Page 86 of Healing Eleanor

“Thanks,” she murmurs. “See you in the morning.”

The door shuts gently, and she disappears into the building.

The silence presses in even heavier on my drive home. There’s so much I wish I said, so much I wish I did differently. But the truth is, I’m out of my depth here. All I can do is pray. For wisdom, that God will guide me… and for her. Because right now, I’m struggling to find any rhyme or reason in this.

The crushing weight of yesterday only doubles by morning. Eleanor walks into the studio with shadows under her eyes, her bun looser than usual, and a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near her eyes. She greets me with forced cheer, pretending everything is normal. But I see straight through the façade.

She stumbles through rehearsals all morning, moving like a spring wound too tightly, on the verge of snapping. Each time she and Gabriel prepare for the overhead lift in Act II, she freezes—rigid, caught like a deer in headlights. I shift her to échappés and relevés, hoping something simpler will settle her, but even those are shaky, unsteady, completely unlike the Eleanor I know.

My stomach churns, a cocktail of nerves and dread. I can chalk it up to her being tired, but my gut tells me it’s more than that. Now that rehearsal has paused for lunch, I sit back for a few moments and watch her. Unlike the others, Eleanor doesn’t rush to grab her bag or food. She lingers, moving slowly, as though time doesn’t exist. At last, Lily tugs her out of the studio. I pray silently that she’ll actually eat.

But prayer doesn’t ease the growing knot twisting inside me. I need counsel. Someone who can see this more clearly than I’m able to. So I go to the one place I know I’ll find both wisdom and honesty.

I rap my knuckles against the worn wooden door, and a muffled “Come in” answers from the other side.

Inside, my mother sits with Evelyn at a small table cluttered with a sewing machine, spools of thread, and scattered buttons. Amid the chaos of fabric and needles, the two women eat their lunches as if the mess belongs there, as much a part of the room as the sunlight spilling across it.

“Nikusha, what a pleasant surprise,” Mama exclaims, patting her mouth with a napkin.

“Mama,” I greet softly. “Evelyn,” I nod toward her.

“How are you, darling? Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever,” Evelyn says, setting her sandwich down.

“I’m alright,” I admit as honestly as I can. “How was your appointment, Mama?” I ask, pulling a stray chair to join their small, cluttered table.

“Just fine,” Mama replies, avoiding my gaze, patting my knee with her free hand. “What brings you here? I figured you’d be busy or I would’ve gotten you lunch.”

I chuckle lightly. “I am busy. I just called for lunch early.” I slump against the chair, letting my shoulders drop. “I need advice. And I guess it’s a good thing you’re here too, Evelyn,” I add, trying for a light tone.

“Spill the beans,” Evelyn says, leaning forward. “We’re all ears.”

Mama nods, taking a deliberate bite of her sandwich—a small comfort, knowing chemo often leaves her too nauseated to eat.

“Probably unsurprisingly,” I admit, the words barely passing my lips, “it’s about Eleanor.”

Both women stare at me, forgetting their lunch entirely, their eyes patiently urging me to continue.

I steady my racing heart before answering.

I fill them in on everything. About driving her home, and how I know what it will look like if Kasper finds out. But what else am I supposed to do? Let her wait all night? No matter how much I try not to attach myself to Eleanor, I realize she’s the kind of person who sticks, like a glue that’s impossible to wash off. I continue, recounting last night at Pot & Kettle, spilling every detail.

Mama’s gaze pierces me, her brow furrowing, as if she, too, doesn’t know what to make of it.

Evelyn flops back in her chair. “I sense there’s more.” Ever the therapist, probing for more information.

I shift uncomfortably between the two of them. “I dropped her off at home. She came in this morning with dark circles under her eyes, and she just looked… disheveled. She usually looks so neat, so precise, but today… She looked like she barely managed to get out of bed. And rehearsals so far have been a disaster. It’s like she’s forgotten how to dance.”

Mama takes a sip of water, the room falling eerily quiet. Both women keep glancing at each other, something unspoken passing between them.

“What do you think, Irina?” Evelyn asks gently.

Mama takes another bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly before answering. “I think she’s sweet, but terribly shy. When I first met her, she barely said a word… Polite, yes, but timid. A panic attack like that, though…” Her gaze shifts to Evelyn, her eyebrow raised, silently asking for her insight.

Evelyn let out a long sigh, wiping her hands on a napkin before turning toward me. “Panic attacks like that usually tie back to PTSD—which, as I mentioned before, can be triggered by all sorts of things.” She lifts her cup, taking a quick sip. “I know where you’re going with this, and while yes, it could be related to an eating disorder, I’m afraid this isn’t enough… proof, so to speak.”

Mama’s brow furrows, her voice cautious. “Eating disorder?” She lets the words hang in the air.

Evelyn and I both nod, careful not to claim anything definitively.