Nora & Kettle
Authors: Lauren Nicolle Taylor
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #People & Places, #United States, #Asian American, #Family, #Orphans & Foster Homes, #Historical, #20th Century
THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Nora & Kettle
Copyright ©2016 Lauren Taylor
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63422-136-8
Cover Design by: Marya Heiman
Typography by: Courtney Nuckels
Editing by: Cynthia Shepp
WARNING: This novel contains realistic portrayals of domestic violence.
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To John & Jeanne for finding hope in a lost place.
Table of Contents
NORA
If I had wings, they would be black, thin, and feathered. Not a flat color… but iridescent. Shining with hues of purple, green, and blue. Catching the light with the barest fingertips. And when I needed, I could fold into the darkest shadows and hide.
This time between the dark and the dawn is mine.
I roll from my bed and slip quietly across the floor, avoiding the creaks in a shadowy dance no one will ever see. My ears tune to the nonexistent noises around me and I sigh, ghostlike, with relief. Because in this time, he sleeps.
A snap of a memory flashes through my mind and body as I feel the sharp, short cracks delivered this time.
This
time.
I ease the dresser drawer out, holding my breath as tiny splinters catch the sides, and reach underneath the lace and silk to the boys’ pants hidden beneath. Quickly, I slide them on, my bruises objecting as I bend to fasten them. Tucking the ends of my nightdress into the waist, I pad to the window.
Across from our brownstone, one light shines dimly through a dirty window. Someone leaving for or returning from a shift; a refrigerator light; something simple and easy. I crinkle my nose and think,
Of all the hundreds of people who live in that apartment building, how is it that only one solitary light shines?
I quirk my lips into an unsure smile, a new split stinging as it stretches apart. This is why it is
my
time.
Bending and flexing my legs, I take a deep breath and push the window ajar. It protests, groaning as I push my torso out and use my back to push it up. Settling on the windowsill, I close it down, pulling a small comb from my pocket and wedging it in the gap so I can get back in.
Perched like a bat ready to launch into the night, my eyes dart to the corner of the building, to the rickety fire escape that would be much easier to climb. A car light bends over the gaps in the iron and fans out like the punch in a comic book.
Wham!
I snigger to myself, the laugh seeming foreign, jarring. I’m not supposed to laugh. I’m a sad girl, with a sad life.
But it is
my
life, and tonight… I’m going to fly.
I face my window and grasp the drainpipe that runs the length of the building. Staring up at the sky for a moment, I search out my destination. The one error in the building, which grates on him, invites me. One beam they forgot to trim sits out from the wall like a pirate ship plank. I dig my bare toes into the worn spaces between the bricks and climb.
I’m a shadow taped to the wall, scaling the pipe in solid but fast movements. Breathing hard and forgetting everything. The sky and the stars hang around just for me. They cling to the fading darkness, and I let them spark my senses. The night air closes in like the wings of a crow, folding over, protecting and gifting me something I lack. I pass the window of our sleeping neighbors and shake my head. They won’t hear me.
I breathe in deeply. Car exhaust films the air but it lightens, sweetens, as I climb. Overhead, the plank casts a cool shadow over the building, lengthening as the moon starts to dip away and the sun coaxes the sky into pinks and oranges.
My
time is only minutes.
My
mind is only on the hands pulling me up and the legs stabilizing me.
I dig my toes into the brackets holding the pipe. It cuts in, but my skin is toughening through scars crisscrossing over other scars. I throw my head back, my hair wisping and sticking to my cheeks. Sweat makes my grip slippery. It takes more concentration, more strength to hold on, but that’s why I like it. This risk sends flickers through my heart; pinprick lights like the points of a star. It keeps something beating that could be dead, should be dead. But I can’t let it.
I won’t.
The pipe trembles under my weight, the screws wriggle in their brackets, and I hold tighter. Moving faster up, up, up, until I reach the beam. I link my hands together around the plank, the dry wood soaking up some of my sweat.
This part, the upside-down part… I love.
I hug the beam and creep my feet up the wall until I can wrap my legs around it, swinging like a raccoon on a telephone wire. My head drops down and I stare out at the inverted city, the skyscrapers hanging from the earth like stalactites, dripping their lights into the clouds and piercing the sky. One shake and the people would spill from their locked-in positions, sprinkling like pepper into the atmosphere.
Just float away.
Light as air… I want to be a speck carried by the wind.
My hair swings in coils and clumps on either side of my eyes, and my head starts to beat like a drum full of water from too much blood. I work my way around until I’m right way up, lying stomach to beam.
I push back to sitting, my legs dangling, my chest filled to bursting with cleaner air, the flames of sunrise singeing the top of my head.
If I had wings… They’d need to be strong enough…
Closing my eyes as the round edge of the sun pokes above the horizon, I spread my arms wide. I let the small breeze flutter under my limbs, cool my skin, and free my hair.
If I had wings, I could fly.
NORA
Paths are usually stamped-out, well-defined things. They’re like that for a reason. They point toward a way through. They are hope in a lost place.
My path is patchy, indeterminate, and young. Thousands of feet have not walked this path. Although, sadly, I know some have.
The sun splits the willowy curtains into strands of green and cream, dancing over each other with the breeze. Groggily, I blink and watch the delicate performance, unwilling to move and waiting for the pain to set in. Branches tap out a Morse-code message on the window. I flinch, mistaking it for sharp knuckles rapping on my door. A dull ache courses through my stomach and pins itself to my back, wishing me good morning.
I carefully straighten under the covers, pointing my toes and testing my limbs. I’m okay. These wounds are ordinary. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.
Through the narrow crack of my bedroom door sails the ordinary clatter of the morning—spoons rattling in empty bowls as they are thrown in the sink and a copper kettle whistling, high-pitched and impatient. That new Perry Como song plays on the radio, my mother’s humming sounding like nails on a chalkboard in my sore head. I wait. Sure enough, halfway through the song, his controlled, sharp-as-icepicks footsteps cross the kitchen and the radio squeals across the bands to classical music. I clasp my head with both hands at the squeal and then the twanging violins.
I want to sleep. I need to sleep. I won’t get to sleep.
“Nora!” my mother screams, matching the sound of the kettle with its impatient trill. Her loud voice pushes its way between the fingers holding my head together and vibrates inside my skull. “I need you downstairs and ready for school in five minutes!” I can almost see her pointing sharply at the tiles as if I should materialize that instant right where she’s indicating.
I release my hands from my ears and lay them in my lap, palms upward. Everything I do is slow because my body is trying to avoid the pain. I want to tell it not to bother, swallowing dryly at the state of my wrists. Fingernail impressions separate the thin veins that run across my pale skin. I pull the sleeves of my nightdress down and tie the ribbons tightly over the marks.
A loud groan rumbles up the stairs. “Ugh! Nora, I’m not kidding. We’re going to be late… again.” For someone so small, she can bellow like an overweight opera singer.
I sigh, pull the downy covers over my head, and am clouded in darkness.
Just a few more minutes
. I am afforded none as a scrawny, angular weight lands on top of me. Knees like shelf brackets dig into my ribs.
“Nora, Nora, Nora… Get up.” My name piles one on top of another without a breath in between. Thin fingers clamp onto my arms and shake.
I pull away. “All right,” I mumble, my voice muffled by the heavy quilt.
“Nora. Nora. Noraaaaaa.” Because she can’t hear me, Frankie’s poking continues. It feels like she’s taken two forks from downstairs and is jamming them into my sides. I curl down the covers carefully, squinting at all the lights she switched on when she entered my room.
Frankie shuffles back and smiles, gummy, three teeth missing. Her hearing aid is in her open palm. “Can you help me put thissss in, Noraaaaaaa?” she says, her Ss hissing through the gap. I sit up and tuck her long, straight hair, which is the color of autumn leaves, behind her ear. She giggles and rasps, a slight wheeze in her defective chest. Bobbing her head back and forth, she sings some unintelligible song as I wrangle with her hair and constant movement.
I clamp my hand down on top of her head. “Hold still, Frankie,” I plead through gritted, fuzzy teeth.
She lurches forward just to make it more difficult, but I manage to slip the aid into her tiny, peaches-and-cream-colored ear. I position the headband my mother lovingly wound with pink satin ribbon. The aid whining itches my teeth as I grab her clothes and still her while clipping the little black box onto her sash. Smiling, she glances up at me with dark blue eyes, yellow streaks streaming from the irises like the rays of the sun. “Tanks!” she whispers and licks my hand.
“Oh yuck, Frankie!” I roll my eyes and watch my ferrety little sister bound out of the room and tear down the hall, sounding more like an elephant than a seven-year-old.
The bathroom door slams. I know I’m going to be waiting a while so I slip down into the bed and cross my arms over my chest, resting like I’m lying in a coffin. The warm air and street noises flowing through the window tell me I’m going to be sweating in a long-sleeved, high-necked dress, but I don’t have another option.
My mother’s holler coasts over the dark brown banister and hits my ears again. “We’re going to be laaate!” Her voice is shrill and getting shriller.
I hear a plate slam down on the counter. Heavy footsteps approach, darker and more electric than a storm cloud.
“I’ll get her,” my father says loudly, knowing all he needs to do is threaten. I hold still, out of stubbornness, out of fear, I don’t know, but I wait until I hear him slowly and deliberately stomping up the stairs. One, two, three…
I stay clamped still until he’s at the top and then I scramble out of bed, grabbing my clothes from yesterday off the back of a chair and scurrying to the door. My heart pounds hard for the moments it takes to remember that Frankie is in the bathroom, and then it steadies. Because my heart has a memory. It understands the pattern, and it prepares me.
I gingerly nudge my door further ajar with my foot to reveal him standing proud, gripping the bannister and looking like a painting of one of our long-dead relatives. His eyes are an oily swirl of an amber brush. Not a man, a figment, and definitely not a father.
He gives me a flat, unimpressed smile and says, “Good girl,” as he tracks my movements. My gaze connects with his for a moment before I have to look away. In his eyes are the reflections of the beating I didn’t know how to stop, and even though my heart remembers, the rest of me would like to forget.
I pad down the hall, eyes down, hands clasped, just like a
good girl
should, toward the bathroom door. He turns, clicking his heels sharply, and takes one step down. A
good girl
. I snort at the comment and he hesitates, one foot hovering in midair. I sense the angry electricity charging his bones and tightening his fists.
I knock on the bathroom door, gently at first, but quickening with every bad thought that enters my mind. He wouldn’t. Not with Mother just downstairs. I stare at the carpet and nervously blow air through pursed lips.
The boards of the stairs creak, always in the same place, and he pushes his weight down on it—testing, warning, and playing with my nerves. My mouth tastes metallic, and my hands pump nervously.
“Christopher, let me…” my mother shouts from the foyer, her voice edged in trepidation. The top of her head nods up and down over a tailored jacket and an unfashionably long skirt. She is graced with the same autumn-leaved hair color as Frankie. Her clothes may be dated, but she still looks beautiful. I sigh stiffly and tuck my slightly frizzy, dirty-blond hair behind my unfortunately prominent ears. My father watches me, his eyes crinkling in disgust with my every movement. I have his ears, nose, and hair… and he can’t stand it. I wish I could scrub out my face and start again. Not because it would protect me, but because it would mean I wouldn’t see him in my reflection.
My eyes round as he takes a threatening step in my direction, fury building in his arms, coursing down into his fingers that clench into solidity. I feel them even though they’re yards away. I know how each fist feels as it strikes my skin.
Knuckled like clam shells and as hard as rocks.
I grab my stomach, nausea and pain swirling together inside, and tap on the door more urgently. “Frankie, open the door,” I plead. I give him a sideways glance, and there’s a sickening look of satisfaction playing across his face because he likes to see me afraid.
The door cracks and I get a glimpse of Frankie pulling her underpants up while walking away. She grins at me as she flushes the toilet, and then shudders when she sees Father’s shadow growing behind me. I watch her shrivel before him, and I armor myself.
Footsteps hurry up the stairs with the swish of thick material batting at slender legs.
I turn, breathing in the word
shield
.
My mother climbs anxiously, her waned eyes on my father, her hands out in front as she rushes. Brittle hope rises, and I wonder if she’s actually going to say somethin
g
this time. If she’s going to say
stop.
“Christopher,” she pants just before she reaches the top stair, her lip curling on the ‘pher’ part as she blows a loose strand of hair from her eyes. It floats up and lands back over her delicate brow. “It’s fine,” she says as she takes another step up, her long skirt trapping her leather heels and snagging her feet. “I…”
A loud siren wails outside. My mother’s attention abruptly snaps to the long, arch window over the landing, her face crossed with the black line shadows of the frame and the morning sun.
A collection of events. Each on its own is harmless. But together, one after the other, they change the world.
Startled and off balance, her hands grab at the air in front of her. Her eyes close and she falls backward. My father reaches out, but there’s endless space between them.
“Rebecca!” he sort of sighs and screams because he’s helpless. His voice is sucked away by the shocking sight of her body plunging downwards and her legs kicking like she’s riding an invisible bicycle. The shattering sound of her breath knocking from her lungs with every crack on the hardwood stairs pounds us both with airy hammers.
It’s just air. Air and tumbling. Pulling down, down, down. And as her body breaks, so does my very thin thread of safety.
There’s beauty in the fall, the weightlessness, the gravity fighting against the will. The curve of her body is a thin stream. And for one ridiculous, far-fetched moment, I believe she will fly. But there is no magic in my life. This world offers no pixie dust to lift our feet from the floor. So I watch her non-flight with detached horror and know that any chance I had just fluttered to the floor like a released pack of cards.
The landing is ugly. It’s hard and final. Weight catches up and she skids across the tiles in her slippery skirt. Her hair flounces out of its pinned updo, too much life to the curls bouncing over an ashen face. The view of her lying there spins up from the ground and hits me square in the chest. The pain is bigger than anything I’ve ever imagined. It keeps pushing, prying, trying to open me up right here in the hall.
Frankie shoves on the door, and my palm snaps to the panel to block her way. “I thought ya needed to go, Nora. Nora, let me out.” Her voice is panicky, high-pitched. She is unaware what exactly is wrong but she knows something is.
I brace the door as little, freckled fingers curl around the outside.
Shouldn’t it be slow when your world changes?
It’s not my experience. It’s fast as lightning and stings as much. She was at the top of the stairs, alive, talking. A flush to her creamy skin from exertion. Now she lies on the black-and-white tiles of the entry hall, her body angled all wrong. Her mouth open. Her eyes still closed.
That hard, tumbleweed of reality is still pushing against my chest, trying to get me to release something. I pull at my clothes like they’re strangling me.
I can’t breathe.
There were no words. There was no time. I didn’t get to say anything, barely opened my mouth before it was over.
It’s over.
I take a heaped breath in and hold it. My lungs bursting with numbing pain.
I turn to see my father perched at the top of the stairs, staring at me mutely for several seconds, the wail of more sirens gathering seeming otherworldly. The sky screaming for a take back. We move our eyes millimeter by millimeter to the body at the bottom of the stairs, neither one really wanting to see what we already know. Frankie’s tiny fists pound on the door like a heartbeat. “Nora, what’s wrong?”
Everything.
Everything.
Realization is heavy and it adds weights to my father’s shoulders until he sinks to his knees in a knight’s stance, mangled sobs heaving from his chest.
I think,
He won’t move
.
I think,
He should run down and help her
.
I know it won’t do any good.
She looks like one of Frankie’s dolls, a frozen sculpture, robbed of life, of grace. I almost expect her face to be cracked, shattered inwards like she was in fact shaped from porcelain. But she looks untouched. She looks like she was arranged this way, a mannequin that was never alive.
My father rotates slowly, still crouching, dirty-blond hair falling over his forehead. Hate waves creep toward me, pulling me to him. It’s a look I’m already very used to, but it darkens with every breath he takes.
Eyes half measured with tears and steely hatred, he whispers, “This is your fault,” and something inside me breaks, painfully pulled open with strong hands that hurt again and again. It’s my heart, my armor, my survival, all shattering and crashing to the floor.