Page 5 of Healing Eleanor

Fairy lights hang just above the entryway, while glass chandeliers shimmer on the ceiling inside. Crisp white table cloths are draped over the tables, and the velvet chairs look too fragile to sit in. The smell of butter and roasted garlic hit my nose, but it doesn’t make me feel hungry. It’s nauseating.

A hostess motions for us to follow, and I trail behind Mom and Scarlett, unexpectedly feeling like a kid again. My oversized dance bag bumps against my side as I try to make myself as small as possible, careful not to hit anyone as we weave through the narrow space.

Only Scarlett would pick a place like this when she isn’t paying.

Growing up, going out to dinner after opening night was rare. Mom was a broke, single mother, raising three kids and didn’t waste the money on our accomplishments. Instead, I got a car ride full of corrections. On the rare occasion we did eat out, it was never somewhere this fancy.

Mom doesn’t say a word as we’re seated. She waves off the server’s offer of wine, then reaches across the table to snatch my menu before I even look up.

“She’ll have the Niçoise salad—no dressing,” she says, pointing at me like I’m not even here.

“Actually I—” I begin, but let it go when Mom raises a single brow in my direction.

The waitress glances between us, fiddling with her apron.

I swallow. “That’s fine,” I murmur, knowing I’m not going to win this fight.

As a child, it was routine for Mom to pick out my meals. She was a strict dance teacher, determined to shape my success. Even now, she sends pre-made dishes to my door so I don’t have to worry about tracking my calories—even if I do indulge here and there. Sugar is for Scarlett. Pasta is for Edward. All I get are numbers on a scale.

“I’ll have the Coq au vin,” Mom says, then turns to Scarlett. “And for you, honey?”

Scarlett shoots me an apologetic look before glancing up at the waitress. “I’ll have the Ravioles de royans, please,” she says softly, and closes her menu.

“I’ll be back shortly with your order, and a round of water for the table,” our waitress says with a smile, then turns and walks toward the kitchen.

Once we’re alone, Mom folds her hands neatly on the table. Her eyes land on mine.

“Well,” she begins, “the choreography was much cleaner than I expected. You were sharp—for the most part. Still, your arms… Your épaulement isn’t where it should be.”

I stare into my empty wine glass. “Thanks for coming,” I say a little too dryly.

“I always come, Eleanor. You know that.” She glares at me, her eyes boring into the side of my face.

Scarlett shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Can we not do this tonight?” she asks gently. “It was a big night for Eleanor.”

Mom turns to her. “I’m just saying what needs to be said.”

Scarlett clears her throat. “Anyway. I got promoted.”

I roll my eyes. “So that’s why we’re here,” I mumble under my breath.

Mom’s eyes snap to me. “If you have something to say, speak up.”

“Mom—” Scarlett starts.

Mom doesn’t look away from me. “No, Scarlett. Let’s hear what Eleanor has to say.” A small, venomous smirk crosses her lips.

I glance at Scarlett. “All I said was, ‘Wow. Really? That’s fantastic, Scarlett. Honestly.’”

This dinner was never meant for me. Scarlett never comes to my performances and Mom only shows up for opening night. She loves to gloat in front of us—Edward’s just not here to witness it this time.

Scarlett nods, her smile small but proud. “Thanks El, I’m the new shift lead in labor and delivery. I start next week.”

“That’s amazing,” I say, forcing sincerity into my voice. “You’ve worked so hard for that position.”

She did. Scarlett spent years in nursing school, specializing in newborn care. If anyone deserves a promotion, it’s her. Though, I wish she would’ve chosen another night to share it.

“She has,” Mom echoes, like the compliment should’ve belonged to her first. “Scarlett’s always been steady and reliable.”