20. Perish in Pertsovka
Perish in Pertsovka
Nikolai
I can’t keep my eyes off her. Every move, every breath, every subtle shift… It’s like I can read her thoughts, and it’s maddening. Yet despite myself, I enjoy it.
After cooking with Eleanor a few days ago, I felt like I’d finally broken through, even if just a little. I’d shared my faith, my heart, my home—spaces I usually kept private. But with her… I wanted her to see everything.
The thought alarms me more than I want to admit.
Our time together feels like it’s moving in fast-forward. Every day is filled with rehearsals, choreography, and repetition. Beyond driving her home, I don’t get much of a chance to truly know her—not the way I long to.
So when she agreed to spend last Saturday with me, cooking and sharing a meal, I was thrilled. It felt like a small victory. Until it wasn’t.
I know healing isn’t instantaneous. Pain doesn’t vanish in a day, a month, or even a year.
Still, I hold onto hope—and responsibility—when it comes to Eleanor’s health.
I need her to nail Odette and Odile, yes, to get Kasper off my back.
But more than that, I want to see her eyes light up with life, with joy.
Since she arrived at Hollingford, I’ve only seen that twice. Once in the rain and once while cooking. Two moments not bound by ballet. Most days, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake casting her in two demanding roles. In my defense, I didn’t know about her eating disorder. I only suspected it.
Nevertheless, I can’t stop hoping. Praying that she’ll get better, even if it’s selfishly on my timeline. I’m stressed and worried. Two feelings that rarely get to me. In times like these, I usually turn to my Bible for solace, but lately, I can’t find my footing.
My mind constantly races over things I can’t control or fix. Patience has never been my strong suit, but in the past, I could handle myself better. Lately, it feels like everyone can see right through me, like my stress and worry are written all over my face. I don’t like it one bit.
Today is costume fittings, and in hindsight, I’m thankful. It gives me a small reprieve from watching Eleanor falter again and again. I loathe admitting it, but it’s the truth.
From the moment I first watched her dance, I couldn’t quite pinpoint why she danced. Was it for money, for pleasure?
The answer is still unclear. Her movements are flawless… until her perfectionism and overthinking get in the way. And it does. Every. Single. Time.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. With opening night barely over two weeks away, the weight of what I might do to Eleanor—breaking her heart, possibly crushing her in the process—tightens my chest until it aches.
Paloma is training just as much as Eleanor, serving as a backup in case it comes to that.
Each day, it seems she’ll dance Odette and Odile more.
I don’t want to be the one to tell Eleanor she isn’t performing well enough.
Not when she’s already so fragile, practically crushed by the expectations of others.
I want to lift her spirits, protect her even. She has so much to offer the world, but no one will see it if she stays trapped in her self-destructive cycle. And yet, I feel stuck between two impossible choices. Either way, I take the fall.
The chilly breeze rustles through my hair as I let my head fall back on the stone bench. The garden has always been my favorite place to visit. It’s quiet, gives me space to think, and is partly surrounded by nature—something that always brings me peace.
I pick up a twig from the ground and snap it between my fingers. What am I going to do? I can’t handle all of this on my own, but it feels like I am.
The back door slams open, making me drop the broken branches. Kasper stands in the doorway with panic written across his face. His eyes roam the garden frantically until they land on me.
A visible sigh of relief washes over his face, quickly replaced by determination. “Nik—I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he starts, then shakes his head. “Never mind that. Come quick. It’s Irina.”
The sound of my mother’s name springs me to my feet. “What happened?” I ask, rushing toward him.
We hurry up the stairs, moving as fast as we can toward the seamstress room. “I have no idea. One minute she was taking in dresses, and the next—she was on the floor,” Kasper explains, out of breath.
I whip my head toward him. “Fell?”
He vigorously bobs his head. “I didn’t see everything. Medical is with her now.”
My stomach plummets. There’s so much on my plate that I’ve completely dismissed Mama’s cancer. She’s been acting normal—or as normal as she could. I ignored the signs, brushing off her exhaustion because she told me to. Now, I’m drowning in the consequences of my own complacency.
When we reach the seamstress room, I practically barrel through the door.
Mama sits on the floor, a damp washcloth pressed to her forehead, sipping water from a flimsy plastic cup.
Dancers crowd the hallway, whispering nervously. Inside, the dancers being fitted—Eleanor, Lily, Gabriel and Paloma—stand off to the side, their faces etched with worry.
But I pay them no attention. My sole focus is on the woman in front of me. I crouch down, speaking in Russian. “Mama, what happened?”
“I was feeling lightheaded,” she replies softly, also in Russian. “One moment I was fine, the next I was on the floor.”
I slip my hand into hers, then wrap an arm around her shoulders, lifting gently. “We need to get you to the hospital.”
Fear flashes through her eyes. “No, Nikusha, no. I’m just fine.”
But she isn’t. Not when her face is pale, her eyes dull, her hands trembling. Fear coils in my throat, constricting my chest with it. “I’m not giving you a choice,” I hiss. I didn’t mean to sound harsh, but the truth is, I’m terrified. “We’re going.”
She nods reluctantly, staring down as she clutches my hand for balance.
As we near the doorway, it hits me—Eleanor.
I turn back, catching the stares of the girls and Gabriel, but it’s Eleanor’s wide eyes that lock with mine. “Eleanor, if you’re fine to wait, I can come back for you later.”
She opens her mouth, but Lily jumps in first. “I can take her home, Nik,” she offers, nudging Eleanor’s side with a playful grin. “As long as she doesn’t mind watching a cheerleading practice.”
I look back at Eleanor, silently waiting. If she asks, I’ll come back for her—no matter what. Even if it means leaving my mother’s side.
She glances between us, then whispers, “I—I’ll go with you, Lily. You don’t need to worry about me, Nik.”
I nod, though my gaze remains riveted to her. She stands there in her Odette costume, delicate and fragile, and I wonder if Mama was working on it before she collapsed.
“Thank you, Lily,” I say quietly, then tighten my grip on Mama’s hand and lead her to my car. We drive to the hospital in stony silence.
My heart races against my ribs, but Mama looks… almost resigned. Like she’s been expecting this.
Relief washes over me when we arrive and Mama’s regular doctor, Dr. Rosenthal, is on call.
Nurses settle us into a room quickly, checking vitals and murmuring notes.
I sink into the chair by the window, staring out at the parking lot, watching cars drift in and out.
Anything to distract from the gnawing dread.
Hospitals suffocate me. The cold, the smell of bleach and death, the memories of my injury, Mama’s first diagnosis, Daria. I sit stiff as wood, praying this is nothing more than dehydration. But time has a cruel way of peeling back lies.
Three sharp raps shatter the silence. “Irina,” Dr. Rosenthal greets gently, stepping inside. “I wasn’t supposed to see you until next week.”
Mama gives her a tired smile. “Looks like my body couldn’t wait that long.”
The weight in her tone isn’t playful. No spark of humor. Just cold hard truth. My insides feel like a churning mess.
“Wait for what?” I ask, searching her face. “Another round of chemo?”
Dr. Rosenthal blinks, seeming surprised by my confusion. “Another round? Nikolai, she hasn’t been on chemo for months.”
I turn sharply to Mama. “What? You… you’re still doing treatments, right?”
She drops her gaze, fingers worrying at her nails. “I haven’t been on chemo, Nikusha.”
Her words are a slow, icy drip, crystallizing every ounce of trust inside me. “What do you mean?”
Dr. Rosenthal winces and murmurs, “I’ll give you two a minute,” before slipping out and shutting the door.
Mama lifts her tear-filled eyes to mine. “Nikusha, I’m so sorry.”
I shoot up from the chair, pacing like a caged animal. “Sorry? Tell me what’s going on.”
Her tears spill over. “The cancer stopped responding. So… I stopped. I was going to tell you this weekend.”
I go still, tucking my hands into my armpits. “Tell me what?” My voice trembles with rage and fear.
Her throat bobs. “That next week, I’ll be going on hospice.”
My composure fractures completely.
“Hospice?” My voice rips from me, raw. “You told me the other day you were fine!”
“I know, Nik. I know.”
“You’re not fine!” I shout. “You’re dying… and you didn’t even tell me.” My hand presses hard against my chest, trying to hold together the shattering pieces.
“I didn’t mean to betray you,” she whispers. “You’ve been so busy. I didn’t want to burden you.”
“Busy?” The word tastes like ash. “You are more important than any job. And now—” my voice cracks, hot tears running freely. “Now you’ve stolen what little time I had left with you.”
Mama hangs her head, unable to defend her actions.
I scrub the tears off my face with the heel of my hand. “Does Dad know? Evelyn?”
Her eyes lift, meeting mine. “Your father, yes. Evelyn… no.”
A bitter laugh escapes me as I shake my head. “You were just going to spring it on us all at the same time,” I scoff. “Evelyn’s been driving you to appointments, and for what? Some charade?”