13. You’re Just in the Vinegar
You’re Just in the Vinegar
Nikolai
A light bulb hangs precariously between my lips as I silently pray I don’t electrocute myself while twisting the old one out of the socket.
It’s stubborn, because of course it is, and by the time it finally gives, I’m one wobble away from making the ground my new best friend.
I tuck the dead bulb into my sweater pocket and carefully take the new one from my mouth before it falls.
It clicks into place with a satisfying twist. I test the switch, and warm light floods the worn entryway.
“Fifth time’s the charm,” I mutter under my breath.
Who would’ve thought I’d spend half my night at the hardware store hunting for the right light bulb? Not me, that’s for sure. But at least Mama can see her way inside now, that’s all that matters.
“Oh, Nikusha, thank you so much. I’ve been asking your father to change that for weeks now,” Mama says, poking her head out the front door.
Of course she has.
I bite back a sigh and give her a smile instead. “It’s no problem.” I jump off the stool and grab it by its handle. “Now go back inside and rest,” I tease, though I mean every word.
It’s too easy for Mama to get sick these days.
The chemo is already shredding her immune system, and the last thing she needs is a cold on top of everything else.
It’s bad enough worrying every second as it is.
With Dad gone so much, Evelyn and I have been taking turns keeping an eye on her, much to Mama’s dismay.
She says she doesn’t need a babysitter, but I beg to differ.
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?”
“I may have called a fifteen-minute break during the fifth combination.” My eyes dart between her and the rim of my tea cup, wishing I could just fall in and disappear. “She was struggling with a move and, well… I, uh…” My words trip over each other. No other dancer has ever left me this mixed up.
Mama leans in, eyes sparkling like I’m about to confess a state secret. “You what, Nik?”
I clear my throat. “I may have… grabbed her hips. To help loosen her up, of course.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I hear how they sound.
“Oh—not like that. I mean, her hip was getting caught in the movement, so I guided her through it.” Heat crawls up my neck. “I also… uh… helped with her arm.”
Mama stares at me for a long second before she bursts out laughing. “Oh, Nikusha… are you blushing? How sweet.”
I grab a pillow from behind me and toss it gently in her direction. “I am not blushing,” I declare. “I just… I don’t know. She brings out something in me, and I’m not sure if I like it.”
Mama’s laughter softens, fading into something quieter. “You don’t like it because that heart of yours may feel something for her.”
I choke out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”
Though… maybe it does, in some small, insignificant way.
“Have you prayed about it, like I suggested a while ago?” Mama asks, watching me closely.
“I have.” Once. Which is enough for me. I wish Mama could understand that I don’t need the extra stress of adding someone new into my life. Everything currently happening is already enough.
“Hm,” she hums. “Why don’t I believe you?”
I shrug. “Beats me,” I smirk.
Mama’s eyes narrow. “How do you expect God to answer you when you don’t talk to Him?” She takes another sip of tea. “When was the last time a girl reminded you of Daria?”
Everything inside me stills. “Never.”
Mama never speaks of Daria. After her death, it’s as if she’s been paralyzed, unable to even say her name. Daria was my sister, yes, but more than that, she was my best friend. One I couldn’t save.
Mama sets her teacup on the coffee table. “And you don’t think God may have placed her in your path?”
I inhale a deep breath, ready to defend myself, but Mama holds up a hand.
“I’m not finished,” she adds firmly. “Even if she isn’t meant for your life in that way, you can’t deny she may be here for other reasons. It’s not every day a girl from the Metropolitan ends up at Hollingford, now is it?”
She has me there. Eleanor is the first dancer our company has brought in from a prestigious institution.
“Maybe you’re meant to help her in the ways you wish you could have helped Daria.” She pulls her blanket tighter around her. “Though I wouldn’t mind if you settled down, either.” Her smile turns sly and knowing.
The jingle of keys in the front door makes my entire body stiffen. That sound used to mean safety when I was a kid. Now it means I need to leave. I set down my tea and stand quickly. “I’ll pray about it, okay?”
“Nik, you don’t have to lea—”
The door slams open.
“What are you doing here, boy?” His voice has that same sharp edge it’s had for years, reminding me it wasn’t always like this.
I keep my back to him, jaw tight. “Just leaving.” I bend down, kissing Mama’s head gently, wishing I could stay and protect her from the storm he’s become.
“Well, out with ya then.” His hand flicks toward the door, a dismissive gesture that cuts deeper than it should.
That same hand used to toss me in the air until I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. Now it only pushes me away.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mama,” I say softly, not sparing him a glance.
“Drive safe,” she calls after me, her voice trying to hold us both together as I close the door on the ghost of the man who used to be my father.