A Glass Ready to Burst

TW: Fatal illness and anxiety

A clinking sound rang throughout the kitchen, a demanding fork hitting the glass in front of the oldest child. Glassy eyes looked up to the head of the table, where the young girl sat. She was a simple-looking one: blonde hair tied back into a long braid, her cracked lips pursed as she stared down at the worn baby blue dress. Her fingers clenched the fabric as her younger siblings continued to stare, hoping for something she could not give.

“Emilia?” the youngest finally said, breaking the silence. “What is it?”

The girl lifted her head just the tiniest bit, unwilling to start the echoes of worry in the others now. She twirled the rim of the glass with one finger. This would have to be a burden she handled, and handled alone. She didn’t think she could stand watching her younger siblings’ lose hope once more.

“Nothing, Ingrid. Eat,” Emilia replied, gathering enough strength to lift the corners of her mouth. It was a pitiful attempt at ease, but it seemed to help. Ingrid quietly picked up her fork and her twin copied her. Only the second oldest, Raphael ignored Emilia’s silent plea for no more questions.

“It’s something,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “What’s going on? Did something happen at school?”

“No,” Emilia sighed. If only.

Raphael seemed determined to figure out what was wrong. “Then what–?”

“Raphael, please, just eat,” Emilia demanded, though it sounded like she was begging. That caught everyone’s attention. Ingrid’s eyebrows furrowed and Florian kicked his feet under the table. Raphael’s eyes widened. The same thought seemed to be ringing through their minds: what was going on with their older sister? She was usually so in control, so knowledgeable on how to help. A calm face in the darkest of storms. The fact that her voice was wavering and she was scratching at her arm unnerved everyone at the table. Something bad happened.

“You should eat too, Emilia,” Florian murmured, grabbing at the hem of his hoodie. “Please?”

Looking at the spaghetti she had cooked and nearly burned earlier made her stomach turn unpleasantly. “I’m not hungry.”

At Florian’s despondent face, Emilia felt her already guilty conscience weigh down on her shoulders. Steeling herself, she hesitantly picked up her fork and ate. It took the mental image of Florian’s smiling face to finish the plate in front of her without stopping. Once Emilia started eating, the others did too, like baby birds copying their mother.

Everyone finished rather quickly, and Emilia cleaned up their plates and utensils. Scrubbing at the dishes allowed her mind to settle into routine, a safe one. Pick up the dishcloth, put some soap on the dish, rub until clean, rinse, put on the drying rack. Repeat.

Behind her, the others played, but it was more subdued. It was obvious they were sneaking glances at each other and the back of the oldest. No one commented, too afraid of what someone would say if they did start whispering. Everyone except for Florian.

“Is Mom going to get any food?” he asked.

Emilia nearly dropped the plate she was holding. She looked back at him, his expression innocent but probing.

“She might not be able to stomach it tonight,” Emilia responded, relieved her voice stayed steady. “She was too weak to get out of bed today.”

“Oh. Will she be okay if we go say goodnight to her?” Florian asked, his voice wavering on a plea. Emilia smiled a genuine smile; Florian was truly the most childish of the family, but not in a bad way. She was glad he was keeping his naivety and optimism. It made things easier to hide and kept spirits high when things looked bad.

“Yeah. Let’s get ready for bed before we do that though,” Emilia replied. Raphael and Ingrid pointedly glared at Florian, who stuck out his tongue at the two.

Ingrid was the first to go take a bath and prepare for bed. Emilia turned on the radio, needing some kind of noise in the background. Florian left to make his bed, the one chore he insisted on doing every night. If he were that consistent with other chores, Emilia would actually be able to have some down time.

“What’s wrong?” Raphael asked, sliding up next to Emilia and tapping her arm. She jumped, forgetting that he hadn’t left yet.

“Nothing. Honestly. There’s just a lot of work to get done,” Emilia huffed, stepping away from him.

“You’re lying,” he snapped.

“No, you’re getting on my nerves!” she snapped back. “Go get ready for bed.”

Raphael puffed his cheeks, even going so far as to stamp his foot. He hadn’t done that since he was five. “You don’t tell us things anymore. Have we done something? Do you think we can’t keep secrets?”

“That isn’t it. There are two six year old kids in this house that already act like they’re twice their age. You think you’re second in command of the household. You already know enough! If I start telling you everything that’s going on, you’re going to think you need to tell someone. Where will that put us? I’ll tell you! Split up! We might not ever see each other again if we get taken away. I don’t think you understand–I just–I haven’t been trying to keep everything together so that we can be torn apart. Mom will get better and this’ll be over, but right now, that isn’t what people are going to see,” Emilia fumed, clenching her fists. Raphael blinked. Then his hands reached up and clutched at his chest, as if trying to rip out the invisible wound Emilia had inflicted.

His eyes started to well with tears. “I don’t want to be taken away.”

Emilia felt the familiar stab of self-loathing whenever she scared her siblings into backing down or doing something. But this was necessary. “You won't be if you keep your mouth shut. The less you know the better.”

The rest of the night went smoothly, aside from Raphael barely saying a word. The other two were in their nightclothes, hair brushed and smelling clean. Raphael took some time to get ready, but in the end, he was ready for bed too.

They all gathered outside a chipped white door, with Emilia’s hand on the doorknob. She gently opened the door.

“Now, everyone knows the drill. Be quiet, don’t rock the bed too much, and–” she started.

“We know!” Ingrid hissed, squeezing past Emilia and entering the room.

A bedroom containing a dresser, a bed, and a nightstand was the first thing they saw in the dim room. Once their eyes adjusted to the dark, they saw their mother. Once a representation of the word beauty itself, she now lay in the cursed bed, shivering, her features worn down from illness. Emilia and Florian looked more like their late father, but Raphael and Ingrid were the spitting image of their mother. Sleek black hair, dark eyes that seemed to always have a shine in them, and slender hands that got cold easily.

Ingrid trotted up, hugging her mother’s arm and whispering a goodnight before pattering out of the room and into her own. Florian was next, smoothing back her hair and saying that he cleaned her favorite mirror earlier today. He left too, following his twin sister.

Raphael looked back at Emilia, his eyes wary. Emilia gently nudged him forward, and he patted her hand, muttering out a choked goodnight and leaving. Emilia did nothing; she’d be back in a moment. She went after her siblings.

She tucked Ingrid and Florian in and reminded Raphael that he still had homework to do. He scoffed and whispered a curse towards his math teacher, to which Emilia reprimanded him by lightly hitting his arm. She turned off the lights, the little stars emitting their green glow and staving off Florian and Raphael’s nerves. She’d be returning here to sleep within a couple hours.

Shutting the door behind her, Emilia went back to her mother’s room. She came close, trying to fight back the tears that tried to emerge earlier that morning. She checked the nightstand. Her mother’s glass was empty! She drank all of her water! There was no evidence she had thrown it back up. Emilia would have heard her mother’s footsteps heading to the bathroom or would have seen vomit in the bucket by the bed. A bud of happiness emerged from the depths of Emilia’s heart. It didn’t matter what the doctors said. It didn’t matter. She took her mother’s hand.

“I still believe you’ll win,” Emilia whispered. “I still believe you’ll be here by the end of this month. You’ll be here by the end of this year. You’ll get to see all of us graduate, too. My speech will have you in it, I promise. And you’ll–you’ll be proud, I swear. I swear it, Mommy.”

Even though the doctors called her a lost cause. Told her mother to start figuring out a place where her kids could go. Emilia had been trying to keep everything under wraps, even from her siblings. But things started to get out of control. Her mother was getting sicker. It was last week when Emilia found the papers. Her mother would likely be dead within the next two months. She couldn’t tell anyone that, she just couldn’t, or people would start to panic or ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer. There had been cases though. Cases Emilia had heard where people lived past when they were expected. She had to keep on hoping it would be the same for her mother. Along with her family, it was all she had left that she cared to cling to. And that empty glass was enough to strengthen her hold on hope.