Nora & Kettle

by Lauren Nicolle Taylor

  “Do you understand what that means, Frankie?” I ask, my eyes wet. I wipe my nose on the back of my hand.

  She shakes her head and sighs. “Like Grandma. Sleepin’ and not never wakin’ up.”

  She’s jiggling in her seat, a ball of uncontainable energy. I nod. “Yes, Mommy can’t wake up. But it also means you and I need to stick together. It means that even though Mommy’s not here anymore, I am.”

  I try to still her agitation, laying my arm across her legs, knowing how he’ll be if he sees her bouncing around in the backseat like this. “Please Frankie, try to calm down.”

  “Where did she go?” she asks innocently, and I hear our driver choke back a sob.

  I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m waging a battle with my own panic here, and I have to win. I have to protect her.

  “I’m not sure, Frankie,” I reply. “But I know that wherever she is, there’s no hurt or sadness. Mommy is at peace.” I really want to believe that’s true.

  Frankie grabs the two front headrests, swinging back and forth like a monkey. “That’s good then,” she says, staring out the front window, her eyes, her brain, now focused on the commotion outside of this car. “Look at the firemen.” She points, grinning, and I think I might scream again. This is too hard, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

  I pat her arm. “Please Frankie, sit still,” I say again. I want to just let her be herself, but I can’t. Not here.

  The car door snaps open and slams shut as my father smoothly takes his place in the passenger seat up front. “Mount View Hospital,” he growls at Sally, our driver.

  “I’m real sorry for your loss, Mister Deere,” Sally whispers. She even almost touches his arm, but when he turns away from her and barks, “Mount View,” she retracts her hand and places it shakily on the steering wheel.

  Her large, brown eyes blink sympathetically at us in the rearview mirror.

  “What’d ya lose, Deddy?” Frankie blurts before I can stop her. Sally tenses, holding her breath. We both hold our breaths.

  I brace myself for shouting, for a hand to whip out and slap her. My arm is already in front of her face as a barrier. But all he does is turn to us for one second, his eyes darker than malice, and then he crumples.

  He lays his head on the dashboard and weeps.

  The car swings into traffic and we roll away from it all, following an ambulance whose lights are as dead and dulled as my heart.

  ***

  Sally drops us at the entrance and drives away. The hospital has always looked more like a castle than a state-of-the-art healing center. Its old, red brick walls crumble at the corners, dripping with ivy. Dark, barred windows glare down at us, absorbing the sunlight. I shiver as we walk under its beckoning shadow.

  We follow our father’s sharp, certain footsteps to the reception desk, and I’m swallowed by a memory.

  Metal bangs against metal, people ask so many questions, different questions, and then the same ones over and over. I run a hand through my hair, effectively smearing Frankie’s blood all over my face.

  I was here four years ago. My eyes graze over the wide entrance hall, the grand arches, and the colored tiled floor. My mother’s anxious voice echoes, ghostly, through these hallways, and I shudder. “Who cares how it happened? Just help her, please,” she cries desperately.

  “She fell down the stairs, she fell down the stairs, she… fell,” my mother coached me as we drove like demons toward the hospital. She put a hand on my shoulder. “Say it again.” Her eyes churned with regret and fear.

  My voice cracked, and she flinched. “She fell… she fell down the stairs,” I whispered, my head down, my sister’s broken body curled into almost nothing beside me. Blood poured from her ears.

  I laugh maniacally at the memory. The lie I had to tell that had now come true for my mother. And then I instantly feel sick. I fist the cloth at my stomach and run to the nearest bin, hurling nothing but water. Sweat beads on my skin and I waver as I stumble back to my father, who is staring at me with furious eyes. Frankie stands lost, leaning from leg to leg like she might run out of here. She might be better off.

  She doesn’t remember. She was only three.

  His low talking to the nurse is a bare mumble over the noise of my vivid memory.

  My mother tears into this space, her face white with fear, my sister limp in her arms. Fluorescent lights light up the green marker Frankie had decorated her entire body with. Almost angry-looking, marks all up her arms and legs, her normally light eyebrows now a mossy green, a fantastic curly moustache drawn over her upper lip.

  That was her crime—being three and believing she had the right to behave like a three-year-old.

  He deafened her and attempted to silence her. Boxed her ears to the point where one was useless and the other barely worked.

  They take Frankie to a trauma room and then a solid looking nurse pulls me away from the curtain and over to the vending machines. She cups her hand to my face, wiping some of the blood from my forehead with a neatly folded square of gauze.

  “Are you all right, dear? Are you injured?” she whispers.

  I cross my arms over my chest defensively, the bruises already starting to show on my skin from where he’d gripped my wrist to stop me from reaching her. “I’m fine,” I lie.

  The nurse tips her head at an angle and gazes at me curiously, her eyes raking over my nightdress, my knees knocking, my body shivering. “What really happened tonight? You can tell me. You can trust me,” she says.

  My lips lie. My brain tells me to do what my mother asked. My fear wins. My face blanketed in false calm, I say, “She fell down the stairs,” without slipping once. Each word feels false, without meaning, strung together to make a lie.

  The nurse’s shoulders slump. She sighs deeply and shakes her head.

  When she walks away I slide to the floor, leaning my back against the cherry red vending machine, the rattling refrigerator lulling me into numbness.

  I was thirteen then. Things are different now. Now we are on our own.

  My father beckons us with one stern finger. “The police have some questions and then you’ll be allowed to see her to say a brief goodbye,” he orders.

  I nod stiffly and pull Frankie to my side. She’s holding me up as much as I’m supporting her.

  He puts a hand to the small of my back and steers us down the hall. His fist wants to burrow to my spine for embarrassing him, I can tell, but he holds back for now. We walk slowly, following a bustling, flustered nurse. She stops at a door, opens it to check if anyone’s inside, and then ushers us in. The plaque on the door reads “Mourning Room”. I gulp at the stale, disinfected air. Everything feels dense and hollow at the same time.

  “If you’d like to take a seat, a pastor will be here shortly,” she says somberly.

  My father puts his hand up. “That won’t be necessary, Sister.”

  She looks like she’s about to object but the look my father gives her is pure shadow, and she quickly leaves.

  Five minutes later, two police officers enter the room. It is fast. There’s nothing much to say. She fell. My father and I confirm each other’s stories, our maid already made a statement at home. It’s over. The police officer mutters something about insurance on the way out, but my brain has left the building. I’m now waiting to see my mother. To say goodbye.

  How do I even do that?

  5. HOME

  KETTLE

  It’s funny how I always feel lighter, almost like I’m flying, as I head home, even though I’m descending into a dark, dank kind of place.

  I whistle as we wind our way through slimy alleyways stinking of trash and other unnamable things. Ignoring the smells, I plunge my nose into the bag of groceries I’m carrying; fresh bread and crisp-skinned apples reward me. Kin gives me irritated, sideways glances as I whistle. I’m only doing it to annoy him, and it’s working.

  “Will you quit it?” he snaps.

  I flick his hat
from his head, and it lands in a puddle. He swears, going to punch me in the guts. I swerve and he stumbles, almost head-butting a big, green dumpster. “Ha! Serves you right,” I say triumphantly.

  He growls and gives me the silent treatment the rest of the way to the station.

  It’s peak hour, the best time to get home. We fold ourselves into the swarms of people huddling shoulder to shoulder, pushing their way through the turnstiles. We line up at side-by-side turnstiles, wait for the person in front to produce a ticket, and then press too close to them, slipping through. We both apologize and run off before they can respond.

  It’s a weird, quiet noise that rumbles through the underground space. People moving, thudding into each other by accident. No one really talks, but this many people crammed together just make noise, a chorus of bodies and breathing. I like it. It’s life, messy and complicated, getting mixed up together. This place forces rich and poor to mingle. Down here, we’re all just people trying to get home. I grin at the thought and catch Kin rolling his eyes at me.

  We line up at the platform, looking like we’re about to jump on the next car, but as soon as people swarm around the door, Kin and I step backward, kicking an old, wooden door with our heels. It slowly gives way, and we slip into darkness.

  As I turn and rake my hands over the cool stones of this dark tunnel, peace hums over me. The moss whispers home. The stones seep comfort.

  Kin breaks the silence. “How long has it been this time?”

  “Three days too long,” I reply, slapping out at his tall, slim form in the dark. My hand connects with his back. His ribs jut out like ladder rungs.

  “But you made it count didn’t you, superhero?” he teases.

  “I made some money if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yeah, sure. That’s what I mean.” He groans. “You know, if you skimmed a bit off the top, even if you crammed a few packets of those cookies down your pants, we really would be eating like kings tonight.”

  I hoist the bag of groceries tighter to my chest. “That’s not how we do things anymore. You know that. Right? We’re better than that.”

  Kin snorts and spits on the ground. “Yeah, yeah. For seventeen, you’re a self-righteous lil’ bastard.” He reaches out to pat my head, and I duck away from his shadow.

  “Kin, you are only a couple of months older than me.”

  He grunts.

  “Now, answer me this—will we eat tonight?” I ask.

  No answer.

  “Will we eat tonight?” I croon.

  “Will you shut up?” he croons back.

  “Kin,” I say with a descending tone to my voice.

  “All right, all right. Yes, we will eat tonight, and yes, we didn’t steal. Blah, blah, blah.” I smile at his half-hearted whining.

  “Good man!” I chirp, my feet slapping against the dirty water running through this abandoned passage.

  We come to the second door. Golden light tries to escape through the cracks in the wood.

  Kin mutters under his breath, “You shouldn’t bug me so much. I’m much bigger and stronger than you.”

  “Yeah, but this is my place. I found it. I called dibs. You wanna live here, then you do it by my rules.” I puff up my chest, smiling. Kidding around. But there’s truth to what I say. I lean against the wall, remembering the fear that drove me into this tunnel, the desperation as I plunged between the legs of commuters and fell through the door. I still feel that pack of sweets digging into my palm, the shuddering terror at the thought of being dragged back to detention or worse, the orphanage. Finding the tunnel was a sign or something. It was a refuge.

  We knock on the door in a secret way. Things move and rattle on the other side, and it creaks open. Cat-like green eyes and a broad smile greets me. Keeper runs a dirty hand through her black hair and chomps her teeth like a piranha. “Food!” she yells. She snatches the grocery bag from my hand and runs to the others, throwing random items into greedy hands.

  Wrappers scrunch in dirty fingers and eager eyes glance up at Kin and me for permission to start. “Easy. That has to last us a few days.” They tear into the wrappers but eat slowly, taking small bites and rolling down the tops of the packets to keep for later.

  My family of homeless children, the Kings of the subway, eat quietly, fight over who gets to eat what, and play.

  I snatch a cracker from Krow’s hand and nibble. He glances up at me. “Is that all you’re going to have, Kettle?”

  I shrug. “I ate on the way here.”

  Kin elbows me in the ribs and whispers, “Liar,” so only I can hear him.

  I shrug again and leave the group, running my hands over the stacked stones, raising my eyes to the ceiling and marveling at the arch over our heads. Every stone is in perfect balance. Some people might see sandy, discolored rocks, but when I look at this haven, I see gold. I see a palace. The iron chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, though unlit most of the time, still hold an air of grace to them. The way the candlelight flickers and reflects off the green tiles that pattern parts of the walls and ceiling is a tapestry.

  I collapse on a dusty cushion and sigh. The candle sitting on an old cable drum next to me wavers with my breath.

  It’s good to be home.

  6. GOODBYE

  NORA

  Keep me, I breathe. I know it’s impossible but… wherever you’re going, keep me with you.

  I’m staring at my feet. The velvet looks battered and dirty, layers of hospital dirt creeping up my heels. My toes push up at the ends.

  They lead me down a waxy hall, pink spotted with black mixed with dried blood creates the carpet on which I walk. Frankie’s tiny shoes step in line with mine. I can’t look up. If I make eye contact with one more sorry face, my own will melt away. I could drown this whole hospital in tears. Because this is very suddenly becoming too real. This is not a dream I had. This is not a mistake. My mother is dead.

  She fell, she fell, she fell.

  I will never see her again.

  I clutch Frankie closer to my side and look at my reflection in the heels of my father’s shiny shoes. We are wisps of children, ghost-like and hungry looking.

  The nurse gestures to the elevator, presses the button, and gives me an I’m-so-sorry look, which I manage to catch under a curtain of my own hair. I nod.

  “The morgue is on Basement Level Two,” she says. “Someone will meet you at reception.”

  The doors open, and my father strides inside. He sniffs. This is harder for him than he would like either of us to see. I don’t want to see him like this either. It makes me wonder about him in a way I can’t. The idea that he loves, loses, and feels sadness is too much for me.

  When the doors close, my father clears his throat and speaks, his voice dry and wooden, “Girls, I want you to behave respectably. Keep your goodbyes brief and control your emotions.”

  Frankie steps forward out of my grasp, and I see my father’s fist clench at his side. “What does respect-a-bubble mean, Deddy?”

  I pull her back and answer for him. Cupping her chin, I whisper, “It means don’t scream and cry. Be polite and do as you’re told. Okay?” There’s a warning in my eyes, but she’s not getting it.

  “Will there be toys in the mork?” she asks as she grasps the handrail and swings from it, lifting her knees to her chest.

  “Toys? Why you… I…” He spins around and grabs at her, but I step in front. His knuckles connect with the top of my ribs, which would have been her head, sending icy splinters of pain radiating up my shoulder. I stumble back and then straighten.

  “She’s sorry, Father. She doesn’t understand,” I say, attempting to diffuse and trying really hard not to reach for the throbbing new injury he’s given me. I need to shield her. “I’ll make sure she behaves respectably. I promise.” I bow my head, a small tear squeezing from the corner of my eye.

  He seems to remember himself, remember where he is, and irons out his shirt with his flattened palms carefully. He turns his back to
me, but I can see his wobbly form and furious expression in the elevator doors. “Right. Good. Make sure you do.”

  Swallowing, I hold out my hand to my sister, wishing so hard this wasn’t happening and understanding what my life will be like now.

  The elevator chimes, and we step out. Before I’ve taken two steps, my father kneels down at Frankie’s eye level. He puts his hand on her shoulder and smiles. She smiles back. “Daddy didn’t mean to scare you, darling.” He touches her hair, tucks it behind her ear, and sighs deeply. I shudder. “You look so much like Rebecca. You’ll grow up to be a beautiful woman one day, sweetheart.”

  Frankie curtsies. “Thank you, Deddy.”

  “Are you the Deere family?” A young voice inquires.

  “We are,” my father replies.

  Minus one. We are the Deere family minus one.

  *****

  Father goes in first, flanked by a man in a white coat and a police officer. He is in there longer than I expected. Something about identifying the body. When he comes out, he sweeps his long arm around us both and hugs us awkwardly while the police officer watches.

  “Can I take my girls home now, Officer?” he asks impatiently, with not much of a veil over his irritated tone.

  “Wait.” I step forward. “I thought you said I could…?” He’s eyeing me hard, and I know I’m going to pay for it later, but I need to see her.

  “I decided it’s no place for a young lady,” he answers shaking his head. “It won’t do you any good.”

  “Please, Father?”

  With everyone watching, my father concedes. “Suit yourself. But I warned you.” There are two meanings to that warning—one pretends to care, the other is a ready fist. I bow my head, not even wanting to look at the punishments lurking in his eyes.

  “Thank you, Father,” I say to the ground.

  I silently follow the police officer through two doors. Bluish lights glow overhead and the cold seeps deep, deep, deep into my bones.

  We come to a bank of metal drawers, and the police officer speaks, “Are you sure you want to do this, Miss Deere?” his tone wary.