Letters from Yelena (27 page)

I remember one night in particular. It was around four in the morning, during the time that I was being eased off the morphine. As I lay in that bed every movement of my legs was causing pain so
great that it made me want to scream. Despite this, I desperately needed to move so that my eyes could look at something other than the cracked white expanse of that ceiling.

I decided that the only way I could stay sane was by looking out of the window. At the very least seeing a hint of green, even if it was veiled in darkness. I told myself that the small patch of
green visible from my window was the same patch of grass that bordered your house. That it was the field I had walked around, full of trepidation, on the night before our first date.

I found a way to bring the bedside lamp to life, and I searched for my crutches. With the room now bathed in a dim blue glow, I tenderly looped my good foot under my bad one and gradually, inch
by inch, eased my bad foot onto the ground. The moment weight was put on my bad foot it recoiled in pain, but I insisted that my body endure the discomfort. I had to set my eyes upon something
else.

I leant against the crutches and hobbled, ever so slowly, over to the window sill. When I finally got there, looking out into the night, I felt as if I was searching for the Yelena that Erin and
Eva had come to visit. In that state of late-night delirium I felt sure that she was somewhere out there. At this time of night she’d perhaps be awake, in her small bedroom by the quayside,
worrying that the role she felt destined for might soon be taken by another. Her expression would be relatively light, for she was yet to encounter the wracking pain that was in store. But I would
go out there and find her, and plead that she resist giving into her darkest fears.

I felt tears stream down my face. I tried not to make a sound, as I didn’t want to be caught out of bed by the nurses. I felt hunger scrape the pit of my soul, because I desperately needed
to see you. I needed to tell you that I was sorry for my act of madness. I needed to convince you that it had all emanated from love. And then a car went past, its headlights briefly illuminating
that barely visible patch of grass, and for the first time I saw that that green was not the green of the field by your house. It was an untended piece of wasteland, on a bleak industrial
estate.

I tried to wipe the tears from my eyes but a kind of hysteria took over my body. The reality of my situation was suddenly so apparent that I was unable to compose myself. To fight off the tears
I turned back to the bed, but as I moved, my dead leg caught the base of the drip. Helplessly, I watched it swing back, that transparent bag shining in the blue light. I clawed out for it but it
went out of reach and clattered into the wall. In the distance I heard an alarm go off, and for a few moments I stood there between the bed and the window. As I struggled to stay upright the pain
in my leg grew enormous. I looked up and saw the concerned face of one of the student nurses as she entered the room. ‘Are you alright Yelena?’ she asked, as the light came on.

She did not indulge in my moment of embarrassment. She moved as if propelled by natural empathy, her small body bustling with professional concern. I felt her cool hands on my shoulders as she
eased me back onto the bed, and between the sheets. I tried to get comfortable while she organised the magazines and books at my bedside, and as she did so I took in her face – the hazel
brown eyes, the small freckles on her nose.

‘Those gowns don’t like to stay shut, do they?’ she said, raising my head to place another pillow underneath it. She stood immobile for a moment, before leaning against the
bedside cabinet. ‘Do you feel more comfortable now?’

I wanted to reach out and connect with her, tell her exactly how I was feeling even though we had never met. At that moment, in the small hours of the night, she seemed just as vulnerable as me.
Something prevented the young girl from leaving my side; perhaps she had somehow understood that I needed her to stay.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Faye,’ she said. ‘Were you… trying to stretch your legs?’ I could not decipher her expression. She started to smooth out the sheets at the side of the bed.

I nodded.

‘I think we sometimes forget that as a dancer, you need to be on your feet. You must feel this big need to move about. Not that I know anything about it.’

‘I wanted to look out of the window.’

She continued smoothing the sheets.

‘There’s not much of a view from here,’ she said, and seemed to instantly regret saying it.

‘It reminds me that there’s something else,’ I said. She looked up.

‘We could just move your bed nearer to the window?’

I thought I could make out a slight smile on her lips, and I laughed.

‘We could do that,’ I answered.

‘Then in the morning you can have a better view… ’

‘Of the car park.’ I finished.

She laughed. ‘I’m glad I heard you. The nights are hard, aren’t they, when you’re by yourself? I expect you sometimes just fancy a natter, or a cup of tea. It amazes me
how much can be fixed by a cup of tea.’

‘Are you on your own on the ward?’

‘Yes.’ Faye looked down at the bed. ‘I mean, there’s another orderly, who takes care of the domestic side of things, but I’m just sat at the desk, for the whole
night.’

‘Are you not tired yourself though?’

‘It’s not tiredness, it’s something else. I don’t think people are meant to stay awake all night. Sometimes, it doesn’t seem right.’

‘What do you do?’

‘Nothing. I mean, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.’ Her voice lowered. ‘It’s a bit like what I imagine purgatory will be like.’

‘Do they not organise it so that you’re with someone else?’

‘Yeah, but it can be lonelier with them.’ She was now looking  at  me,  rather  sheepishly.  ‘I  don’t  find the  night shifts
easy. Sometimes I text my boyfriend, though of course he’s asleep. It still makes me feel better, you know? To say something to him, even if he doesn’t reply until morning.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Soon I’ll be back on day shifts.’

My eyes trained on her features for a moment. ‘Are you looking forward to that?’

The brown eyes looked blank. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes… I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.’

‘It’s okay. It’s just nice to natter, like you said.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ she said, looking a little relieved. ‘The truth is, sometimes I don’t know how to handle the day shifts either. They just go on for so long.
Sometimes – and this is dumb – I actually go to the store cupboard and just hide there until I feel ready to go back out again.’

I laughed. ‘I know where you’re coming from. Sometimes, before going on stage I used to sit in the toilet and lock the door for a few minutes, just to get my head together. It seems
ridiculous, but sometimes we do need to do these things, don’t we?’

‘I know. I know what you mean.’ She paused. ‘Obviously, I’m not glad you fell over, but a chat with a dancer made for a far more interesting night than I usually have,
honestly.’

‘I’m not doing a lot of dancing right now,’ I said.

She smiled. ‘I used to do ballet, until I was about twelve. But I started to feel ridiculous, seeing as I’m so short and graceless. So I did tap dancing instead.’

‘You shouldn’t worry about being graceful,’ I said, trying to adjust the pillow under my head.

Faye immediately moved forward to help. ‘Just sit up a minute, and we’ll put it under you properly.’

‘I’m hardly graceful right now.’

‘The doctor says you’re making good progress. They often give a bit of a negative prognosis, because they don’t want people to be disappointed, but I’m sure you’ll
be up and about in no time.’

‘And dancing about the ward?’

‘Exactly. And when you are, perhaps you can show us a couple of your easier moves.’

I laughed. ‘Thanks for coming in here.’

‘You’ve got a bed to lie in. Think of me at this time of night, with my bum on an office chair, sat behind a desk.’

‘I will,’ I said, smiling once more. She touched my shoulder, and then moved to leave the room. As she did, she quickly waved goodbye.

After she left, the atmosphere in the room felt completely different. The fact that she had reached out to me, without any requirement to, transformed my state of mind. It seemed to signify that
there was so much to life that I was yet to experience. It even occurred to me that life might still be worth living.

Love
,

Yelena

Dear Noah,

After two weeks in the hospital Dr Ibarra insisted that I was immediately moved to a spare but deceptively warm respite home called The Cedars. He kept this from me until the
end of a particularly confrontational session.

During our time together I had, on his insistence, delved back into my childhood and gradually plotted the events of my life that had led to the accident. Although it had been difficult to
discuss the years I’d lived with Bruna, he pushed me to describe the worst occasions: the night Inessa was smothered, the self-harming, the wetting of my sheets. He wanted us to explore how
my fear had led to me wetting myself during my first sexual experience, and how that might have affected my sexual relationships since. He seemed particularly keen to express how, as a result of
this, I might have demanded complete psychological refuge in a lover, and how unrealistic that was. I eventually confessed my obsession with those letters and photos, and how they had affected me.
Ibarra explained how unrealistic it was to try and objectify desire and love in such a way. In one sense his advice seemed obvious, but I was amazed how many problems seemed to vanish as soon as I
shared them. Presented with many challenges, he said, my mind had created coping strategies which were not always helpful, and which now needed monitoring. For instance I had never before thought
of my blood-letting as ‘self-harming’, merely as a private way of dealing with situations that had become overwhelming. Ibarra helped me see how the cutting had been a way of tricking
myself into believing I had some control over challenging situations; but in so doing I had unwittingly been creating a new difficulty. But even with this realisation, I knew it would require much
more than a single conversation  to  completely  eradicate  that  tendency  from my mind. Knowing in theory that it was dangerous to put a blade to my own skin was one
matter, but avoiding doing so when a powerful urge arose quite another. Nevertheless, from that point on I possessed the tools by which to handle my problems without being self-destructive, and as
time went on I used those tools more and more until they became second nature to me.

On that particular day I had been struggling to convey to him the pressure that I had put upon myself while dancing as Giselle. He had wanted to know all about the voice of Bruna that seemed to
barge into my consciousness at times of extreme stress and worry. He suggested that over time I could replace her voice with an inner dialogue that was encouraging and nurturing. I had never
considered this.

At the time I had seen his almost relentless advice as disruptive. Many of the sessions had taken on a combative feel, and I had often felt that he was trying to verbally outmanoeuvre me. Only
now do I see that he was constantly questioning me to try and fully understand my mental processes. I see now how many perspectives he embedded in me, which I have been able to seek comfort from in
time. As a consequence I felt slightly drained by the end of the session, though I quickly perked up when he told me that I was about to be transferred to a new residence. He promised he was going
to keep seeing me regularly.

He told me the new residence housed a skilled multi-disciplinary team keen to accelerate my recovery. It boasted a swimming pool, a gym, and a team of chefs who would precisely cater to my
demands. He would continue his visits, though they would gradually become less regular. ‘There are psychologists there who can keep an eye on you, though I will still oversee your mental
recovery from afar.’ Shuffling his annotated notes, he added, ‘I understand that your room overlooks a duck pond.’

‘Why?’ I couldn’t help but ask.

‘Because,’ he said, standing up and placing his fountain pen in his top pocket. ‘In Michael’s eyes, you are an investment. And he is keen to protect his investment as
best as he can, by giving you the best of everything.’

‘And that includes ducks?’

Regardless of the description, I could not help but feel anxious about my temporary new home. Was I about to be fast-tracked towards dancing again, regardless of the long-term consequences?
Although I had experienced great lows in the hospital, I had felt livened by the occasional visits from Eva and Erin, and the chats with Faye. The Cedars sounded like a halfway house for people
with mental health difficulties. What sort of people would I be living alongside? I prepared myself for this new life by trying to purge my mind of everything that had plagued me in that hospital,
an effort that began with destroying those strange, irrational letters I had written to you. Gradually, with careful monitoring and medication from Ibarra, I began to surface from the mist I had
been submerged in. I gradually became able to talk about Bruna without hearing her first. Slowly, I started to uncoil with relief.

Set amongst a crop of trees a mere fifty metres from the sea, The Cedars certainly looked luxurious. As I unpacked in my spacious room, I longed for a few days of quiet in which I could compose
myself, but a minute later I was surprised by an abrupt knock on the door. I heard a deep, chuckling laugh, and the door quickly swung open to reveal a portly African woman in a tight green
uniform. She looked at me and smiled broadly. ‘Our glamorous dancer – here to give a little razzmatazz to this godforsaken place!’ I couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘This  is  your  new  physiotherapist,  Grace,’ one  of  the hospital orderlies advised, squeezing around her.

‘Nurse Polly, I can introduce myself,’ she said, with a thick Caribbean accent. As she spoke she placed her fingertips on her not unsubstantial bosom, whilst fluttering her eyelashes
with fake modesty.