16. Snacks and Panic Attacks
Snacks and Panic Attacks
Nikolai
The tea and croissants sit untouched, steam curling upward like a reminder of her absence. Minutes pass, but it feels like a lifetime. Watching Eleanor unravel into a full-blown panic attack renders me powerless. I don’t know how to reach her or if I even should.
Daria used to get panic attacks, too, though never as severe as the one I just witnessed. With her, a few grounding cues like touch, sound, and steady breathing, were enough to bring her back. But Eleanor… she bolted, as if escape was the only thing keeping her alive.
My suspicions feel all but certain now. Eleanor has to be battling an eating disorder. The thought weighs heavy, threading unease through every part of me. And for one of the first times in my life, I realize I have no idea how to help.
“How’s everything?” Terri asks, wiping down the table beside ours.
The question fills me with instant apprehension. Everything isn’t okay. She means the food, but right now everything feels like it’s unraveling, and I’m not strong enough to hold it together. “Good, good. Can I actually get some boxes to go? My friend isn’t feeling too well.”
Friend. The word feels too insignificant for what she’s becoming to me, but it’s all I can afford her to be.
A ripple of concern washes over Terri’s face. “Not a problem. Be right back.” She gathers a few dishes and disappears into the back.
I rub the back of my neck, caught between logic and conviction.
The sensible thing is to take Eleanor home and leave her be.
But burning questions gnaw at me, urging me to stay close.
I can’t press her. Not now, at least. What I can do is stand by her.
To prove that I won’t walk away when things get difficult.
To offer her the same love God has poured over me when I was broken, just like Evelyn and Mama have been suggesting.
“Here you go, hon.” Terri hands me a few boxes and two small to-go bags.
I mutter a quick thanks and pack up the food.
Once everything is settled, I carry the bags and walk over to the bathroom, leaning a shoulder against the wall to wait.
The minutes drag, long and agonizing, until Eleanor finally steps out.
Seeing her so delicate makes something protective rise fiercely inside me.
Her head hangs low, eyes fixed on the ground. She doesn’t notice me until I lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. She jumps, gasping and pressing a hand to her chest.
“Oh, gosh. You scared me,” she gasps, her breath catching.
I wince. “Sorry. I just… wanted to make my presence known.”
She nods uncertainly, repeating the motion to bolster her own resolve. “Yeah. Okay. I’m sorry about that, I—I think I’m just not feeling too well.”
Her words tell one story, but her eyes betray her. She’s lying. But I can’t bring myself to call her out.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” I say softly. I shift the bags into one hand and place the other on her lower back, guiding her gently toward the door. “I’ll take you home.”
The drive to Eleanor’s apartment is wrapped in a stony kind of silence.
Not awkward, exactly, but heavy. Full of unasked and unanswered questions.
By the time I pull up to her building, I fight the urge to stop her, to beg her to talk to me, to say anything that might unlock the smile she keeps buried beneath layers of hurt.
“Thank you for the ride. I’m sorry, again.” Her voice is feeble, fraying with each word.
“It’s no problem. Really. I’m happy to do it. And you don’t need to apologize,” I reiterate.
She gives a small nod, reaching for the door handle.
Just before she steps out, I catch myself. “Oh—here, don’t forget this.” I hold out the little bag with the croissant and tea.
She eyes me, then the bag, before her gaze lands back on my face with narrowed eyes. For a moment, I think she might refuse. The war playing across her face is so clear, it nearly undoes me. At last, she reaches out and grabs it, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest second.
“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 facade.
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.
“But,” I press, grasping at any confirmation, “can we at least agree that a panic attack over a croissant and tea is… strange?”
“It is, Synulya,” Mama agrees, sighing, her hands folding in her lap. “But you dancers are all so… fixated on food in some way. Maybe she just avoids sugar. You remember Daria and her odd habits.”
The words slip out before I can stop myself. “Yeah, and look at where she’s at now.”