Page 67 of Healing Eleanor

She scoffs. “Please, you baby me too much. I’m a grown woman, after all.”

Case in point.

“Come on,” I groan, holding the door open. “Cut me some slack here, will you?” I set the stool in its spot by the entryway.

Mama settles onto the couch, wrapping herself in the old crochet blanket she made a few years ago. “Oh please. You know I’m perfectly fine here, alone.” Her brow lifts like she’s daring me to argue.

I head to the kitchen and pour the tea I brewed earlier, filling both cups the way she likes—cream and sugar until it’s practically dessert. When I hand hers over, she hums in appreciation and takes a long sip.

“Well done, Nik. This is fabulous.”

I try it myself and tilt my head. “Hm. Not bad. See? What would you do without me?”

“What I’ve always done. Sit here, sew a little, watch my program, read my Bible. The list goes on.”

I set my cup on the coffee table and rest my head against the back of the couch, watching the ceiling fan spin in lazy circles. “Yeah, you could.” I turn my head toward her. “But Dad was always here for that.” My voice dips softer. “Where’s he been, anyway? It’s not like him to work this much.”

She darts her eyes away, fingers curling tighter around her cup. “He’s… he’s just working some overtime, is all.” She mumbles it into the tea, like maybe the steam will scorch the words before they reach me.

A knot forms in my stomach. Mama never deflects. Most days she hands out information on a silver platter, no questions asked. Now, it feels like I have to pry every word loose.

“Why is he working overtime?” My words emerge softer than I want them to. “If you need a little extra money—”

Her head snaps up. “No. No, you keep your money. It’s just…” She sighs, shoulders folding in like she’s carrying more than she wants me to see. “Our insurance isn’t covering my treatment. Your Dad’s been working extra to cover the cost.”

I forget how to breathe for a moment. That… can’t be right. “What? Why would they not cover everything?” My voice cracks, too sharp in the quiet room. “They did last time.”

A small frown strains her face, her brows drawing close together. “Times change.”

That makes me sit up straighter. “Not like that, they don’t. You were put on this insurance because it covered things like this. I don’t understand.”

She leans forward and wraps my hand in hers, her fingers warm despite the chill creeping down my spine. “Everything will be alright, Nik. I trust God. Don’t you?”

“Don’t say it like that,” I mutter. “Of course I do.”

The corners of her eyes soften into a faint crinkle. “Then let this go. The treatment’s just a little extra this time, and we have it covered. You don’t need to worry about me, okay?”

I want to believe her. I want to let her faith carry me like it always does. But for the first time, I’m not sure if I trust her words. I’m not going to sit here and pretend to know all the ins and outs of her treatment, because I don’t. All I know is that the tension sitting between us is heavy and thick enough to cut with a knife. Still, I force myself to nod, letting it go. For now.

She slumps back into her spot, cradling the tea in both hands before taking another slow sip. “So, tell me, how are rehearsals going? I’ll be back full-time next week, so I can pop in like I used to.”

I nod, rubbing the back of my neck. “It’s… going.”

One of her brows arches, a knowing look settling over her face. “And how are the new girls doing? Or…” She pauses just long enough to smirk. “A certain new girl?”

I groan quietly into my hands. “Mama…”

“What? Kasper told me plenty about Eleanor, Paloma, and Emi. They sound like splendid girls.” She sets her cup gently on the coffee table, eyes gleaming with interest. “But I want to know about the girl that’s got you so bothered.”

I drag my hands down my face with a sigh. “She’s… something, alright.”

She beams, nudging my thigh with her foot. “Well? Go on. Tell me all about Eleanor.”

“There’s not much to tell,” I say, reaching for my tea. “Other than the fact that I may have crossed a line today. But we can’t dwell on that now, can we?” I take a large gulp, wishing for a fleeting second that it’s something stronger.

The thought startles me. I haven’t craved alcohol in years. God has healed that part of my past, and I left it behind without looking back. But with Mama’s health, the weight of work, and now Eleanor twisting something deep inside me, my stress levels are climbing higher than they have in a long time.

Mama’s lips curve in that mischievous way it does when she smells a story. “Uh oh. You, crossing a line? What did you do?”