by Trisha Leigh
The words gather in the air, surround my feet, and settle next to me on the bed, a steaming stew of letters and sentences. I’m afraid if I slurp them all down they’ll never rearrange into the proper order, never make sense, so I sit among my own story, afraid to touch. Afraid to move.
“The… Were they nuns?” I’ve seen those in movies but don’t feel sure of the term. It must be close because he shrugs, then nods. “So, they gave the babies away. To whom?” My lips feel numb. If my father’s words steam, mine slide across my mouth like cubes of ice.
“I don’t know. Your mother raised hell but couldn’t learn where they sent you, and I’m not sure if your grandparents knew, either. Maybe they didn’t want to.”
Grandparents. More people poised on the threshold of my new life. People who had forced my mother to leave her life, who had been ashamed of a baby they never knew, but still. Family.
The word turns over in my mind, and the sudden pressure of all these new people and expectations and changes makes it hard to breathe.
The man, my father, doesn’t seem to notice, kind of lost in his own memories. “Abigail and I exchanged letters while she was at the school. We talked about you, mostly. She was sure you’d be a girl, and we agreed on your name. Wondered if there was a way to smuggle you out, for us to run away. But we knew there wasn’t. In the end, she and I hoped you would have a good life, with people who loved you like we did.”
He meets my gaze again, with a reassuring smile this time. “I would like for you to consider coming to live with me, Norah, but I understand if this is all too much to take in. You’re not a baby. You’re hardly a child, and this is your decision.”
“What decision?”
“Whether you want to come home with me when the hospital and the police discharge you. There are options.”
The words make sense now, yet they don’t. Decisions, choices… those aren’t things that have ever belonged to me. “What options?”
“They can place you in foster care with a different family. Or a group home, if you’re more comfortable with that. Some of the other children that you grew up with will probably end up in one of those situations. From what I understand, not everyone’s parents can be found.”
A fissure cracks me down the middle. An ache erupts, a need to know this man who helped create me, even if he has had no other impact on the girl I’ve become. Am becoming. Hot on its heels is a slimy fear, one that suggests in a snakelike whisper that perhaps he doesn’t actually want me. That he’s here out of duty, obligation, guilt, and nothing more.
“What do you want?” I manage, my voice small.
Tears gather in his eyes with more force, trembling on his bottom lashes before one drops down his cheek. “I want a second chance.”
The firm, quick response surprises me. It sounds as though he wants me to go home with him, for us to have the chance at the relationship that was taken from us years ago, but I’m not sure that’s all he wants, or that the tears are only for the lost chances with me. Grief hangs on him almost as strongly as his peace, making him hard to read.
My concentration on trying to decipher his feelings makes me slow, too slow, when he reaches for my hand. His fingers grip mine too tight for me to pull away, and a set of numbers flash in front of my eyes. Black, like always. No details. There never are.
83
The news is not bad—my father can’t be older than thirty-five, which means that if I decide to go with him, to get to know him and maybe build blood into something more, we have time.
A wet sob dampens my throat, and I clamp my fingers around his. It’s been years since my skin has touched anyone else’s. Since the doctors and researchers gave up making me practice, satisfied that there was nothing more to my gift. Nothing they can use to kill, or alter, or predict. It’s just information. Useless on its own.
Like me.
He’s going to die. I’m staring at a dead man, but the fact that it’s far away, and that he’ll be an old man, calms my typical nausea after seeing a number.
Everyone dies, Gypsy.
A deep breath helps steady my nerves, and the quiet in the room helps me hear the answer that’s struggling to escape from beneath my crushing uncertainty. “I think it would be nice. To try.”
His body comes alive from the top down—eyes brighten, shoulders and back straighten, and then his legs propel him from the chair. He tugs me up and grasps my other hand, and the number 83 recedes to a transparent blink on the edge of my vision the longer we’re connected.
It’s the same age most people expect to lose a parent. Breathe.
“Thank you, Norah.”
A law-enforcement agent of some sort pushes the door open without knocking, then stands by the door, avoiding looking at us. “I’m sorry, Mr. Crespo. I’m here to ask a few more questions and get contact information, and then she can go home as soon as the doctors discharge her.”
“Don’t be sorry. Do your job so my daughter can start putting this behind her.”
Putting what behind me? My life? The Cavies?
It’s not possible for me to make a cut, to sever past from present, and confusion tugs on my heart. I don’t know what to feel or what I’m supposed to feel, and fatigue swamps me.
Robert lets go of my hands, and I lose more than the winking number. The break in contact steals warmth and promise, and even though it’s silly—neither of us is going anywhere—the thought of being alone nudges confusion toward panic. I don’t know this man at all, but the Cavies, the family I want, aren’t here. They’re not going to be here, and without thinking, I adjust.
My hand darts out, snatching Robert’s fingers again as the young cop starts down the same list of questions they’ve had for two days, and I answer. Betray the Cavies, the Philosopher, the people who raised me, one more time.
We go over everything. What I remember from the beginning, our daily life at Darley. I leave out the things I skipped during previous interrogations—about our powers, what the laboratories were used for on a regular basis, and let them believe what they want about the nature of the Philosopher’s research—but am honest about the other kids, our friendships, and that none of us were unhappy or mistreated.
Whether or not that means an easier sentence for my caretakers is impossible to know. But I feel compelled to protect them, as they’ve done me. All of us. If everyone’s story turns out to be the same as mine, if we were all given away by our parents or nuns or whatever, the Philanthropist and the Philosopher and the Professor… they didn’t do anything wrong. Not really.
The officer takes my father’s address and phone number—my address and phone number, now—and turns off his tape recorder. A doctor enters, the officer leaves. I’m free to go.
Free. To go.
Chapter Four
“It’s not too homey or anything. It’s just me.”
My father gestures me over the threshold of a Charleston single house, white with black shutters, two piazzas running down one side. The scents of pine cleaner and bleach gush out the door, mingling with the tendrils of jasmine and magnolia wafting up from the garden. When he flicks a switch, the fluorescent light makes me squint. We’re in a laundry room, two bright-white appliances situated underneath cabinets, a tiled floor leading through an open doorway into a good-sized modern kitchen built around a giant marble-topped island.
He leads the way through the house, flipping on more lights as we cross into a living room covered with dark hardwood floors. My eyes struggle to adjust to the brightness and clutter, as they have since leaving Darley. Every last inch of space is utilized, ordered, overfilled. The real world is a study in excess. Light, sound, people—there’s so much of everything.
The living room kind of reminds me of the Clubhouse in that the furniture doesn’t match and there’s too much of it. There’s a giant sectional, but the fat end piece, like something Cleopatra would have reclined on while being fed grapes, is off-white instead of the khaki color of the rest of it. Th
e bookshelves that surround a nook under the windows are mismatched, too—one white, one black, both overflowing—and flank a chocolate suede recliner. Lamps are scattered here and there, all aglow, and there’s an armoire and television that wouldn’t fit on any of the four walls in my cabin.
The movies we watched at Darley made us feel as though our lives aren’t that different, that we understand what it’s like for kids our age in this world, the one outside, but the pressure on my chest promises that’s not true. Nothing feels familiar or good or welcoming.
Nothing feels like home.
“What do you think?” He looks sheepish, and the house could be tidier. “It’s not much, but I think there’ll be plenty of room for both of us once you settle in, and it’s close to where you’ll be attending school.”
“Traditional school,” I try, copying Sandra’s words. My voice shakes.
“Well, regular school. You’ll have to be tested so they know where to place you, but we should be able to get that taken care of so you can get started before winter break.”
“Okay.” Tests I understand. They don’t scare me. Jumping into a building full of strangers is another story.
There’s still a shift toward excitement, of anticipation, at meeting kids who are normal. Who don’t have the ability to stop a heart beating in a chest, or fly around the world in less than ten minutes, or burn a house down with a concentrated glance. It’s small, struggling to stay alight among my nerves, but there.
My brave front wavers; I’m bone-tired from days of acting as though I’m not freaking out. Even though I’m grateful to be out of the hospital, to have a place to sleep where no one will be watching, I’ve pretended as long as I can. Fatigue stretches my mask of coolness until it’s threadbare, and when my body betrays me with a yawn, Robert notices.
“I’m sure you’re exhausted. Let me show you the upstairs, then I’ll heat up a pizza and you can get to bed early.”
I shuffle behind him up a narrow, carpeted staircase with worn footprints in the middle of each step. The crisp smell of aftershave and fabric softener tickles my nose in his wake, along with a wisp of something citrusy that seems familiar even though it’s not. He points out a bathroom on the right, a swath of pristine white tiles around an equally white claw-footed tub and frosted-glass shower. Fluffy dark blue towels hang from a cheap plastic rod, and the faucet drips.
He swings open a door on the left side of the hall, flipping another switch. “This will be your room. It’s for guests at the moment, so we’ll have to do a little spit-and-shine to make it yours, but that’s easy enough.”
My room. This is my room. Not my bed in a shared cabin with no door, but a space that I can claim. Decorate. Close off, if I feel the need. Heat glows in my chest, throbbing and rolling outward until molten gold runs through my veins instead of blood. “Thank you.”
I’m not sure what to call him. In my head I think of him as my father, but calling him Dad feels weird. Using his given name seems just as off, so for now, I avoid calling him anything.
It’s awkward, the air between us. We’re strangers trying so hard to act as though this is normal and comfortable, and even though we’re succeeding on the surface, underneath it’s still a poor fit.
“My room’s at the end of the hall, and I have my own bathroom, so the one we passed is yours.” He trails off, looking at the single small bag he dropped on the carpet inside my door, then fiddles with one of the buttons on his shirt. “You’ll need a few things, I expect. For school and everything. We can go shopping tomorrow.”
Tomorrow doesn’t seem any more solid than today but I nod, drinking in the room that’s mine now. It’s plain, with a double bed on a white metal frame, a desk, and a table. A simple white down comforter covers the bed, not a single picture adorns the walls, and the end table is empty but for a lamp.
But it’s mine.
“I’m going to cook that pizza. Should be ready in a half hour or so. I mean, if you’re hungry. If you’re not, that’s fine, too.” He stops rambling and draws a heavy breath. He’s obviously feeling as unmoored as I am with everything that’s changed in the past twenty-four hours.
There’s a good chance he’s mourning his life-that-was, too, but maybe he’s not as curious as I am about the life-that-could-be. Either way, the invitation to dinner sounds forced.
The ache in my empty stomach makes me nod anyway, while the tidal wave of confusing emotions drowns another thank-you. He goes downstairs, leaving me with the remnants of his peaceful acceptance. They make this mountain of change and new things and terrifying days ahead seem conquerable. Like it’s possible for me to climb it, one step at a time.
The bed sinks a little under my weight. The comforter ripples beneath my palms, soft and begging for a good snuggle. The rest of the room offers nothing in the way of visual interest, but even if my father takes me shopping tomorrow, I have no idea how to fill it up, what will make it say, this room belongs to Norah Jane Crespo.
The interiors of our cabins at Darley are nothing but brick and wood beams. There are fireplaces and a table, in addition to two beds on the ground and one in a loft. Like this room, there’s nothing else. Unlike this room, no one ever told me I could make it mine.
The smell of food wafts up the stairs, army-crawls under my door, and coaxes a growl from my stomach. The hospital food was less than appetizing and that, along with my nerves, meant it was left on the tray more often than not. I push to my feet, opening the door and peering out into the hall. It’s empty, and so is the bathroom when I make it in there with my toothbrush in tow.
The bathrooms at Darley were outdoors and separate for boys and girls. If we were ill, the staff would let us use the bathtub or shower at the big house, where the water is hot, but otherwise bathing was quick and freezing, even in the winter.
The bathroom here blinds me with its starkness, but it’s indoors and probably has hot water, a theory that’s proven as I splash my face clean in the sink. Grime, real or imagined, makes the rest of my skin itch but the smell of melting cheese says there’s no time for a shower.
My blue eyes sparkle with a strange combination of fear and curiosity, brighter than usual against my pale face. Chestnut strands escape the floppy bun at the crown of my head, and the sameness of my appearance gives me something to grasp. It feels like the single thing that hasn’t changed since the police raided Darley and took us all away.
“Norah, the pizza’s ready if you want to come down!”
A tentative smile tickles the corners of my lips at the sound of my father calling for me from the bottom of the stairs. It’s like a dream, one I put away a long time ago. I’d accepted that the Cavies were the only family I’d ever have, and I love them more than life. They’re my brothers, my sisters, the people who understand what it’s like to be me.
But they’re not parents.
It seems, based on movies, that lots of girls my age hate their parents, or at least hate the rules and restrictions and expectations that come along with living at home. They don’t realize what they have, which makes sense. Nothing looks as beautiful when you’re living inside it.
My mouth feels clean after a quick brushing, and I hurry down the stairs and find my way back to the kitchen. The combination of cheese, meat, and hot bread hovers in the air and makes my stomach grumble louder, and my father shoots me a smile.
I sit across from him at the maple table and grab a slice, sinking my teeth into the sustenance with the kind of reverence that can only be earned by fasting. Light diffuses through the space, winding around our legs and the table and casting a shimmer that makes the scene look surreal. For the moment, I almost believe this will work. That I’ll be normal and no one will ever find out what I can do.
We chew in silence, which grows more uncomfortable by the minute, pizza disappearing while the lengthening day tugs on my eyelids.
After three slices I sit back, more sleepy than ever after filling my belly. “What should I call you?”
>
He chews slowly, then swallows some water before answering. “What do you want to call me?”
“I don’t know. I mean, this has to be weird for you, finding out the daughter you never expected to meet needs a place to stay and deciding to share your house and everything. Maybe you don’t feel like a dad.” I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, worrying that my words are wrong.
“I’ve felt like a dad since I found out your mother was pregnant, Norah. Losing you all those years ago doesn’t mean I wasn’t a father anymore.” He stares at me, determination filling his dark gaze. “I’m not going to pretend this is easy, or that we don’t have lots of adjusting to do, but I’ve always been your father. Whatever makes you most comfortable, I’ll handle.”
His reply squeezes my heart until it beats sideways, squished by the weight of my snarled emotions. It will be days before I can sort them all out, identify the feelings, and address them one by one. The lump that’s taken up residence in my throat bursts, shooting wetness up to my eyes. Exhaustion explodes in a waterfall of tears, sobs that won’t quit. I lay my head on the table, only realizing my father’s tentative hand is rubbing my back with the reappearance of the 83 behind my eyes.
It’s a long time before oxygen trumps emotion, before the sobs ease to hiccups and relief eases to twinges of embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, keeping my gaze on my hands.
“Don’t be sorry. You’ve been through a lot in the past three days. You’re tired, this is all new. Go to bed.”
I don’t move, frozen by the idea that this is a dream. Fiction. What if I touch the wrong thing and this whole life pops like a million bubbles all at once?
“Norah. Get some sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”
The reassurance gives me a push, and I’m back in my room and under the covers without much recollection of getting there. It would be too hard, require too much energy to change into sleep clothes, and my eyes close before I can even think about summoning it.
