like that of Eloise and all her sisters, was the color of flame. She sang softly to herself while she worked. Her children would drift off asleep to the sound of her sweet lullaby. She was a great defender of the poor and needy, an active voice in many important circles. She was strong. She was passionate. She was generous. And, in a tragic twist of fate, she was stolen from this Earth far too soon.

Eloise had been a girl, still unburned and unburdened.

ALS was the culprit. A degenerative disease. A slow death. A flower wasting away.

As the illness inched toward its inevitable conclusion, Eloise never left her mother's side except to care for her father and siblings. She cooked, she cleaned, she sang to the little E's at night. She passed through fire at a younger age than most, and though she hid it, the flames left her blackened and burned.

After the death her father lost all control of himself. He drank. He cried. He lashed out at those near him. He abused the ones he loved. Constantly he wished he'd been the one to go. He never painted.