Page 22 of Healing Eleanor

God, I don’t know your plan, but I trust you.

Yet even then, something in my spirit shifts, whispering that she’s going to matter more than I will understand.

Well, Eleanor... let’s see what you’re made of.

The sun barely dips below the skyline by the time I turn off onto my parents’ street. The neighborhood is lined with small brick homes and run down fences. My parents’ house sits near the end, tucked beneath the shade of an old maple tree that always turns red early in the fall. The lawn’s slightly overgrown, weeds sprouting around the driveway. My father will never admit he needs help keeping up with it.

My limbs ache from class and the hours I spent hunched over Kasper’s desk, watching reels until they started to blur.

Normally, I drive straight home after a day like this. But Mama texted me after my afternoon class. It’s a simple, ‘can you come by tonight?’ No explanation. But I don’t need one.

When she didn’t show up for work today, I knew something had to be going on. There’s not a day where Mama isn’t seen with a measuring tape, needle in hand, sewing to her heart’s content.

I park along the curb and stare at the house for a moment. The shutters are sun-bleached and hanging crooked. The creaky porch step is warped and worn, the flickering light overhead casting a pale halo over the welcome mat that has long since faded to gray.

Someone needs to fix the light, and that person is probably going to be me.

I can already hear the TV blasting inside—some Russian newscast my father insists on watching every evening, claiming American news is too soft.

The moment I open the door, the scent hits me. Borscht, old pine cleaner, and something faintly floral. My mother’s touch lingers in every part of this house.

The living room is dim, the only light coming from a small table lamp in the corner and the soft glow of the television. The furniture is the same as it’s always been. Overstuffed, a little sagged in the middle, doilies on the arms, a crochet blanket folded neatly over the back of the couch. Family photos hang crooked on the walls. A framed cross-stitch with the Russian words С Богом—Go with God—hangs above the threshold.

Sitting in his usual recliner, beer bottles scattered around his feet, my father doesn’t even glance up from the screen. His arms are crossed, eyes fixed on the Russian news with that familiar intensity. “Why are you here? It’s late,” he grunts.

I don’t answer. I’ve learned years ago that simply talking to him only adds fuel to his fire.

My dad hasn’t always been like this. I remember a time when he laughed, and when he would toss Daria and I into the lake during summer afternoons. He grilled fish over an open flame, humming old Russian hymns. But over the years, something inside him hardened. Grief did that. Pride did that, too.

He lost a daughter and decided to lose the rest of us.

Before the silence can stretch too long, my mother steps out of the kitchen, wiping her damp hands on a towel, apron still tied around her waist, her once black hair, now streaked with gray, piled in a messy updo.

She’s been sick before. Sick enough that we weren’t sure she’d survive it. I remember lying awake at night, praying and begging God to spare her. When the chemo started working, it felt like a miracle. She recovered. Kasper gave her a job as the company seamstress—something to anchor her again, especially after Daria.

So getting a text like the one she sent earlier has been pressing on me like a boulder.

“Nikusha,” she greets softly, a tired smile tugging at her lips. Her cardigan slips off one shoulder, and her arctic-blue eyes have lost their usual light. She hugs me gently, her chill seeping through my shirt, too cold for my liking.

“Come. I made tea.”

I follow her into the kitchen, where the linoleum floor curls at the edges and the floral wallpaper peels near the window. Everything is clean, tidy, and lived in.

The kettle clicks off just as we sit down at the table, a small ceramic thing that has seen thousands of meals, arguments, and silent mornings. She sets out two mugs and a plate of pryaniki—my favorite.

She reaches across the table and takes my hand. Her grip trembles slightly. “How are you doing, Synulya?”

I gently grip her hand back. “I’m doing alright, Mamochka. Just busy today. You know how the beginning of fall season is.” I let go of her hand, and lean back in the chair that’s seen better days. “Where were you today?”

She lets out a long breath. “I was at the doctor,” she answers quietly in Russian.

I don’t say anything at first. Just stare at the steam rising from my mug. The clock on the wall ticks loudly, like it’s counting down to something I don’t want to face.

“Why were you at the doctor?” I ask in Russian, bile rising in my throat. A cold knot forms in my stomach. We’re heading down a one-way street with a cliff waiting at the end. Everything in me screams that this isn’t good.

She gives me a small, sad smile. “I’ve been having some pain near my armpit and neck. So I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Rosenthal in June. She drew blood and did a biopsy. The results came back today… and both came back abnormal.” She takes a breath, avoiding eye contact.

I nearly choke on my spit. “Abnormal as in…”