“I haven’t been drinking.”
Dr. Hadley frowns. “Can you hop up on the table for me? I’ll examine you, and then we’ll draw some blood.”
I climb onto the table, trying to hide how much effort it takes. But I can’t help the flutter in my heart or the rattling wheeze in my chest. Dr. Hadley’s face is impassive as prods my abdomen, my neck. I shiver as cold metal slides across my chest and back. I try not to flinch when he shines a light in my eyes. I can’t see much around the bright spots in my vision, but I can tell he doesn’t like what he sees.
“Well,” he says when he’s done, “you’re dangerously underweight and your heartbeat is irregular. How long have you been restricting your caloric intake?”
I laugh. “Forever. But I give my body what it needs. I have an app that tracks my macros and everything.”
There’s no need to tell him I’ve stopped using the app, that I can’t remember anymore what I’ve eaten or when.
“Anorexia nervosa is very common, unfortunately, especially in dancers—”
“That’s not what this is,” Emily cuts in, her eyes flashing. “Something is wrong with her, and it’s not anorexia. Or bulimia, or any of that. I’ve been around dancers my whole life, and I’ve been teaching teens and pre-teens for the past ten years. Believe me, I know the risks, and I know the signs.”
“Perhaps I should speak with Sasha in private?” Dr. Hadley suggests.
“Fine.” Emily’s voice is pleasant, but her jaw is tight. “I’ll want a word with you afterward. In private.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say when she’s gone. “I wasn’t lying.”
I rub my hands over my arms, trying to suppress a shiver. Not of cold, but of weakness. I’m so tired. How much longer can I keep this up? A few more minutes, at least. I can do that.
“But there isn’t anything else going on?” Dr. Hadley asks. “Anything that you don’t want Emily to hear?”
Man, you have no idea.
“Nope,” I say aloud. “Nothing at all.”
“Well, I’d like to ask you some questions anyway if that’s alright.”
I shrug and sigh, letting my hands fall into my lap. “Go ahead.”
Even though I don’t have anything to hide—aside from, you know, going crazy—I’m kind of glad he sent Emily away. Some of the questions, though harmless, are undeniably embarrassing. I guess I can understand the questions about drinking and smoking and sexual history and all that, but what information can he possibly glean from the frequency and appearance of my bowel movements?
By the time he’s done, the idea of getting stuck with needles has taken on a certain appeal.
A nurse leads me down the hall to a tiny room stocked with the usual bio-hazard bin and boxes of medical supplies. The only furniture is a chair equipped with a hard, plastic armrest that looks more like a foldable tray. I nod and mumble through the nurse’s questions, then sit in the chair with my arm extended.
My skin looks almost gray in the harsh fluorescent lights, the veins running underneath like sickly blue and green rivers. I look away as the nurse ties a strip of latex around my upper arm. Already I can hear a faint ringing in my ears. My face is cold.
“Alright, honey?” the nurse asks. Her voice sounds kind of thick and hollow, like she’s in a tunnel—or I am.
I nod weakly, leaning my head into my other hand.
Bayu, bayushki, bayu…
“What a pretty song,” the nurse says. Was I humming again? “Okay, make a fist for me. Nice and tight. There you go. Now a little pinch…”
I breathe heavily through my nose, waiting for the needle.
When it comes, I don’t feel it. My vision fades, and I lose myself in my lullaby. For a moment, I could swear I feel my grandmother’s hand on my cheek.
“All done.”
Groggily I look up, squinting at the nurse. She swabs my arm with something cold and wet, then covers the tiny red dot with gauze and a band-aid.
“I heard you’re a dancer,” the nurse says with a wink.
The bandage is decorated with tiny pink ballerinas. I force a smile as I try to push myself out of the chair. I sit back down immediately, my head swimming.
“Easy there.” The nurse glances over but doesn’t put down the vials she’s holding. “Sit tight for a second, sweetie.”
She finishes labeling the vials and then loads them into a tray before handing me a packet of crackers and a tiny juice box.
“Stay here until you feel better. There’s no rush.”
I sip on my juice, watching her as she arranges my blood samples on a tray. Her hands are slender and graceful, dark like—
“Sadra.”
“Hm?” The nurse turns to me. “Sorry, honey, what was that?”
“Oh—nothing,” I mutter. “Just, um, thanks. For the juice. I do feel better.”
“Good. Give it another few minutes, though, okay?” The nurse takes the tray and moves away. “I’ll be right back.”
I wait a few more seconds, then get to my feet. This time, I stay upright.
I slip out the door and hurry down the hall. Which exam room was I in? My lips tighten in irritation. Couldn’t the nurse have reminded me, or shown me where to go? She just dismissed me. Didn’t she? I slow, suddenly unsure. What exactly did she say? I can’t remember. But it doesn’t matter now. I need to find Emily before someone realizes I’m lost.
I pause outside each curtained cubby and listen until I hear Emily’s voice. I start to reach for the curtain, then stop. Emily’s voice is agitated but also hushed. Secretive, almost. I take a step back to hide my feet and tilt my head to listen.
“I was only sixteen when she died,” Emily says. “I knew she was—unwell—but I never knew the specifics. Nadia kept it all pretty quiet. But my mom remembers a bit and she said—she said even before it got really bad, before they put her in the hospital, Lara didn’t sleep. She would get confused, forget things—normal things—but then talk about stuff that never happened. Could…could Sasha have the same thing her mother had?”
“And what did her mother have?”
“I don’t know—no one did.” Emily sniffs. Is she crying? “That much they told me. The doctors never figured out what was wrong with her. They called it idio—idiopathic. Idiopathic something.”
“Well, it’s possible Sasha has some kind of hereditary condition,” Dr. Hadley says. “Though unlikely. The only thing that comes to mind is Fatal Familial Insomnia, and even that is a huge long shot. But there is a genetic test we can do, just in case.”
I shiver and sway, wrapping my arms around myself. A passing nurse frowns at me. With effort, I stop swaying and give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. It must look okay, because she nods and keeps walking. I focus again on what Dr. Hadley is saying.
“Ms. Somers…I know you don’t want to hear this, but you might do better to consult a psychiatrist. Schizophrenia has a significant genetic component—”
“I thought of that,” Emily interrupts. “But she’s too young—doesn’t that usually hit people in their twenties or thirties?”
“Usually, but not always. It can affect teenagers, though the symptoms are slightly different. Has there been any indication of visual hallucinations?”
My heart stops, then clenches painfully as Emily starts to cry in earnest.
“I don’t know. She hasn’t said anything,” she chokes. “About anything. She doesn’t talk to me anymore. I don’t know what to do.”
I back away and wander down the hallway until I find the waiting room. The chairs are cold and hard, but I curl up in one anyway and wrap my arms around my knees.
I hum. I rock: The habit is so ingrained I almost don’t feel it anymore, and I can’t make myself stop, despite the curious looks I draw from other waiting patients. The song has me in its grip now, and it won’t let go. I can’t tell if the music is in my head or my throat, or both. When I close my eyes, I can barely tell that I’m moving. But I am moving.
* * *
I make my way through the garden, torn between excitement and fear. What if Sadra told someone, or what if someone followed her? Or, worst of all, what if she’s not there?
The thought makes my stomach twist, though my fears are—I think—unfounded. She was there yesterday and the day before, and the day before that. She smiled at me, laughed with me like we were just two girls. Like we were equals.
And… she’s there. She beams at me and gives me a tentative hug. I smile back, my lips trembling. Sadra chatters something at me before turning to grab a pile of clothes hung over the barre. She shakes out a set of trouser-skirts like the ones she wears, displaying them proudly.
“For you,” she says, motioning to me.
I discard my skirts and put on the trousers, wiggling excitedly at my newfound freedom of movement. I bend over backward and put my hands on the smooth stones, then bring my legs over. I come upright to see Sadra gaping at me.
“Again,” she says eagerly. “Again.”
We dance together, exchanging techniques and showing off, but this time Sadra ends each of her demonstrations by pointing out an object and saying its name, or pantomiming an action and giving me the word. At the end, she gives me a word and I point to the object or perform the action. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing. I wonder why no one else has tried. Why has it not occurred to Ismeni that I could do my job better if she taught me her language?
But then, Ismeni doesn’t know I’ve gotten smarter. I was so slow and stupid before, and I forgot everything so quickly. She probably assumed—rightly—that it would be a waste of time to try to teach me anything beyond fetching and carrying and cleaning.
Maybe there’s some way I can tell her that I’m better now. But I don’t want to get Sadra in trouble, and I don’t want to stop dancing. I bite my lip, wondering what I should do.
Nothing, I decide. Sadra will teach me. She’ll help me.
She said so.
* * *
“There you are.” Emily looks down at me, her eyes clear. No redness, no puffiness. No sign of her earlier tears. “Sorry it took so long. I had a few questions for Dr. Hadley.”
“It’s fine,” I say, struggling to focus on her face. I take a deep breath and push away the voices and images that keep nibbling on the edges of my consciousness. “Em, I’m—I’m sorry about all this. You have enough to deal with. Baba Nadia, the school—I shouldn’t—”
“Oh, sweetie, it’s not your fault.” Emily sits beside me and slips an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t ever think that. And don’t worry—we’re going to figure this out. It’ll be okay.”
I nod, but it’s only to make her feel better. I hope she can’t feel me trembling.
“But…” She stops, her voice shaking. She clears her throat and takes a deep, slow breath. “You need to rest. I talked to James, and he agrees. Christie’s going to dance Odette this weekend.”
I don’t say anything. I knew this was coming. Once, the thought of someone taking my place filled me with rage, dread, shame…but I don’t feel anything now. I should say something, reassure her somehow or at least acknowledge her words. But the words won’t come. I stare at my hands knotted in my lap.
“You’ve already had three performances,” Emily rushes on, misinterpreting my silence. “And you were amazing. This won’t hurt your prospects one bit, and it’ll be such a great opportunity for Christie…”
She plows ahead with her little speech, which she must have been practicing while I waited for her. Though rushed, it has a rehearsed feel that isn’t at all reassuring. No matter what Emily says, I know what’s coming, and it’s not going to be okay. But I don’t care. It’s hard to care about anything these days.
I’m tired.
So, so tired.
en Croix
Easter comes, and with it a sense of mingled dread and opportunity. Everything about the day seems backward and unnatural. For the first time ever, I skip the midnight mass and Sunday service. I can’t face it without Baba Nadia, and Emily says I’m not well enough to go, anyway. I don’t even bother to argue with her when she suggests we wait until the next day to visit Baba Nadia. I just get in the car and wait.
We ride to the hospital in silence, but I let her help me out of the car and support me as we walk inside because I know it will make her feel better. But by the time we reach the elevator, I’m leaning into her as much for my own sake as for hers. My breath rattles in my chest, and my hands are weak and clammy on Emily’s arm.
I glance up, willing the elevator to hurry. The numbers overhead glow and shift, counting down with relentless precision. Already the chilly stillness of the hospital is seeping into my bones, sucking greedily at the few scraps of warmth I have left. Emily squeezes my hand and punches the elevator button again.
Three…two…one.
The elevator doors slide open, revealing a rumpled middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes and dark smudges of stubble on his chin and cheeks. The skin of his face sags with an unhealthy pallor that speaks of long, sleepless nights and unanswered prayers.
I look away as I step aside to let him off the elevator. He brushes past, his eyes blank and unseeing. I watch him go and sing under my breath as the doors close:
“Bayu, bayushki, bayu…”
Emily helps me into the elevator, and I lean against the wall with a grateful sigh. After a few restorative breaths, I check my purse to make sure I have my speakers. We’re going to hook them up to my phone and play music for Baba Nadia. Emily suggested it, and I’m glad she did. I don’t know if it will help, but it can’t hurt and it makes me feel like I’m doing something useful, like I’m not coming apart at the seams.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Emily asks, her eyes worried. “You should be in bed.”
“It’s Easter,” I say. “She shouldn’t be alone.”
“Sasha, she’d understand—”
“I’m fine,” I mutter, and pretend to fiddle with the speakers.
Emily purses her lips at my blatant lie. I’ve stopped even pretending to want to eat, and she’s had almost as little sleep as I have, up at all hours of the night helping me through the aftermath of my increasingly violent night terrors. We haven’t been to see Baba Nadia all week. But today is Easter, a day for family…and for miracles: Khristos voskres. Christ is risen. Maybe Baba Nadia will, too.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open. We head for the circulation desk, and the muscles around my spine clench in response to a strange tension in the air. There’s something in the faces and gestures of the bustling nurses that makes me unaccountably nervous.
“Name?” the nurse asks without looking up from the forms she’s filling out on the counter.
“Emily Somers and Sasha Nikolayeva,” Emily says. “Here for Nadia Nikolayeva.”
The nurse’s head jerks up.
“Ah,” she says. “Yes, of course. Could you have a seat, please? The head nurse will be with you shortly.”
My fingers tighten on my purse. “Something’s happened.”
“You don’t know that,” Emily says softly, but her features are tight.
“I do.” The ground tilts beneath my feet. “She’s dead.”
“Sasha, calm down—”
Whatever expression appears on my face must be pretty alarming because the nurse shoots out from behind her desk. Together, she and Emily guide me to one of the hideously floral chairs that dot the small lobby. I move slowly between them, making a conscious effort to move my legs. My muscles feel heavy and somehow gooey, like they’re melting off my bones. The nurse hovers at my shoulder, anxiously wringing her hands as I lower myself into the chair. She’s saying something, but the words seem to bounce off my ears without penetrating.
My head sinks into my hands. Two pairs of shoes enter my vision, then a third. Velcro, no laces. How odd. I drag my eyes upward and squint at a round, kindly face framed by steel gray curls and glasses with plain black lenses.
> “Donna,” Emily says, sounding relieved.
Someone—Donna, I guess—takes my wrist, feeling for the pulse. The gesture snaps me back to myself. I snatch my hand away.
“I’m fine,” I mumble. “Fine.”
“She is,” Donna agrees. “More or less.”
Emily sighs.
“Sasha, you remember Donna, don’t you?” Her voice is falsely bright. To Donna, she murmurs, “How is Nadia? Is something wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” Donna murmurs. “She passed just a few minutes ago. I was about to call you—”
No, no, no. It can’t be true—and maybe it isn’t. Maybe I’m hearing things again. Hope lances through me, scalding my heart.
“Did she really say that?” I ask Emily. My fingers twitch and spasm on the arms of my chair. “Did you hear her?”
A tear slips down Emily’s cheek. “Yes, baby. I heard her.”
I close my eyes. “I want to see her, please.”
Donna frowns, looking at me sharply. “Perhaps… you should take a moment to prepare yourself.”
“No,” I say. “I want to see her now. Please.”
Emily bites her lip. “Maybe you should wait.”
“No.”
Donna studies me for a moment, then nods. “Come with me.”
“What happened?” Emily asks. “Was she…was anyone with her?”
“I sat with her until the end,” Donna assures us. “Nothing happened, it wasn’t violent. She was ready to go.”
My breath catches and I whisper, “It should have been me.”
If Donna hears my whispered recrimination, she ignores it. “Here we are.”
Emily lays a gentle hand on my back. “Do you want me to go in with you?”
“No.” My hand is already on the door. “Not yet.”
“I’ll wait down the hall,” Emily whispers. “Take as long as you need.”
I push the door open and then hesitate, afraid of what I’ll find. What does death look like? What if it’s ugly or frightening or demeaning? Is that how I’m going to remember Baba Nadia? What if I forget the way her eyes sparkled, or the way she closed them when she danced? What if I forget her strength, the perfect arch of her foot?
The Chalice and the Crown Page 6
