Page 24 of Healing Eleanor

Once the floor is spotless, I pat Mama on the shoulder and slip out through the screen door, desperate for air. The familiar creak gives way to a soft click as it shuts behind me, sealing the tension, the pain, the clatter of heartbreak behind four walls.

The late summer air is cool against my skin, carrying the faint scent of the lake nearby. The wind rustles the maple leaves above me as I descend the porch steps, the wood groaning under my boots. Moss cushions each step on the ground, softening my landing. Night has claimed the sky, stars glittering like tiny secrets scattered across a dark canvas. Fireflies hover near the fence, blinking in the darkness like long-lost memories trying to find their way home.

This place used to feel like home, but now it feels like a relic. Something that once belonged to us, but not anymore. Too much has changed. Or maybe it’s me.

I press my back against the porch railing, gazing upward.

God, what are you doing here?

The trees whisper back, but not with answers. My pulse still roars from the argument inside. I hate that my father still has that power over me. One word from him, and I’m seventeen again. Just a boy in this same backyard, stiff-spined and quiet, enduring another lecture about how dance won’t feed a man’s family.

He’ll never understand. Dance saved my life. It still is.

I close my eyes and picture Daria. Her laugh, her wit, the stubborn tilt of her chin. She used to sneak out here, too, wrapped in her old hoodie, headphones in her ears, dancing barefoot in the moonlight. She was the best of us. The bravest. She carried our father’s disapproval like it weighed nothing.

When she died, something hollowed out inside of me.

A sharp exhale escapes me, my hand gripping the porch rail so tightly my knuckles turn white.

Then a prayer rises in me, quiet, tangled, and messy.

Lord… if you’re doing something with all this… show me. Remind me why I’m here. Remind me how to carry them when I can barely carry myself.

In a small, unshakeable way, I know that this won’t be the last storm.

When I return inside, I lean down and kiss Mama’s forehead as she rests on the couch. My attention drifts toward my father, who pretends not to see me and slip out quietly. The front door clicks shut behind me, leaving me alone with the night.

My Volvo wakes with a whisper, and I pull away from the worn gravel driveway, headlights cutting through the shadows pooling between the trees.

The silence in the car is deafening, but I don’t turn the radio on. I need to sit with the weight of everything that has happened today.

My father’s voice echoes in my mind: “Ballet is for girls. Real men do not waste their life spinning in circles to music.”

I exhale sharply, gripping the wheel a little too tight as the road blurs beneath the headlights, reflections bouncing off the railing. I blink, forcing the emotion back down.

I pull onto the bridge leading into town, the faint glow of city lights ahead. Tomorrow, I’ll be back in the studio, back at the barre, back in charge.

But tonight, I let myself feel it. The ache of what I’ve lost, the weight of what’s coming.

The brownstone is dark when I step inside, the only light is a faint orange glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the blinds. I kick off my shoes and hang my keys on the hook.

My townhouse is a modest one-bedroom tucked away on a quiet street. Exposed brick lines one wall, softened by floating shelves crowded with worn books, framed photos, and trailing ivy that curls toward the floor. A vintage record player sits on the console beneath the window, surrounded by my favorite jazz and Tchaikovsky vinyls.

Louie’s on the gray couch, curled up in the navy-knit blanket Mama made, unaware I’m home. I give him a few scratches behind the ears, and he perks up, jumping on me instantly. He may be a yorkie, but sometimes he has the strength of a German shepherd.

“Hey, Lou,” I greet in the silly baby voice he loves. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Louie bolts to his leash on the hook, nipping at it in excitement. Outside, he tugs me in the direction he wants to go, tail wagging furiously, when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Kasper Pedersen

I answer, straightening slightly. “Hey, Kasper. Everything alright?”

There’s a pause on the other end, then a deep breath. “Nik, I need to tell you something. You remember Natalia, right? She works at MTB now, and I asked if she knew of an ‘Eleanor Montgomery’… and let’s just say she had something interesting to share.”

A cold tremor ripples through me. Natalia Romano. I didn’t realize she’s at the Metropolitan Theatre of Ballet now. She’s a seamstress whose opinion Kasper actually trusts and one of Mama’s first apprentices.

“She’s working at MTB now?” I ask, already knowing the answer.