Page 107 of Healing Eleanor

He vigorously bobs his head. “I didn’t see everything. Medical is with her now.”

My stomach plummets. There’s so much on my plate that I’ve completely dismissed Mama’s cancer. She’s been acting normal—or as normal as she could. I ignored the signs, brushing off her exhaustion because she told me to. Now, I’m drowning in the consequences of my own complacency.

When we reach the seamstress room, I practically barrel through the door.

Mama sits on the floor, a damp washcloth pressed to her forehead, sipping water from a flimsy plastic cup.

Dancers crowd the hallway, whispering nervously. Inside, the dancers being fitted—Eleanor, Lily, Gabriel and Paloma—stand off to the side, their faces etched with worry.

But I pay them no attention. My sole focus is on the woman in front of me. I crouch down, speaking in Russian. “Mama, what happened?”

“I was feeling lightheaded,” she replies softly, also in Russian. “One moment I was fine, the next I was on the floor.”

I slip my hand into hers, then wrap an arm around her shoulders, lifting gently. “We need to get you to the hospital.”

Fear flashes through her eyes. “No, Nikusha, no. I’m just fine.”

But she isn’t. Not when her face is pale, her eyes dull, her hands trembling. Fear coils in my throat, constricting my chest with it. “I’m not giving you a choice,” I hiss. I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but the truth is, I’m terrified. “We’re going.”

She nods reluctantly, staring down as she clutches my hand for balance.

As we near the doorway, it hits me—Eleanor.

I turn back, catching the stares of the girls and Gabriel, but it’s Eleanor’s wide eyes that lock with mine. “Eleanor, if you’re fine to wait, I can come back for you later.”

She opens her mouth, but Lily jumps in first. “I can take her home, Nik,” she offers, nudging Eleanor’s side with a playful grin. “As long as she doesn’t mind watching a cheerleading practice.”

I look back at Eleanor, silently waiting. If she asks, I’ll come back for her—no matter what. Even if it means leaving my mother’s side.

She glances between us, then whispers, “I—I’ll go with you, Lily. You don’t need to worry about me, Nik.”

I nod, though my gaze remains riveted to her. She stands there in her Odette costume, delicate and fragile, and I wonder if Mama was working on it before she collapsed.

“Thank you, Lily,” I say quietly, then tighten my grip on Mama’s hand and lead her to my car. We drive to the hospital in stony silence.

My heart races against my ribs, but Mama looks… almost resigned. Like she’s been expecting this.

Relief washes over me when we arrive and Mama’s regular doctor, Dr. Rosenthal, is on call. Nurses settle us into a room quickly, checking vitals and murmuring notes. I sink into the chair by the window, staring out at the parking lot, watching cars drift in and out. Anything to distract from the gnawing dread.

Hospitals suffocate me. The cold, the smell of bleach and death, the memories of my injury, Mama’s first diagnosis, Daria. I sit stiff as wood, praying this is nothing more than dehydration. But time has a cruel way of peeling back lies.

Three sharp raps shatter the silence. “Irina,” Dr. Rosenthal greets gently, stepping inside. “I wasn’t supposed to see you until next week.”

Mama gives her a tired smile. “Looks like my body couldn’t wait that long.”

The weight in her tone isn’t playful. No spark of humor. Just cold hard truth. My insides feel like a churning mess.

“Wait for what?” I ask, searching her face. “Another round of chemo?”

Dr. Rosenthal blinks, seeming surprised by my confusion. “Another round? Nikolai, she hasn’t been on chemo for months.”

I turn sharply to Mama. “What? You… you’re still doing treatments, right?”

She drops her gaze, fingers worrying at her nails. “I haven’t been on chemo, Nikusha.”

Her words are a slow, icy drip, crystallizing every ounce of trust inside me. “What do you mean?”

Dr. Rosenthal winces and murmurs, “I’ll give you two a minute,” before slipping out and shutting the door.