Nora & Kettle Read Online Free PDF Page A

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