Letters from Yelena

by Guy Mankowski

  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.

  ‘I thought you needed no introduction?’ the orderly replied, prompting another booming laugh.

  ‘You have been here two minutes, Yelena, and yet you have already decided this place is so bad that you must sit in darkness!’ She swept the curtains open, allowing thick blasts of white light to douse the room in colour. ‘I know that you ballerinas can be tortured sorts, but there will be no room for that if I am going to get you walking again. You are going to have to start working very hard for me, and if it takes me wearing a tutu in order to get you to do that, then I will. Won’t I, Nurse Polly?’

  Polly laughed, and looked at me. ‘Please don’t let Grace wear a tutu,’ she said. ‘No-one on the floor will get any sleep.’

  ‘In five minutes I will come and call for you again my darling,’ Grace said. ‘First I must get you some decent crutches, and then we will see exactly how much work lies ahead of us.’

  Grace took me to a gymnasium in the basement of The Cedars. I felt my heartbeat quicken as I took in the array of ropes, pulleys and exercise balls all around me. What exactly was she going to make me do? But the warmth of her hand on my shoulder quickly calmed my nerves. Grace began by sitting me down and asking me to stretch my legs and feet as much as I could. She then had me stand in front of her and sway gently from side to side without support. I could read my anxiety on her face, as she held out her arms and promised to catch me if I toppled over.

  Over the course of the next few weeks she made me walk, again and again, injured foot first, down the winding corridors of The Cedars. She would stand one foot behind me, encouraging me as I made my unsteady progress. Those sessions reminded me of the time Uncle Leo taught me to ride a bike. He used to run a foot behind me as I pedalled away, shouting ‘I’m still here!’ so I knew that I would be caught when I inevitably fell off.

  Quickly, Grace became the hub of my life. Occupational Therapists consulted with her before teaching me how to cook simple meals in their bespoke kitchens, as I couldn’t carry anything with a broken foot. Dieticians bartered with her about which of my favourite foods I could eat. But after a while my natural fitness seemed to kick in, and I was delighted that I surpassed even Grace’s expectations during the sessions we had together.

  ‘I always push my patients hard,’ she said, as I clambered in a frame towards the other side of the gym. ‘But I am not used to them exceeding my expectations. You were obviously in peak physical condition when you had your accident, Yelena, you were far fitter than I have ever been. In fact I expect I was not as fit as you the day I left the womb, and it has all been downhill from there. You are doing great, you seem to have no pain barrier!’

  And she was right, Noah. Grace had ejected me from the dark, lonely room that I had been living in, and prompted me to become the real Yelena again. A woman who drove herself, a woman who was pushy and ambitious.

  ‘That is enough for today!’ she would shout, when I had reached the other side of the gym. ‘Why do you have to break every record going? As far as I see it, you should match your previous session and then do a tiny bit more. You do not need to charge the wall down!’

  It delighted me to hear her speak like that, as it meant I was doing all that I could.

  After that session, one of the orderlies brought us a cup of tea, but for once Grace did not rush me back up to my room. A mood seemed to have taken over her, and her demeanour was very different to the brash, vivacious one that I had grown used to.

  ‘Why do you have to push yourself so hard, my darling?’ she asked, as I sat down to catch my breath. ‘You are like so many Western women,’ she continued. ‘Constantly pushing yourself towards the next achievement. But where is your quality of life? Pushing this hard is counter-productive if the journey itself always feels tortuous. Do you not ever ask yourself why you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I guess I just want to be better.’

  ‘But, my darling, your sense of being better or worse does not come from what you do, or from what you achieve, it comes from how you feel about yourself. How can you like yourself, if all you do is endure? You need to be kind to yourself, Yelena. It’s so important to be happy in your own company, and to not be fearful of your next demands.’ She sipped from the cup of tea, whilst looking momentarily distracted. ‘Where I come from, there is none of this perpetual testing, like there is here. Life is for living – for laughter, for food and for family. I apply effort to causes that are important to me, but I never strive just for the sake of it. Yelena, my dear, you have shared your wonderful gift with many people, but you must allow them in enough so that they can help you as well. Tomorrow we will take a break from this work. We will go out into the garden. We will enjoy fresh air and conversation. How does that sound?’

  The next day, during our allotted time together, Grace and I walked through The Cedars’ garden. It felt somehow audacious to step out of the therapeutic environment and just enjoy the bracing November air. Admiring the recently planted flowers whilst listening to Grace talk about her family, I felt myself take on aspects of her temperament. She seemed so calm, so accepting and so content to let time sweep her along its strange and convoluted path. Despite being acutely aware of how far I still had to go, that afternoon for once I truly felt comfortable in my own skin.

  It was the following day when I received a postcard from Inessa. Though we had spoken briefly on the phone since the accident, given her naturally elusive nature I had not felt a sense of kinship wi
th her over it. Though she’d sounded concerned for me, she was still as distant as ever. But the postcard suggested that something might have shifted in her.

  Dear Yelena, it read. It has been so long since we have been together, far too long. A lot has happened here, and for me, a change of scenery is now required. I would very much like to come and visit you. Message me to let me know if that would be alright. It would be wonderful to see you again. From your loving sister. Inessa.

  Coming from Inessa, I found the choice of sign-off particularly unusual. I called her to say I would be very happy to see her, and the cryptic and rather emboldened woman on the end of the phone could not have sounded more thrilled. We arranged for her to come and stay for a few days in the nurses’ quarters. She didn’t exactly say what had sparked this sudden resolve, only mentioning that she had been following my progress as a dancer over the last year, and that of course she had been extremely worried about my accident. Somehow I was not quite ready to accept that I was about to have the type of sister I had always longed for. Just before she arrived it occurred to me that in many ways, Inessa was a stranger to me, and yet the two of us were going to need to find a way to feel at ease with one another.

  I was sat in the drawing room, in a chair overlooking the driveway, when I saw Inessa for the first time in many years. I was instantly struck by how tall and slim she was, dressed in an expensive-looking, fur-trimmed coat. She had grown a little into her face since I had last seen her, and she now looked refined, elegant even. Her high heels looked handmade, and the curls of hair that I could see burgeoning from her hat looked carefully coiffed. As she approached the door she caught my eye, and her pale face erupted into a childish smile.

  I heard her asking the nurses urgent questions about my welfare, with a concerned manner that I didn’t recognise. Seconds later she was upon me, kissing my cheek as I inhaled the scent of her designer perfume. ‘Oh my goodness, it is so good to see you,’ she said, her voice containing an intriguing new English inflection. ‘I have missed you so much.’