Page 77 of Healing Eleanor

She audibly catches her breath before her lips part a few times then close. Silence stretches between us, filled only by the hum of the heater and the swish of the wipers. Finally, she whispers, “I… I don’t know if there is anything. All I’ve ever been or done is… ballet.”

A sharp pain spears through my chest. Her words echo the memories of Daria’s journal she left for me after her death, and it’s hauntingly similar. I draw in a slow breath, praying I can keep myself together. “That can’t be all you are. God doesn’t make anyone one-dimensional. You are more than just a role to dance.”

She turns back to the window. In her reflection, I see her scrunching her eyebrows. “Why would you think that about me?”

I soften my voice but hold onto the conviction. “Because the moment I saw you dance, I felt like the Lord brought you here for a reason. And I don’t think it’s just about ballet.”

She doesn’t answer. The rest of the drive passes in silence. Not uncomfortable, but taut with tension. I steal glances at her, studying the slope of her shoulders, the way she folds in on herself. So much weight for someone so young. Something—or someone—has set the world’s expectations on her. I whisper an inward prayer: Lord, show me how to see her the way You do.

When the street narrows into her neighborhood, she sits up straighter. “It’s the brick building on the right, the one with the green door,” she says methodically.

I ease the car to the curb, headlights washing over the rain-darkened steps. I cut the engine and let silence fill the space between us.

“You don’t have to walk me up,” she murmurs. “I’m fine from here.”

I study her. “I know you’re fine. But that doesn’t mean you should have to stand outside in the rain for an hour waiting for a taxi. You shouldn’t have to do that at all.”

Her fingers fidget in her lap. “It’s just what I’ve always done. I don’t mind waiting.”

I shake my head, knowing I’ll probably regret saying it later. “No more taxis. I’ll take you home after rehearsals every night. You shouldn’t have to worry about getting back safely, and it’ll give me peace of mind too.”

Her eyes widen. “That’s… You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” I say simply. “But I want to.”

She stares at me for a long moment. Finally, she gives a small nod. Her voice barely rises above the rain. “All right.”

“And in the mornings,” I add, “if you ever need a ride in, I’ll be glad to pick you up.”

She shakes her head quickly. “No, it’s okay. Lily picks me up before rehearsals.”

“Good,” I say, quietly relieved. “I’m glad you’ve got her.”

She shifts her gaze to the door handle. “Thank you… for all of this,” she whispers, as if my actions are some grand gesture.

“You don’t need to thank me,” I say steadily. “Just promise me you won’t wait out in the pouring rain again.” I raise a brow.

She nods, steps out into the rain, and before slipping away, glances back at me with uncertainty in her eyes. “I still don’t understand why you’d want to know me.”

“Because God put you in my path, Eleanor. And I won’t ignore that,” I answer, unflinching. Finally, I acknowledge what Mama and Evelyn have been telling me all along. It’s become undeniably clear.

Eleanor was placed right in my line of sight, for reasons I still don’t understand.

Her lips press into a thin line, and she turns, climbing the steps to her apartment. I want to follow, make sure she gets inside safely, but I force myself to stay. My questions have already complicated the moment. Why couldn’t I have just asked her about her favorite color? I chide myself silently.

I wait until the green door clicks shut, and I can feel the tension drain from my body. The rain softens on the windshield, and my pulse is steady yet restless.

I lean back, staring at the shadowed outline of her apartment. She agreed to let me drive her home each night, and I silently curse myself for being so reckless. I shouldn’t have done it, but at the same time, I can’t knowingly let her wait out there for hours. As long as Kasper doesn’t find out, I’ll survive.

As I pull away from her apartment, I whisper into the stillness of the car, “Lord… what are You asking me to do here?”

No answer comes. Only the quiet conviction that she matters. That she’s more than the perfection she chases, more than the thin shield of indifference she wears.

I want to know what she reads while waiting for taxis, what she dreams when she allows herself to, whether she’ll ever know the safety of being seen without condition. I want to ask her what she fears.

When I get home, I’m more certain than ever that Eleanor Montgomery is a mystery God intends for me to unravel. Not with force, but with patience, prayer, and the steadfastness she clearly isn’t used to. And that both terrifies and steadies me.

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