Page 38 of Earthly Ties

“I hate this.” Esther curls around herself.

“I know, East.” I do my best to ground myself as I try to grab the blanket, but all I do is wave my arms through Esther’s leg as she kicks out to find the blanket again.

I jump back, hissing in pain as her foot passes through my wrists.

“Oh, that felt nice.” Esther’s foot searches the air. “Draft, come here and blow on my face!”

“East, I would love to blow on your face,” I tease, “if only you didn’t burn like Hellfire.”

“Nobody ever stays. Not even a draft.” Esther pouts while pulling the blanket back over her, all without getting up. Her face crumples. “Oh damn it, why is a fucking draft triggering my abandonment issues? Get it together, East.”

My brow furrows. She just called herself East. Did I subconsciously start using a nickname she already used? Must have been from earlier in life, because I’ve never heard her call herself any nickname before.

I shake my head. There’s no way. “You should get up. Check for pockmarks. Drink some water.”

I wish she could hear me. I wish I could tuck her in and bring her water. I wish I could make her check for pockmarks, or check them for her, to put us both out of the misery of not knowing. Instead, all I can do is pace the small apartment.

Her phone dings. Esther’s arm snakes out of the blanket to snatch it up off the nightstand. “Oh,” she huffs. “Just a reminder to update my case with the pockmark pattern.”

“Please check.” My voice trembles. “I need to know. I don’t understand why you won’t look.”

“I don’t want to know,” Esther pouts harder, her bottom lip trembling. “I like not knowing what’s going to happen. I like to pretend there’s a chance everything is going to be okay.” She whines. “I like being hopeful.”

“‘Every mind must make its choice between truth and repose,’” I quote, gently chiding her for her stubbornness. “‘It cannot have both.’”

Esther groans. “I’m too tired for a philosophical debate.”

“And here I thought Emerson would be up your alley—” I freeze, my heart jumping to my throat. “Wait, you can hear me?”

Esther sighs, shaking her head. “I wish.”

“East, please. If you can hear me, please, I need to know.” I kneel beside her in the bed, unable to resist the urge to stroke the sweaty curls that cling to her temple. Flickers of pain burn my fingertips as they pass through her hair. “Because I have to tell you…” I trail off, wondering where I would start. What I could possibly say. What Esther would need to hear most.

Esther raises an eyebrow as if she’s waiting.

Heart sinking, I shake my head. “Check the mirror for your pockmarks.”

With a stubborn set of her chin, Esther unlocks her phone and snuggles further into the bed. “I think my fever is getting to me.”

With a disappointed sigh, I float over the bed, settling next to her. She stubbornly avoids the email reminding her to update her case. One by one, she searches the names of different women on various social media apps instead, who I presume must be her sisters. The pictures all look so much like Esther, just with makeup and their hair styled.

“Ugh, seriously? You married the pastor’s son?” Esther groans when she clicks on a photo of a bride and groom in front of a church. “No, it’s her life. She’s an adult! If she wants to pop out babies for that creep, that’s her choice. Just be happy for her, and hope one day you get to meet your niblings.”

Esther scrolls and scrolls, searching different names and finding pictures of her family and news articles about her friends’ accomplishments. My heart breaks for her as she looks up person after person, commenting to herself about the direction life has taken her loved ones since she last saw them. The family and friends who have never reached out to her in all the months I’ve been Tied to Esther. All of these people she misses, and not a single one does she inform that she has the Pox.

A voyeur of life, following the digital breadcrumbs to have some sort of connection to the many people she loves. Just like me, except there’s only one person I watch.

“East,” I murmur, my throat thick. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

The phone falls from her hand, smacking her in the face. Tears fill her blue eyes. “I just want someone to care.”

“I care. I care so much.” I stroke my knuckle where the tears fall, accomplishing nothing but causing them to slide down her cheek as pain sears through my digit.

“That feels nice,” Esther sighs. “Hello draft.”

I steel my nerves and press my hand to her forehead. “Hello East.”

It reminds me of riding the school bus in the dead of winter. The other kids would have contests to see who could touch the windows the longest on cold days. I never joined them, but one day I did it on my own, after most of the kids had gotten off the bus, so no one would see if I failed right away. So I could join in, without subjecting myself to ridicule. My palm pressed to the numbing cold glass sent a shard of pain up to my elbow in seconds. I made myself keep it there until I could no longer stand it. The skin of my palm stung as I tore my hand away, an invisible layer of dermis frozen to the glass.