Nora & Kettle (16 page)

30. THE DEVIL

NORA

I don’t want to open my eyes. It’s impossible to shut out the noises of metal trays shaking, fluid dripping, and leather shoes scuffing on a linoleum floor, but if I keep my eyes closed, reality will stay on the other side of my eyelids. I can pretend I’m still lying on the platform, Frankie’s hand in mine.

Frankie.

I blink awake, my eyes moving around the small, white room. A view of the sky to my right and a hunched figure folded over the end of my bed to my left. A messy head of dirty-blond hair buried in strong arms lies across my legs. Arms that struck me until I thought I would die.

I freeze, but it’s too late. My small movement has stirred him, and he rolls up to sitting. His eyes are crinkled, his face imprinted with the sheets he was lying on. He turns to me, relief washing over his expression. “Thank God. You’re awake.”

I try to pull my legs back, try to disappear into the wall, because I don’t understand his face.
I’m afraid this is a dream. I’m afraid this isn’t a dream.

“Fr-Frankie…” I say hoarsely. He stands suddenly and I cower, bringing my arm up to my face as a shield. When the blow fails to connect, I let my arm drop a little and peer out from under it. My father is standing there with a cup of water in his hand, his eyebrows drooping in sadness and confusion. I warily take the cup and drink.

As I swallow, he says, “Frances is fine. She’s safe.”

Safe.
Safe?
I want to cry, but I don’t. I stare up at his mask of a face and wait.

“I’m so glad you’re all right. I was very worried about you. Nora, you could have died.” A nurse walks in and starts checking the bottle of fluid that runs into my arm, sending a cool shot under my skin. “I just wish you’d talked to me. Hurting yourself was not the answer.” He puts his hand to his forehead and looks down at the floor. “Oh, I blame myself. I’m not home enough, but I need to work. And now with your mother gone… Oh God! I can’t believe I nearly lost you too.”

The nurse sighs and puts a comforting hand on my father’s shoulder.

I stare in astonishment at the performance before me. “Hurt myself? What are you talking about?” I feel my heart picking up. “I don’t understand. You…
you
did this,” I stammer, pointing a weak finger at him.

He pats his chest like I’ve just shot him and calmly says, “You’re confused. And yes, I know you blame me for not catching your mother when she fell. Believe me, I think about that every day. I know you want to punish me, and I guess I deserve it for not saving her. But Nora, don’t you remember what happened, what you tried to do?” The emotion in his voice is sickening and obviously convincing by the way the nurse is tearing up and shaking her head.

I play along, pulling this cart of lies behind me, collecting up what little dignity I have left and adding it to the pile of crumpled-up hopes and stabbing injuries. “No. I don’t remember,” I say hatefully and as flat as my will.

His voice is hard, coated in a warning only I can hear. “We had an argument and you threw yourself from the stairs. Telling me that it was all my fault. And when I went to you and tried to help you, you ran from me in shame. I’m sorry I let you leave, I didn’t realize how badly you were hurt until it was too late,” he says, trying to add a little croak of sadness to the end of the sentence.

A smile teases at my lips. His honeyed eyes are on mine, piercing, on fire with a threat so big it fills the room. But I don’t care. The smile turns to a grin and I throw my head back, pain shooting up my neck, and laugh, hard like a cough. “Oh yeah, that’s right. I threw myself off the stairs. I hurt
myself
. It’s all my fault.” I snort and raise my hands to the sky. “I was so angry at you that I thought, I want to teach my father a lesson. I’ll kill myself. That’ll teach him!”

He takes a step back, and there’s a silent exchange between him and the nurse. The laughing stings, slices through my lungs like knives. My control is gone. I failed. I failed to escape. I failed Frankie in so many ways.

My hands shake, but not from fear. Fear is gone. I’m just letting the hysteria win because whatever he does to me now, it just doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve lost.

And he knows it.

My giggling peters out into a long, windy sigh and my body relaxes. My arms feel heavy, as do my eyes. I press my lips together and feel the power leaching from my body like she’s drawing it out with a needle.

The solid thing my mind wraps around is hate.

Hate as a fact.

I hate him.

***

Leather restraints dig into my wrists and ankles. I’m unsurprised but can’t help but tug on them just the same.

A hand goes over mine, and I can’t pull away. The room is dark. The metal window frames a starless sky. A small and steady flash of light pushes up from beneath the sill—a neon sign. I stare at it until my eyes start to water.

“Nora, I’m sorry,” he says.

No, you’re not.
I refuse to look at him. I don’t want to see the wounded look on his face. Not because I’ll believe it but because I want to believe it so much and looking into his lying face is like another kick to the stomach. I’m pathetic, and I start to hate myself just as much as I hate him. I don’t understand why I can’t let him go.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you as much as I did.”

Yes, you did.

“Look at me.”

No.

“Please look at me.”

I turn my head just slightly, still mostly looking out the window, wondering what the sign says. Soda ad, or bar, or one of those
Girls! Girls! Girls!
signs? I snort.

“It will never happen again,” he promises. But I catch the twitch.

Of course it will
.

I ignore his promise, his sad face and sad eyes. It’s a lie I’ve got memorized. “I don’t care what you promise or threaten to hold over my head. If you ever touch Frankie again, I’ll make you pay.” He turns from me—not in shame, he doesn’t harbor that emotion. He’s just trying to keep his anger in check. “Look at
me,
” I demand, slamming my other hand on the bed, my arms straining against the restraints. I want him to see my swollen, determined face. “I’ll find a way. I’ll find a way to ruin you.” My fingers have wrapped into a fist under his.

He opens his mouth to say something, and then claps it shut.

“Get the hell out of my room,” I say between gritted teeth.

He stands and leaves slowly. Once his shadow has disappeared from the doorway, I slump into my pillow. I honestly can’t tell between mistake and good judgment at this point. Sadly, I realize that it probably doesn’t matter what I do. I’m trapped.

A nurse comes in half an hour later to check on me. As she pulls the blanket up, I ask her, “When can I go home?”

She shakes her head and rolls her Rs as she speaks. “Well, your father has gone against the doctor’s orders. It was recommended that you be admitted for at least a week so you could receive psychiatric treatment. But he is signing you out against medical advice,” she says as she gently unties my wrists and ankles. “You’re going home tonight.”

There’s something sickeningly comforting about it. The
knowing
. I’m not scared because I know, without a doubt, that something horrible awaits me. Maybe it’s true—better the devil you know.

I fall back into the squeaky bed and let the quiet hum of the hospital lull me to what little slither of peace there is left inside.

31. I DON’T CARE

NORA

My wheelchair squeals as it grinds across the surface of the gritty, ground level of the hospital, sounding like I’m rolling over broken glass. I shakily grip a bottle of pain pills in one hand and it rattles, showing my nerves. The other hand is firmly grasping the arm of the chair. My mind wants to leave, to see Frankie, but my body is turning inward, protecting itself against future harm. I shield my eyes as we move under the bright lights that worsen my headache.

The doctor came to see me before I was discharged. He told me I had a bad concussion and a very bruised body but really, for the fall I had, I was lucky. It was hard for me not to scoff at that. He didn’t ask me why I did it. People don’t lean toward peculiarity, especially doctors. The idea that a famous civil rights’ lawyer could hurt his own children simply can’t be possible.

I remember Robbie telling me once that doctors are taught to look for the most ordinary, most plausible diagnosis. “Horses, not zebras,” he said.

“Huh?”

He’d shaken his head and tapped his chin like he wasn’t really sure what it meant either but said, “It means the most likely cause is usually the correct one. Sometimes people just have unusual symptoms to a usual disease.” Then he’d cupped his hand to his ear and started galloping, puffing as he continued, “So if you hear hooves clopping, you think horses, not zebras.”

I think I might be a zebra, but no one’s going to hear me.

My hand shakes so hard that I drop the bottle.

The nurse scoops them up and places them in my lap, speaking to me like I am a child, “Don’t worry, dear. Your father has sent a fancy car to pick you up and take you home.”

My ears prick from the closeness of her mouth and the prospect that I won’t have to face him just yet. “You mean he’s not taking me home? He’s not here?” I ask hopefully.

“He was called away to Washington. He does very important work, your father. He told me to tell you that Marie will stay at the house until he returns. He also told me to tell you that a police car will be parked out the front at all times, in case you need anything.”

I roll my eyes. In case I try to run away again, more likely.

The doors roll open to a humid night, the air wraps around me, closing in like a heap of smelly blankets. I feel suffocated, trapped in this chair, in this life. I sigh heavily when I see the sleek black car pull up. Sally rolls down the window and tries to smile at me, but it’s a sad mixture of pity and denial that crosses her face instead.

“Do you need help, Miss?” she asks, false cheeriness to her voice.

I shake my head and stand, opening the car door and sliding into the back. The nurse closes it, and I thank her as she does. The dark interior of the car swallows me whole, shrouds me in the blackness that reflects my mood.

I couldn’t do it.

I lasted about an hour. One miserable hour. The failure presses me from both sides, flattening me like I’m in a vice.

I. Couldn’t. Get. Away.

Me, only me.

I am responsible for what happens next and what could happen to Frankie.

I draw in a broken breath and try not to cry. My mind is clouded with how angry I am with
him.
How he’s ruined my life over and over again. How it will never stop.

I wring my hands in my lap, wanting to throw something, break something. Sally eyes me in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry, Miss,” is all she says.

I can’t respond because all the words I have are tangled around hatred and anger, and I will sting her with what I say. I stare at my lap, rolling the bottle of pills between my fingers. My head still throbs, but it’s hard to tell if it’s the concussion or the feeling of being squeezed dry that’s doing it.

We pull up to the house, behind a police car. Sally runs around to my door and opens it. She offers her hand, and although I don’t want to take it, I do. Her skin feels soft, squishy, as I dig my fingers in to pull myself up. I get a little dizzy as I stand. Putting my hand to my head, I check it’s all still there.

It’s late, maybe ten o’clock. I stare up at the second story devoid of light and my heart turns icy as I start to worry what has happened to Frankie in the two days I’ve been gone.

I linger on the bottom step. “Okay,” I whisper under my breath. I take a step up, releasing Sally’s arm. I never wanted to set foot in this house again. I climb the steps painfully slow, my whole body unwilling to come with me. It knows the horror inside, the shadows that fill every corner of every room. “You’re going to be okay,” I whisper, tapping my heart, but it drops down and away from me. I’m so lost. My only companions are anger and distrust.

The door flies open and Marie stands there, eyes wide and fearful. She beckons me inside and gives Sally a knowing look.

“Come inside, come inside,” she says, eyes darting quickly to the police car. I slowly follow her, placing my pills on the hallstand by the door and swaying into the foyer. The stairs pulse in front of me, long, dark, winding, lit up in spots with the golden glow of the hall lamp.

“Where’s Frankie?” I ask in a slightly robotic voice.

Marie tries to take my coat, but I snatch it around my body, shivering suddenly.

“Where’s Frankie?” I ask again, taking a few steps into the center of the room, standing right where
she
fell. Anger pounds from that one spot like a giant heart is buried under the floor.

Marie seems dumbfounded for a moment, but she finally manages to say, “Didn’t Mister Deere tell you?”

To this, I snort loudly, take a few more steps, and sit down on the bottom stair, my knees knocking together, my head collapsing into my hands. “Tell me what?” My heart is batting against my ribs.

“Miss Frances has gone to stay with Mister Deere’s cousin. She’s probably sleepin’ safe’n’sound right now,” she answers, trying to placate me, or reassure me, I’m not really sure.

I stand again, the room whirling suddenly. A rush and then it stops still. “What cousin?” I take a step closer. “Where?” My eyes feel aflame; my hands are fisted at my sides. “And you know as well as I do, we’re never safe. Never.”

I buckle as the mist clears, and I understand. He’s taken her away from me.

She gives me a weird look like she doesn’t get what I’m saying, although I know she does, and says, “I don’t know any more than that, Miss. I’m sorry.” She backs away and mutters, “I’ve got some cleanin’ to do. Excuse me.”

We don’t speak of these things. We never have. But I’ve lost the will to keep up the game any longer.

“When is Mister Deere returning?” I shout across the foyer, gripping my skirt and wishing, wishing, wishing for days and maybe weeks without him.

“Tomorrow, Miss,” Marie manages, her face wrinkled with stress.

He took her away. My head pulses with pain and fear. He’s punishing me more than I ever thought possible.

“At least he can’t hurt her if she’s not here,” I say, doubting it even as I say it.

Her eyes expand at my candor and she stalls, moving uncomfortably from foot to foot while I glare at her plump, worried face for a moment too long. But then my expression softens. I don’t blame her for keeping quiet. She has a family of her own, and I’m sure my father would have threatened her and them for her silence.

What’s worse than a violent man? A smart, violent man. He has notes filed away on everybody, money in pockets, and daggers ever poised for use. It must be exhausting for him, keeping track of it all. It makes me let out a weird little laugh. Poor Father. So many secrets to keep track of, people to pay off and threaten. Poor, poor man.

Hysteria teases me. Invites me to let it in, to stop caring, because he’s taken the last thing that would have held me down. Now I’m a balloon floating desperately to the sky.

I gaze around this vast space. The giant window over the landing casts eerie light over the stairs. That window has seen too many things. Too many horrible, undoable things. If only he could look through that window and see himself. If he could watch it from a distance, I wonder if he would change his behavior? Would he be ashamed? My head drops as I realize it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. My anger at him and myself forces me upright, and I storm up the stairs. The feelings twist into something else—a desperate sadness I can’t contain. Tears fly from my eyes as I reach the top, my hand gripping the banister hard as I pause on the top step.
Why couldn’t you hold on? You left us. You left me.

I creep to Frankie’s partially open door and peek in. I’m hoping Marie’s mistaken and that she’s sleeping soundly, her face to the window, her breath rattling. The room is empty. I gently close the door with a wobbly hand. It stings when I breathe out. It hurts in every part of me, my skin itchy with rage.

He was going to hurt her. And now he’s hiding her. My sister. My small, hurricane of a sister…

I turn and walk down the hall, my feet spurring me on independently of my brain because I am empty and adrift. I am no hope and no thought.

The mania builds, my hands wanting to smash, burn, and tear, anything to not feel like this anymore. Because it’s too much. Losing her is too much. My body shakes with out-of-control emotion. I can’t hold it inside.

I place my hand on my mother’s bedroom door and shove it open. My headache is forgotten. My body is in line with me now.

Everything she owned glows with what I can’t have, what I’ve lost… am going to lose. I hate her for leaving, and I hate him for staying.

A barbed cry escapes my throat and I grab the first thing in reach, a silk scarf smelling of her perfume wrapped around a felt, brimmed hat on the end of the bed post. I rush to the window, fling it open, and throw the hat like a Frisbee out into the night air. The scarf and the hat separate, and I watch as the hat spins into the black and then sinks beyond sight and the scarf twirls down like smoke being sucked back into a pipe.

Self-control has abandoned me and I start gathering up other possessions, whatever I can find, and hurl them out the window, making sure they clear the fire escape. But it’s not enough. It’s not satisfying the roaring beast within because I want to hurt him. I want to take something important, something close to his heart, and destroy it. Rummaging through drawers, I throw the fancy clothes she’ll never wear again on the floor. I suddenly stop, panting like a crazed animal because there’s nothing in here that means enough.

I dash out the door and sprint to his den. I should, but I don’t hesitate as I open the door and stomp inside. On his desk is a heavy, silver frame with a photograph of my mother and father, taken before I was born. Neither looks at the camera. They gaze at each other, looking happy and in love. It’s not something I can really comprehend. I stare at it for a long time, trying to identify them, but these people are strangers to me. The love captured here is dead. I grip the photo to my chest and take it back to her room, thinking I might hide it. Because infuriatingly, he still has a hold over me and I’m scared if I throw it out the window, it will be the end. But then I look around at the chaos I’ve created, torn dresses, smashed ornaments, and jewelry strewn all over the floor and laugh hysterically. There is no saving me now. I walk slowly to the window and lean out, my hand stretching past the fire escape.

I release the frame and listen for the glass to smash. The still, night air answers with silence.

Putting both hands on the sill, I poke my head out to see where it landed. As soon as I do, something clamps down on my arm and yanks me from the window.