NORA & KETTLE

4. AFTER

NORA

We follow a stretcher covered in a white sheet, mountains and hills of cloth that can't be my mother—it can't—as it wheels out of the foyer doors. After what they're calling 'The Accident,' we were evacuated from our building because of the fire next door. I carried Frankie down the stairs, holding her head against my shoulder to shield her from the scene, and we left Mother there, cold and alone, returning only when it was deemed safe.

I think I had hoped when we stepped back inside, she wouldn't be there, but she was of course. She hadn't moved, because she's dead. The words catch in the back of my throat. She's dead. Now the trolley squeaks on the highly polished tiles, carrying something that's supposed to be her.

When the paramedics get to the brass doors, they shove the stretcher feet first into the glass, the whole bed bouncing as it goes over the threshold. I expect a gasp, arms to flap up in shock. Nothing.

I watch our reflections in the shiny surrounds of the door, long, languid beings with stretched faces. Another world. I glance at the sheet. I imagine lying there, my feet tucked in at the ends, my face clothed in heavy cotton, and I can't breathe. Bringing a tightened fist to my chest, I suck in a breath as best I can although it feels as if I've swallowed a lump of coal. I have to keep it together. There's a small child wrapped around my legs, and she needs me.

When they get to the stairs, the wheels fold up so they can carry it down. I cock my head to the side, wondering if she's heavy. It seems like she should be heavier, like she's set in concrete now, a statue.

Outside, the air should be fresh, clean, but it's charred and wet. I look to my right at the burned-out apartment building. Maybe I should be looking to blame someone, the person who started the fire perhaps, but my mind is frozen, as blank as the confused expressions of the crowd watching a casualty being wheeled out of the wrong building.

They slide her into an ambulance. I rock back and lurch forward, an arm stretched toward the open doors. "I'm going with her," I squeak. Clearing my throat, I say, "Please. Let me go with her." My eyes search for any sympathetic face, but no one looks at me. They're all looking to my father for answers.

His hand clamps down on my shoulder and shirks me backward. Frankie's skirts fly up in a gust of wind as she struggles to hold onto me. Don't let go.

"No," he utters under his breath. "Get in the car." He does it carefully, controlled-like, so it looks like I tripped as he flings me at the sleek, black car waiting to take us to the hospital.

"Where are we going?" Frankie asks innocently as she shuffles to the middle of the backseat.

I slide in next to her and pat her glinting, gold-and-crimson hair. Her head is on fire and I'm about to douse those flames, squash her little soul until she's just a smoldering pile of crumpled ashes. My voice catches in my throat, humming and spinning.

Father is talking to the paramedics outside so I take this opportunity to tell Frankie in a way I can control, before he takes a hammer to the truth and slams her with it.

Deep breath, heart on fire, heart trodden and bleeding.

"Frankie, Mommy had an accident," I start, each word stinging.

"I know." She nods solemnly. And I get the sense she also knows what I'm about to say.

I straighten my dress and gaze at my shoes, slippers. I rub my feet together, hoping he doesn't notice that I forgot to change my shoes.