***
By the time I reach the second door, Kin’s unconscious again. I bang on it and hear the scurrying. They’re waiting for the secret knock, but I can only thump the wood with my elbow. “Let me in. It’s me, Kettle.”
The door slides open, and I’m greeted with hungry eyes and shocked faces. “What’s wrong with Kin?” Krow asks.
“He’s hurt,” I splutter. “Help me lift him onto his bed.”
The boys help me lie him down. We cover his unresponsive body with a blanket and just stare at him for several minutes. I pull the curtain around his bed and tell the boys to clean up the room, walking over to my area and throwing my bag down.
The slinky I bought tumbles out and lands at my feet. I never got the chance to give it to him. Picking it up, I pull it out of the box and let it hang from my fingers. I watch it, detached, as it bounces up and down until it stills. Each time it plunges down, my heart strangles itself a little more. I feel cramped, caged in for the first time since I left that place. The place where we were expected to look after ourselves or die. But at least there were adults there. I feel so out of my depth that I’m sitting on the ocean floor. Just sitting there, looking up at the black sky and wondering how the hell I’m going to get out of this. How will I manage on my own?
I gather up the slinky, tangling it together until it looks more like a ball of barbed wire than a toy. I try to untangle it but make it worse, until my frustration, my helplessness, reaches its peak and I scream, hurling the toy at the wall.
Burying my head in my hands, I allow myself one moment of panic and tears. One. That’s all I get.
The boys are all frozen, staring at me with frightened eyes. I gather myself up, take a few deep breaths, and face them.
***
The boys sleep restlessly. They’re worried. I am too. Whatever is wrong with Kin is not going to mend itself. He needs medical attention. I find Krow and shake him awake, whispering in his ear, “I need you to help me.”
He nods, sits up, and pushes back his sleeves. He’s only fourteen but he understands.
“I’m going back outside. I’m going to make a phone call, and then I need you to help me carry Kin to ground level as quick as you can. Okay?”
He grimaces. “Okay… but he’s pretty heavy.”
I pat him on the back. “You’re my second. I need your help.”
He nods seriously.
I sneak out, ignoring the loud splats and splashes my feet make as I run through the tunnel. The nearest phone box is located near the ticket station before the tunnels branch out. I think about what I’m going to do and it makes me sick, but it’s the only way. I think about the rich, white arm hanging off the stretcher, her perfect clothes, peachy and unblemished, and hatred blooms in my chest. Kin might die because the priority went to Miss Deere, some woman who fainted.
I gulp. He might die. Slamming into the phone box, I dial 911, panting as the phone rings and rings.
“Hello, please state your emergency.”
I swallow dryly. I have to do this right or they won’t come. “Hello. Yes. I need to report a mugging.”
The nasal voice on the other end of the phone says, “Connecting you to the police department…”
“Wait! No! The man they mugged is badly injured. They took his cash but left his wallet. His name is James Washington-Kellar. Wait… isn’t that Senator Washington-Kellar’s son?” I spew out in one breath.
There’s a click on the other end and the woman’s voice, which had sounded bored up until now, suddenly kicks up an octave. “I’m connecting with the paramedics. Where are you?”
I give the station details.
“Is he conscious?”
I stall for a second, pretending I’m checking the man’s condition. “No. He’s unconscious and beat up pretty bad.”
“The ambulance is on its way,” she assures me. “The police will be there soon.”
I drop the receiver and run back to get Kin. The man in the ticket office leans back in his chair, snoring loudly, his arms slack at his sides, his chin on his chest. The sick feeling creeps closer to my mouth. There are so many things that could go wrong. My hope is once they get down here, even though they’ll know it’s not the senator’s son, they’ll treat him anyway. They have to, don’t they?
I bite my lip as I run. I don’t want to do this.
The platform is dead quiet, and I easily slip into the tunnel without anyone seeing me. When I get to our door, I stop. I breathe. Try to anyway.
This is goodbye. Goodnight. A tear slides down my cheek, and I wipe it away. There’s no time.
***
I take Kin’s arms and Krow takes his legs. We pick our way over the sleeping bodies. Kelpie stirs and sits up, glancing around in confusion.
“Kelpie, can you open the door for us?” I whisper.
He nods and pads over to the heavy wooden door, holding it open for us to pass through. “Bye Kin,” he says, waving one hand. He says it casually, like he’ll see him again one day.
Damn it! I’m losing a battle with my emotions as I awkwardly stagger back toward the second door. Krow’s ruddy face turns to mine for a moment, but he has the decency to ignore my sniffling. When we reach the platform, I speed up, hoping I can reach the ticket office before the paramedics. We walk as fast as we can, our legs and arms burning under Kin’s weight. His face, paler than I would have thought possible, bumps up and down with our less-than-delicate movements.
Kin, I’m sorry.
The reflection of red, flashing lights bounces off the glass and metal, coloring the walls of the subway station. Krow’s getting anxious, dancing from foot to foot. “Where?” he asks, swinging Kin’s legs out like he’s going to dump him and run.
I jerk my head to the phone, and we quickly lay him down. I get less than a second to look at him, to understand that I have no choice, before I hear footsteps and have to run away from Kin’s resting body. Doubt blares in my ears like the sirens that have started to wail outside. Krow and I press ourselves to the wall around the corner and listen.
“Pulse?”
“Steady. Pupils unresponsive.”
“Wait, this isn’t…?”
“Let’s worry about that when we get back to Mount View.”
There’s a small heave, the men grunt, and when I chance a look around the corner, they’re carrying Kin away on a stretcher.
Relief and fear collide in my crowded head, fighting each other with fists dipped in doubt. If he lives, he’ll never forgive me.
Kin is seventeen. I may have just given him a chance to survive, but I’ve also sentenced him to months in a home and several chances of being abused until he turns eighteen.
***
The train rattles loosely, the cars shaking over the tracks like they’re just as scared as the rest of us. Packed into three carriages, separated from the rest, families sit shoulder to shoulder.
Possessions are balled up in sheets, women grasping them in their laps. Giant cloth balloons filled with memories most of us would like to forget.
I look down at my own small bag and pat the $25 in my pocket. It’s harder for most of them. They had a home they are not allowed to go back to. I don’t have that. I’m heading toward something, not away.
He slings an arm over my shoulder and pulls me close, whispering in my ear. “Let’s run away. You and me, brother.”
I don’t answer. My small legs swing from the train seat. I miss her. I miss the four walls and blankets strung between bedrooms. Is it wrong that I miss the camp?
I frown. It is. She is gone, and now he is the closest thing I have to family. I think of the bloodstained handkerchief, her dainty cough, and blood-splattered dress.
“I don’t know,” I reply doubtfully.
He grips my shoulder tighter. He is only a few months older than I am, but he thinks he’s much more. “We’re both orphans now,” he says, staring at the ground. The woman opposite us looks up for a moment, her dark brows pulled toge
ther in sadness. The emotion sits over the whole train, pushing on and upwards to an unknown destination. “They’re gonna put us in a home. They might put you back where they got you.” He shakes his head, and I believe him. “With fifty dollars between us, we can live like kings. I say at the next station, we make a break for it.”
“Okay,” I say, shuddering at the thought of going back to the Home.
He grins. “And a new start means new names.” He holds out his hand and says, “I’m Kin.”
I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Kin?”
He shrugs. “What about you?”
I gaze down at my hands, nervously clasping and unclasping. Waiting for something to come. The memory of steam curling from the small stove, the hot tea that seemed to soothe her coughing, wafts in front of my eyes. It was always my job to boil the water, to pour the tea. I would offer it to her wilting hands and receive the rare smile and nod. Her face like a heart framed in black. The deep sadness I felt at her illness was eased by that simple gesture. I knew it was not going to cure her, but it made me feel useful in a hopeless situation.
“Kettle,” I mutter.
He doesn’t make fun of me. He just says, “Okay, Kettle it is.”
“Kin is perfect,” I barely whisper.
Kin is loyal, accepting. Kin is my brother.
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.”
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