Have You Met Nora?

by Nicole Blades

  “You be you, Mack. That’s always the right choice,” he said, his voice getting quieter. Nora could almost envision him slowly backing away.

  She peeled herself out of the corner and moved a little closer to the locked door. “Thanks. Lanvins it is!” she said, and tried to smile wider, but her face gave out and crumpled. Tears lined her eyes. Nora covered her mouth with the sleeve of her robe.

  “Hey, so, I’ve got to go into the office. Asher and his team are calling in from London about this whole hacker cluster-fuck. I’m trying to make sure it’s not a midnight call for them. Text me if you and Jenna call it quits early and you want to do a late dinner. The Dutch, private room?”

  Nora nodded, but couldn’t stop her chin from quivering enough to speak. “Mmm,” she warbled.

  “All right. Love you.”

  “Mwah,” she said, pressing her face to the door, hoping the kissing sound would suffice and that he’d walk away content.

  “Have fun,” he said.

  Nora kept her ear flat against the door listening for his footsteps to fade. When she could hear nothing but quiet, she scuttled back to her corner under the shelf, leaving a trail of smeared blood behind. She sat there clutching her phone, staring at the uneven red lines on the fluffed white rug like art.

  This was it, the watermark on the wall. And an idea, born of hardened scar tissue and exasperation, came into a finer focus for her. Nora knew what needed to happen, and at last she was ready to make sure that it did.

  CHAPTER 15

  Nora positioned herself at the small square table so that her back was at the wall. She arrived early enough to get the right table, the one that gave her the cleanest view of the Bean House Café entrance. She ordered hot water with lemon and asked for it in a large to-go cup dressed up to look like a latte. Just because it was the only thing Nora could keep down over the last two days didn’t mean she had to relish it. Through some artful delusion and assumed “wedding jitters,” she maintained the illusion of enjoying regular things. The to-go cup masquerade was high on her list of tricks.

  After thirty minutes had passed, she went back to the counter for a refill on her water. “Make it melting hot, please,” she told the barista, and handed over the half-drunk cup. “In about ten minutes, please bring it over to me along with a Good Morning Blondie in a mug for my guest. She should be here by then. We’ll be just over there.” She turned and pointed out the prime table.

  “You bet,” the server said, busily tapping the screen of the iPad POS system. “Will that be all, ma’am?” she asked, finally looking up at Nora.

  “Yes, that’ll be all. Thank you”—she glanced at her name tag—“Gillian.”

  She snorted. “You’re like the first person to get it right the first time around. I usually have to correct people that it’s not a soft G. It’s hard, like go or gum or . . . Gillian.”

  Nora made a face. “That’s annoying.”

  “Honestly? I don’t even bother correcting them anymore and just let the whole soft-G thing ride.”

  “Well, you should keep correcting them.” Nora’s smile dimmed. “Don’t let other people tell you who you are.”

  The server nodded. “I know. You’re totally right. I shouldn’t. It’s my name.”

  Nora’s smile warmed up again and she gave Gillian a crisp $20 bill.

  “Okay, out of twenty, that’s—”

  Nora flashed her palm. “Keep the change.”

  The young woman’s eyes went wide behind her elaborate glasses. “That’s so nice of you! Thanks a lot. We’ll have that order out in”—she looked down at the tablet screen—“about eight minutes or less. Probably less.”

  “Perfect.”

  Nora went back to the table and settled in, keeping her shoulders leveled and back straight like the wall, and waited for Dawn to show.

  Staring into the blurry cloud of people walking in and out of the café, Nora tried hard not to check the watch that spun loose around her now-thinner wrist. She had a knack for guessing where the hands of the clock pointed without looking. It was her personal parlor game, developed in the wee hours of those restless nights at Immaculate Heart. And, like too many other things, she had recently pulled out the quirky coping mechanism from her dark closet and put it back in rotation. The temptation to touch her hair—gathered in a slack bun at the very top of her head—was also high. But she made a strong effort to resist resting on that old habit, too. She had already collected enough blond clumps in the shower; the last thing she needed now was a parade of helpless strands tumbling from her head to her shoulders and sailing down to the table in front of Dawn.

  With each flutter in her chest or the slightest pulsation of the vein by her temple, Nora started counting her breaths. She had stopped relying on running through the old classmates’ names. It only made things worse, wrenching her back a decade ago to the very day that her world upended and left her sprawled on her dorm’s dingy hallway floor. Everything that happened that terrible day had been playing on Nora’s mind nonstop this week from the moment she woke in the early morning until she pretended to fall asleep next to Fisher late at night. She could remember each beat, each wounded expression, each word, and each weighty pause between them. Nora didn’t even have to close her eyes to conjure up the pucker-sour look on Dawn’s face as she was shown off the school premises, her hands behind her back, her whole body steeped in anger, stomping toward the vestibule with the whisper campaign that Nora had started reaching its natural crescendo behind her. For all concerned, Dawn was a thief, a liar, and the vulgar element that had sullied the school’s good name, and everyone was glad to see her gone.

  Nora remembered, too, how quickly she made herself forget about Dawn. Before the school’s immense front door closed all the way on her back, Nora had already forced the girl and the threat she represented into oblivion. How relieved she felt right then, how unencumbered. It was almost as free as she had felt when she realized Immaculate ensured her an escape from Dr. Bourdain.

  But that relief over Dawn being gone withered and rotted to a stench mere hours later, when Nora returned a call from “home” in Montreal and Mrs. Bourdain dropped a cruel and deliberate comment about the history of happenings in her husband’s study.

  She knew. She knew for years.

  She knew and still chose spite and viciousness over protecting Nora from her husband’s savagery.

  She knew, and sitting there in the stuffy, old wood phone booth, Nora then knew that Elise Bourdain was sicker than her husband could ever be.

  All of this Nora had pushed to the back of her consciousness, so far away that she almost convinced herself that it didn’t happen. Dawn was a figment and Mrs. Bourdain, the witch in a very bad dream. She bolted from the school that same night with two suitcases, a backpack, and The Box, and headed for the bus station—thanks to a begged ride from Wyatt, the secondary line cook who was plainly sweet on her. And just before she hopped into the front seat of Wyatt’s dented Toyota and slammed the door, Nora spoke a promise to herself out loud: “This will not be my story.” She said it twice and set it in stone, vowing never to look back.

  And now she was sitting here ten years later, with the wall holding her up, waiting to break that firm bond and confront her ugly, forgotten past.

  Dawn arrived at 9:30 AM sharp. They immediately made eye contact and Dawn started over to the table, walking as if time was not yet a thing. Nora’s heart began beating a little faster as she got closer.

  “Slow, easy,” Nora said to herself, hardly parting her lips enough for the words to crawl out. She took a quick in-and-out breath—keeping her movements relaxed—and watched Dawn approaching. She was wearing a sundress that closely resembled the one Nora wore to the Beaumonts’ annual Kentucky Derby brunch. Candid shots of her and Fisher standing on a vast lawn appeared in the Sunday Style section the next week. The closer Dawn got, the more Nora could pick up the details of the dress; it was nearly identical to her own at home, but she made sure no
ne of this registered on her face.

  “Well, good morning, sunshine,” Dawn said to Nora, and pulled out her chair with added drama. The café server strode by as Dawn sat down.

  “Good morning. My name is Gillian. And I have your order right here.” She lowered the small, round tray to the table. “Your super-nice friend already ordered for you,” the server said, and placed the bowl-sized, foamy mug in front of Dawn. “Here’s your Blondie—our most popular latte. I made it myself, actually.”

  “Oh, lucky me,” Dawn said, flatly, staring over at Nora.

  “If it’s not your cup of tea, so to speak, just let me know and we’ll be happy to make you a new order with something you’ll like.”

  “No, no. I’m sure I’ll love it. My super-nice friend here has super-good taste.” Dawn smiled up at the server.

  Gillian smiled back. “Awesome. And here”—she dipped the tray slightly toward Nora—“is your—”

  “Thank you, Gillian,” Nora said, cutting her short and scooping up her black and red paper cup. “That’s all for now. Thanks so much.”

  Nora gripped her cup and watched Dawn watching Gillian walk away.

  “She kind of reminds me of your partner from boarding school, Addison? The red hair, the dope cat-eye glasses—even back then she had that whole cool nerd-girl thing on lock,” Dawn said. She cupped her hands around the giant mug and started gently blowing through the curled steam. “Addison O’Brien, right? She was one of your better friends. What’s she up to these days—oh, dear,” she said, with exaggerated surprise, “how would you know, right? Actually, I think I saw her on Facebook when I was looking for you. She has a different last name, too. But her change was legit. Married. He’s a doctor, if I remember correctly. No kids yet, though, but”—Dawn crossed her middle and index fingers near her face and affected a creaky voice—“fingers crossed for a hashtag blessed baby bump next yearrrr.”

  Nora felt her nostrils beginning to flare, but managed to tame things down with a sip from her to-go cup. “That’s good. Glad to hear that she’s well,” she said, adding a sincere smile. Nora really was happy to hear that Addison was good. She was one of the first people to befriend Nora shortly after she arrived at the school. They had been walking into the same math class, and Addison was a bubble of red hair and white teeth. She wore vintage cat-eye frames and, that day, a dab of glitter blush high on her left cheekbone. She’d asked Nora where she was from, whom she roomed with, and where she was planning to sit for lunch, all in a single breath as they’d settled into their desks.

  That afternoon in the cafeteria Addison had introduced Nora to her best friend, Emily Beck, who wasn’t quite as welcoming. She’d barely given Nora a side glance near the end of her spirited conversation with Addison about their “perv-o religion teacher Mr. Sullivan.” Nora could never remember much of what was said that day or whether Emily even spoke to her beyond a crisp “hey,” but without effort, she could still bring to mind how she felt in their company—untroubled. The anxiousness about being thrust into another alien environment with a new name, new narrative, and new essence fell away listening to the two girls gripe and gossip. In that moment Nora started to see clearly this new world for what it was (a clean slate) instead of what it wasn’t (home).

  “Speaking of Facebook, that was pretty sharp of you,” Dawn said, dipping her nose into her coffee mug. After each deep sip from her hot brew she would let out a low, contented sigh. “Sending out those flares on FB for me to find, that was a good move. But then I always knew you were brighter than most,” she said, and dragged her eyes from the top of Nora’s high blond bun down to the slightly chipped blush polish on her hand resting on the table. “I could also mean literally bright, too, huh, Barbie?”

  And there it was: that smirk.

  Nora squeezed her left fist balled up tight in her lap. It helped her jaw to stay loose and eyebrows unknotted. Slow, easy, she reminded herself, and kept her gaze on Dawn light, not focused, not staring. Everything, from her breathing to her blinking, needed to stay slow and easy.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Nora said.

  “Oh, I didn’t have a choice. Curiosity was about to ruin me! Now that you’ve got all your shit locked up and encrypted—good job, by the way. Looks like you got some high-level assistance for that alley-oop—the ball’s back in your court”—she raised the cup and took a sip—“for now. Plus, I feel like it’s more fun this way, don’t you?”

  “Dawn, I asked you to meet me here because I want to formally apologize to you. What I did to you in high school was cruel and horrible and, actually, pretty unforgivable. But I’m hoping that you can find it somewhere in you to forgive my bad, selfish choices and let me at least start to make amends, set things right between us.” Nora paused to sip her hot water and assess Dawn’s reaction so far. Was she listening and intrigued, or simply indignant, just waiting to snap back? Nora had rehearsed for both scenarios.

  “You looking for a truce?” Dawn said. She raised a brow at Nora.

  “I wouldn’t say that. I mean, let’s face it, this isn’t exactly a war, Dawn.” Nora gave her a small, knowing grin, but got nothing in return. “I’m looking to clean up my mess. Call it restitution.” She placed both hands on the table. A move to ensure she didn’t clutch her bag that contained two fat envelopes with three hundred and fifty thousand dollars split evenly between them.

  “Restitution? Oh, what, we’re in court now?” Dawn chuckled and shook her head. “Are you trying to compensate me for damages?”

  Nora kept her eyes steady on her.

  Dawn rested her mug down and pushed back from the table. “Is that what this is? You’re trying to buy me, buy your way out of the shit pile?”

  “Look, I’m not trying to buy you. Like I said, I want to take responsibility and clean up—”

  “Your mess. Right. I heard that part. I heard everything you said. And it all boils down to you doing whatever it takes to skate on out of this whole tangled-up fuckery clean and free, and just golden.”

  Nora moved both hands to her lap and clenched her fists. She had prepared for this reaction, she told herself, and needed to breathe through and stick with it. “Dawn, listen to me,” she started, her face serious, “I’m not throwing money at you. I would never insult you like that. Money isn’t the fix here. I came to apologize, ask your forgiveness, and to see if there’s any way I can right my wrongs with you. And as a big first step, I’m hoping that you’ll let me start fresh with you as friends. Real friends.”

  “How can you say real when everything about you is fake?” Dawn squinted and all the creases on her face bunched together.

  Nora bowed her head. She knew her lines, but let the silence play its own role. She closed her eyes and folded her lips tight like a dam holding back a deluge. Just do it, she said to herself.

  And then, after one last deep sigh, she did.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t . . .” Nora kept her head down and made sure to amplify the quickening of her breath, the increasing rise and fall of her chest. “This is really hard. I’m sorry.”

  “The truth isn’t hard,” Dawn hissed. “It’s just the truth; it’s easy.”

  “I know . . . that’s not what I mean.” Nora raised her head a little and glanced across the table. She knew her eyes were red and rimmed with tears; she could feel it. “I don’t want to remember the truth.”

  “What are you even talking about?”

  “I’ve never really told anyone . . . I can’t,” Nora said, making her voice small and weak.

  Dawn snapped, “Is this a game to you? One email, one anonymous call, and you’re done. Do you get that?”

  “Yes, yes, I get it. Trust me, okay? I know this is not a game.” Nora’s voice cracked at the exact moment it should. She took a trembling sip from her cup. “Look”—she raised her head all the way—“my past, the truth, it’s really fucked up. And I’ve never told anyone the whole thing.”

  Dawn raised her mug to her mouth, but paused be
fore slowly tilting it toward her lips. “What whole thing?” she said, and placed the cup back on the table without taking her sip. She looked intrigued.

  Nora squirmed in her chair. “It’s just that I’ve never—” She stopped and looked over her shoulder, returning to their conversation with her voice slightly above a whisper. “I’ve never talked about this out loud before.”

  “Well, now you have to speak on it. Jesus. The buildup,” Dawn said, shaking her head. “Just out with it.”

  “It’s my father . . . he . . . he, um . . .” Nora tented over the bridge of her nose with both hands and sniffled. “He . . .” She swallowed hard, opened and closed her mouth a few times over, trying to form the words. “He raped me.” The pooled tears snaked down her face. “He molested me for years, from when I turned nine until I got sent away to Immaculate.”

  “What the fuck?” Dawn’s mouth hung open. She put her elbows on the table, leaning in farther with her face scrunched up as if she were straining to hear the faintest note. “Are you for real?”

  “Yes!” Nora barked. “Why would I lie about this shit? He was sick and vile. I was a child. And he broke me. I could never figure out how to piece myself back together, patch myself up. It was easier to make like it never happened. I didn’t want it to be real. So I erased it, all of it, and just pretended that it didn’t happen. I had to become someone else. I couldn’t continue moving through a world where a man would do that to a child, and his wife would do nothing to stop it.” She turned her mouth down in utter disgust. This was one part of the whole planned performance that Nora didn’t have to force. It was the truth, raw and palpable.