I remember thinking that it wasn’t happening. That the hot pain that spread from my ear to my mouth wasn’t real. Because the trust I put in this man was supposed to be unbreakable. He loved me. He loved my mother. Yet he had just shattered everything with his furious hand.
I was silenced, my eyes darting to my mother, who didn’t say a word. Her head dropped down in shame, and she wouldn’t look at me. Shock stole any words, any tears I had left in me. He turned away from where I sat, legs sprawled like Raggedy Ann, one hand to my cheek like I could scrub it from my face.
The fury subsided as quickly as it had risen. He approached my mother and offered her a hand, which she took. Those joined hands burned a path for me I’ve been trying not to follow, but it still pulls me in.
There were ‘I’m sorrys’ and the phrase ‘it will never happen again’ and then, too quickly, acceptance. Promises that were just chalk scribbled over deep, deep scars. Promises he was incapable of keeping. But she wanted to believe him. She loved him.
Things happened that day that we weren’t allowed to talk about ever again. But I’ll never forget how tiny he was. How he didn’t cry, but my mother made up for his silence with sobs of grief that seemed to want to explode from her chest. She broke. My mother cracked open like a china doll that toppled to the floor. Parts of her never recovered, growing dust under the hallway dresser.
We thought it would never end.
And then there was Frankie.
19. TOO MUCH
KETTLE
I tear down the tunnel, carrying Keeps. Her slack head almost hits the walls of the narrow space, and I have to turn sideways. She’s not helping me at all, hanging from my arms like a wet blanket. Water splashes up my pants and soaks them from ankle to knee in black water. So quickly, she has gone from vibrating to limp. Her hands slap against my legs as I run.
She’s popsicle sticks, glue and twine, clattering out of kilter.
I can’t get caught running through the subway with a dead girl in my arms, and the selfishness of the thought scares me. When I press my head to her chest to check for life, her lungs rattle like there’s a bag of marbles rolling around in her ribcage. Her heart still beats but I’m sure, even though I know nothing about such things, that it doesn’t sound right. Not right. Not like it should.
It’s not the same. It’s not the same.
A wet cough, a cold night, and thin blankets. She didn’t have a chance. Keeper will have a chance. I’ll give her one. The words stab at me over and over. I’m trying to make up for something that wasn’t my fault. I breathe in, standing behind the gappy wooden door, waiting. Feeling wooden myself.
I think of her little heart struggling to pump, the fever burning the blood in her veins, and I grip her tighter, my ear pressed to the splintered door. I listen for the next train and the flash of lights to pulse through the cracks. When the car pulls away, I quickly exit. The door swings open and stays ajar. Kin’s loud footsteps thud from the opening, and his head appears through the dark. He gives me a stern yet resigned look.
“Be careful, brother,” he utters as he pulls the door closed.
Careful. I want to laugh.
It’s so late that there’s no one around except beggars and bugs, neither of which care about what I’m doing. It also means no doctor’s practice will be open. It takes me two seconds to decide that I’ll have to take her to the hospital.
I can’t believe I’m going to do this.
I curse when I look down at my bare feet and my toes purpling from cold, but there’s no time to go back and change. I’m not even wearing a coat. The next car pulls up, and I jump on. It slides over the tracks, and I almost lose my balance. Locking my knees, I try to hold strong. I don’t want to sit. I want to be ready to run when the doors open again. Keeps shudders in my arms. Her usually olive face is so pale, individual hairs sticking to her forehead like drawn-on wrinkles.
A clearing cough from the only other passenger makes me look up. An older guy sits with a bottle in one hand and a grimace on his face. He stares at me with uncomprehending eyes, clearly drunk, as I stand rigidly by the door. I lean against the pole to steady myself and am ready to bolt as soon as it glides open.
Something tickles my arm and I flinch. The braid I did, that she kept in for five days, has turned her straight black hair curly. It brushes over my arm with the rhythm of the train. She breathes slower now, air creeping lethargically into her mouth. I don’t like it at all. I curse again, and the drunk looks up at me from under his bushy, gray eyebrows.
I practice what I’m going to say when I get there. I’m her brother. I don’t know her social security number; I’m home from boarding school and was babysitting while my parents went away for the weekend. Keeps is ten years old. No. She’ll need a new name. I think of her cat-like, green eyes. Cat. Cate… I pluck the only American surname I can think of from the air—Jackson. Cate Jackson.
The subway door opens and I sprint up the steps, nearly slipping as I reach the top. I’m scared.
I don’t want this to be my fault. I knew she was sick and I left her alone for days.
It’s my fault.
The sleepy attendant doesn’t bother to stop me when I climb awkwardly over the barrier, resting Keep’s butt on the metal box while I move through. As I stumble up the incline, the cool air plummets further as I hit the sidewalk. I try to wrap my arms around her tighter. The instinct to keep her warm is so strong despite the fact that she feels like the surface of the sun right now. She moans. Good. She’s alive.
***
At this time of night, the hospital glimmers like a beacon to my desperation. The ivy climbing the walls looks waxy and fake and the inside lights are blinding as I approach. I knock the double glass doors with my shoulder and stumble into the large reception area, feeling ready to scream.
All eyes are on me. A nurse hurries toward us, her white dress and white stockings shining too brightly under the lights. Her mouth moves and her hands flutter in front of my eyes, but I can’t seem to hear her. I shake my head slowly and narrow my eyes as orders pour from the nurse’s lips and a bed on wheels appears. Her pale hands shoot out, and Keeps is ripped from my willing arms. They lay her dirty, ragged body down on crisp white sheets and I watch as she’s wheeled away from me, unable to do anything. Feeling only guilty relief.
A hand goes to my shoulder, and I try to focus, to listen. “Your sister is very ill. We should call your parents,” says the short, blonde nurse. She reminds me of a clothes peg doll, short and sturdy looking.
I don’t answer—just stare at her in shock.
I don’t know what to do.
I shake my head. They’ve got her now.
“Young man.” She shakes me gently. I feel so insubstantial that she could probably knock me over with a flick of her finger. “Do you have a number where we can reach your parents?”
She doesn’t have any parents. I was the closest thing… and now…
“I… um…” My hands are outstretched like she’s still in my arms. They feel heavy with her lost weight.
She pats my arms and forces them down to my side with some effort. Gesturing to the men’s bathroom sign, she says, “Why don’t you go splash some water on your face, take a few deep breaths, and then come find me. We’ve taken her to bed,” she glances down at her clipboard, “eighteen in Emergency.”
My voice cracks when I say, “Okay… you’re going to take care of her, right? She’s going to be okay?”
She presses the clipboard to her flat chest and crosses her arms over the top. “This is the best hospital in the state. You did the right thing bringing her here. Don’t worry, we will do everything we can to help her.” The right thing. I try to wear those words because it doesn’t feel like the right thing. Everything about this feels wrong. “Your parents will be very proud of you.”
I pull back from the strange expression that wants to show on my face. The orphan one. The one that reads—parents, what parents? And I enter the bat
hroom.
Mechanically, I do what the nurse advised. I splash water on my face, take a few deep breaths, and they crush me with guilt. I’m going to have to leave her behind. I can’t stay here. I can’t answer the questions they’re going to ask.
I’m sorry, Keeper. I’m sorry I couldn’t look after you.
After a few minutes, I peek out the door and see the nurse is still waiting for me, tapping her foot impatiently and starting to look suspicious. I let the door close, rake my hand through my hair, and look for a way out.
The window is old, rusted, and I push it open easily, small flakes of old paint falling into the basin I’m standing on. I crawl out, feet first, and drop down to the icy pavement like a bomb, sending splinters of pain through my heels. There’s something like a tear in my eye, but it never falls.
I blink up at the sky, think of flying, and follow the stars home, each one feeling like a spurred weight pressing into my back.
SIX MONTHS LATER
20. THE LIGHT
NORA
The ache of missing her is slowly being replaced with bruises. And each bruise adds a layer of armor. My skin is thickening. I’m a lizard that can’t shed its skin. I just keep growing more scales as times goes by. Soon, I shall be swallowed by them.
Since she died, I have released a comb, a necklace, a silk scarf, a pair of stockings, one high-heeled shoe, a lipstick, two costume rings, three hairclips, and a pair of riding pants into the alley. And each time, I feel a little less human. I feel closer to her, though, because I’m becoming a ghost, someone floating in Neverland.
Two and a half years is too long.
It’s after dinner. A rare one where we ate together as a ‘family’.
The phone rings. My father gives us a get-out-of-here look, and Frankie and I retreat to the playroom.
It starts out as low tones and mumbles but as minutes pass, he becomes aggravated. I smile as I watch Frankie pulling the hair from one of her dolls. This one isn’t about me. Hopefully, he’ll get out his aggression during this phone call and have no energy to hunt me down later.
I miss the sky. I want to get out there tonight, but he doesn’t sleep like he used to… before. It’s harder to sneak out.
“We always knew it was wrong, Karl. Hell, most people knew, but they were too afraid to say anything,” I hear him shouting to his partner. “Now that we have a chance to make amends, I’m not changing my mind.” He pauses while Karl talks and when he replies, his tone is terse and impatient. “We have a case. They are American citizens. Their only crime is the color of their skin… Yes, I know. But attitudes are changing and even if they weren’t, wrong is wrong. They deserve compensation. For God’s sake, man. It’s been over seven years; the war is over. Besides, many JAs fought for our country, died for our country. I won’t let it go… No, I don’t agree… It’s time for the American government to make it right… No, I don’t care how long it takes… Yes, I understand there are these so-called Lost Children to track down too; damn papers have to make a catchphrase out of everything… I would have run away too if my future had been so uncertain…”
I listen to my father’s passionate argument. It is admirable and confusing.
“Go back West? Many of them don’t want to or can’t, and I don’t blame them. They have nothing to go back to… Given a small grant, these hardworking people would contribute greatly to the community. In fact, they already are. Imagine what they could achieve given the chance. You can’t strip a person of everything and then expect them to just get on with life like nothing has changed… Look Karl, I don’t think most Americans feel that way anymore. Yes, I can meet you though I see no point… Fine, see you in ten minutes.”
The phone clangs down violently, and he stomps down the stairs.
Frankie is chewing on her doll’s hair now and looks at me with curious, big eyes, her lashes looking like the fraying end of an ear of corn. Delicate and the lightest brown. “What’s Deddy talking about? What’s a Jay Ay?” she asks, blinking innocently. “What does he mean by Lost Children?”
My heart clenches in my chest and my eyes fly to the window, hoping an answer will be tapped out in the rain pattering on the pane. “JA means Japanese American. During the war, Japanese Americans on the West Coast were put in camps. Lost Children are what the papers are calling the children whose parents passed away, couldn’t care for them any longer, or they ran away,” I say, pulling her into my lap. She’s all sharp angles and anxious bones. She lays her head against my chest, her ear pressed to my collarbone, which is still healing. I breathe in sharply at the pain.
“Are we Lost Children because we don’t have a Mommy anymore?” she naively asks.
Yes.
I shake my head. “No, darling, it’s not quite the same.”
“We’ve got Deddy,” she says so very sadly with a small pale finger on her nose, and I wonder how much she comprehends and senses. Probably more than I give her credit for. More than I want.
I tap her nose too and watch her grow cross-eyed. “Yes. But we also have each other,” I whisper, trying to pull her closer but it’s like trying to pin down a spider.
She bats at my finger and wiggles in my lap like an eel, kicking her legs for a while, then she squirms out of my grasp. “Love you, Nora Snora.” She giggles.
I throw a cushion at the back of her ever-swaying head as she runs across the rug. Love doesn’t even cover it.
21. WHAT HAPPENED?
KETTLE
Kelpie kicks my head in his sleep. His long toenails scrape across my face and I grab his ankles together in one hand, trying to swing him around so we’re not laying head to toe. Ever since Keeps got sick, he somehow finds his way over to my bed at night. It scared everyone. Even Kin keeps a closer eye on the boys than he used to. I even bought a thermometer and some cough syrup. Thankfully no one’s been sick, but every time I hear a sniffle or a cough, I jerk out of bed like Count Dracula awakening from his eternal sleep or so Kin tells me.
I pull back the covers and scoop Kelpie up, picking my way over the others and laying him down in his little bed. His eyes flutter open briefly and he whispers, “You going, Kettle?” His young face, still slightly chubby, is smudged with dirt, his blond curls flattened on one side from sleep.
I smooth my hair from my forehead and try to smile. Poor kid, he’s younger than Keeps was… is… damn it! I take a deep breath and say, “Not til’ morning, Kelpie.” I go to pat his head but pull back, putting my hand in my pocket. “Get some sleep, kid.” He lies down and closes his eyes, his two hands pinching the blanket like bird claws, up under his chin.
My fingers fold over the necklace nestled in my pocket, the smooth stone cold on my skin. I’ve stopped wondering why. I don’t question. I just catch the things that fall from the window. I want to believe they are for me. I want to think that something good can happen to someone like me. I shake my head as I collapse back on my bed. Checking that everyone’s sleeping, I pull it from my pocket, swinging it back and forth between my pulled-up legs. The stone glints darkly, the spikes that radiate out from the center making it look like a black star. I unlock the padlock, lift the lid of my chest just slightly, and then change my mind, slipping it back into my pocket. This one has value.
***
Morning comes and I haven’t slept a wink. Water swashes across from me as Kin washes himself with a bucket of water behind a curtain. I stand, rubbing my eyes and stretching. “Kin, I’m going to meet you at the docks,” I say, slipping on shoes and darting out the door before anyone can stop me. On the way out, I ruffle Kelpie’s hair. He gives me a gappy grin, his hair standing up stiffly where I just rustled it. Toothbrushes. I need to check that everyone has toothbrushes.
I need answers.
I jog up the steps, warm, smelly air hitting me as soon as I touch the pavement. Already the swelter has started to bake the fruit in the stalls and warm the trash in the overflowing cans that line the street. I take shallow breaths, pull my cap over my eye
s, and hug the shadows the colorful awnings create.
A few blocks and my eyes find the sign I’m searching for—Paul’s Pawn Shopp. I think there used to be an e on the end of shopp, but now it just looks like Paul can’t spell or has a stutter. I grip the necklace in my pocket and open the door, the bell sounding sickly as I enter.
Paul is sitting on a high stool behind the counter, his grubby face absorbed in a magazine that’s not really for public viewing. When I come to the counter, he ignores me and sweeps another page over, licking his finger as he turns it. I swallow my disgust and pull the chain from my pocket, letting it drop to the glass cabinet noisily to startle him from his ‘reading’.
Gently laying the magazine across his lap like it’s made of silk and lace, he gives me a skeptical look. He’s a jellyfish, parts of his cheeks, chin, and brow bulging out and wobbling. He’s wearing only a vest with suspenders and the smell coming from his armpits is absolutely horrendous.
“Hello, young man,” he says in a most genteel and sophisticated tone, one so at odds with his appearance that I take a step back from the counter in surprise. He bows his head, folds the corner of the magazine down to mark his place, and puts it under the counter. “How can I help you?”
I shift from foot to foot as the swinging metal fans move back and forth like judges shaking their heads at me. Then I stare down at the necklace and remind myself why I’m here. “How much for this?” I ask, jamming some confidence into my voice.
He grasps at it with chubby fingers smudged with ink, and other things I’m trying super hard not to think about, and holds it up between us. Below, encased in glass, watches, jewelry, and lighters with personal inscriptions glare at me dully, trapped and separated from their owners. “Very beautiful piece. Quite old, I’d say. A family heirloom?” he asks me, even though I’m sure he knows it’s not mine and probably suspects I stole it.
Nora & Kettle Page 10