NORA & KETTLE

2. ACCIDENTS

NORA

Paths are usually stamped-out, well-defined things. They're like that for a reason. They point toward a way through. They are hope in a lost place.

My path is patchy, indeterminate, and young. Thousands of feet have not walked this path. Although, sadly, I know some have.

The sun splits the willowy curtains into strands of green and cream, dancing over each other with the breeze. Groggily, I blink and watch the delicate performance, unwilling to move and waiting for the pain to set in. Branches tap out a Morse-code message on the window. I flinch, mistaking it for sharp knuckles rapping on my door. A dull ache courses through my stomach and pins itself to my back, wishing me good morning.

I carefully straighten under the covers, pointing my toes and testing my limbs. I'm okay. These wounds are ordinary. Nothing I haven't dealt with before.

Through the narrow crack of my bedroom door sails the ordinary clatter of the morning; spoons rattling in empty bowls as they are thrown in the sink and a copper kettle whistling, high-pitched and impatient. That new Perry Como song plays on the radio, my mother's humming sounding like nails on a chalkboard in my sore head. I wait. Sure enough, halfway through the song, his controlled, sharp-as-icepicks footsteps cross the kitchen and the radio squeals across the bands to classical music. I clasp my head with both hands at the squeal and then the twanging violins.

I want to sleep. I need to sleep. I won't get to sleep.

"Nora!" my mother screams, matching the sound of the kettle with its impatient trill. Her loud voice pushes its way between the fingers holding my head together and vibrates inside my skull. "I need you downstairs and ready for school in five minutes!" I can almost see her pointing sharply at the tiles as if I should materialize that instant right where she's indicating.

I release my hands from my ears and lay them in my lap, palms upward. Everything I do is slow because my body is trying to avoid the pain. I want to tell it not to bother, swallowing dryly at the state of my wrists. Fingernail impressions separate the thin veins that run across my pale skin. I pull the sleeves of my nightdress down and tie the ribbons tightly over the marks.

A loud groan rumbles up the stairs. "Ugh! Nora, I'm not kidding. We're going to be late... again." For someone so small, she can bellow like an overweight opera singer.

I sigh, pull the downy covers over my head, and am clouded in darkness. Just a few more minutes. I am afforded none as a scrawny, angular weight lands on top of me. Knees like shelf brackets dig into my ribs.

"Nora, Nora, Nora... Get up." My name piles one on top of another without a breath in between. Thin fingers clamp onto my arms and shake.

I pull away. "All right," I mumble, my voice muffled by the heavy quilt.

"Nora. Nora. Noraaaaaa." Because she can't hear me, Frankie's poking continues. It feels like she's taken two forks from downstairs and is jamming them into my sides. I curl down the covers carefully, squinting at all the lights she switched on when she entered my room.

Frankie shuffles back and smiles, gummy, three teeth missing. Her hearing aid is in her open palm. "Can you help me put thissss in, Noraaaaaaa?" she says, her Ss hissing through the gap. I sit up and tuck her long, straight hair, which is the color of autumn leaves, behind her ear. She giggles and rasps, a slight wheeze in her defective chest. Bobbing her head back and forth, she sings some unintelligible song as I wrangle with her hair and constant movement.