Rainwater fell from the tips of Nora’s hair in droplets and spattered the page as she tried to sketch. At last she gave up and flung the sketchbook onto the duvet. Instead, she curled up into a ball on the floor and fought the urge to cry. What did she have to be sad about? They had finally escaped Connor, her mother’s violent boyfriend. Oh, that’s right; they were living in a dump and had no money to pay the bills. They didn’t even have electricity. The renovated basement they were living in seemed paper thin, winds blowing through as if the walls weren’t even there. And by ‘renovated’ they meant it had a microscopic bathroom and a stove installed. Classy stuff.
A draught shivered through Nora’s room and blew out the candles she had been drawing by. Great, she thought sarcastically, now I’m cold and wet in the dark. Nora had gotten soaked running down the street to the corner shop to buy milk for her little brother, Keith. He was two. He was Connor’s kid, not that her mother would even say that anymore. You could tell, too. They both had the white-blonde hair curls that were so rare to find and eyes the colour of the ocean at high-tide. Nora’s mother was blond, too, but a darker, honey shade. Nora was the odd one out with her moss-green eyes and straight, pitch-black hair. She supposed that meant she looked like her father, not that she’d ever met the man. There for an hour, gone for a lifetime. Men suck, Nora thought bitterly.
“Nori?” Keith called from the bed. He had to sleep in the same bed as Nora because their mother worked all night. She’d never explicitly said she was working as an exotic dancer, but it was pretty obvious. Nobody wears that much makeup for an ordinary graveyard shift. Nora wondered if the men cared about the healing bruises that looked like patchwork on her mother’s flesh. Maybe they were too drunk to notice or care. Maybe they were too busy watching her work a pole or shake her behind for their cash.
“Nori!” Keith shrieked as he realised he was in the dark. Nora fumbled under the bed for the lighter, saying soothing things to her baby brother as she searched. Finally, her fingers touched the cool steel and she ignited it with a flick of her thumb.
“It’s ok, I’m right here,” she cooed as she lit the last of the candles. In the dancing light she saw Keith sitting up in the itchy sheets, his face wet with tears ad his eyes bleary. She settled under the duvet with him, kicking off her sketchbook with her foot and wrapping her arms around Keith as he sobbed into her shirt. “It’s ok,” she repeated. She was unsure if it was for her brother’s benefit, or hers. She fell asleep to the sound of rain ricocheting off the high window pane. She had no idea she was being watched.
Nora’s eyes snapped open at the sound of the bolt on the door sliding home, rousing her from her nightmares. Gently, she disengaged herself from Keith’s surprisingly tight grip and opened her bedroom door to see her mother, Cynthia, slipping of her heels. She wore a trench coat but Nora spotted a flash of sequins and skin, glistening in the light of the numerous candles that lined the walls.
“Oh sorry baby, did I wake you up?” Cynthia asked, tightening the coat around herself.
“It doesn’t matter,” Nora shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. “How was work?”
“Which one?” Cynthia joked. But her eyes flicked to her housekeeper’s uniform hanging on her bedroom doorhandle. “What did you guys eat for dinner?” Her mother had left a twenty on the table before leaving for work that morning.
“We had fish and chips. We still have enough money for tomorrow night. Tonight I mean.”
“Why is it so dark in here?”
“You didn’t pay the electricity.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’ll take care of that.”
“It’s fine. We have plenty of candles.”
“Yes. I suppose it’s weird to own so many candles?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.” Nora wanted to tell her mother about Connor, but her mother seemed almost cheerful making casual conversation.
“Did you sell any paintings?” Nora bit her lip and shifted her weight from one foot to the other anxiously. Cynthia’s smile faltered.
“What is it? You’re doing your nervous shuffle. I hate it when you do that.”
“I saw Connor today,” Nora blurted. Her mother’s complexion turned ashen at the sound of her ex’s name.
“What did he want? What did he say? Did he ask about me?” Cynthia flattened her hair and fixed her clothes as if she had to look presentable simply because Connor had been mentioned. She still loved him; that much was obvious. She didn’t want to leave him, despite the constant abuse. It was Nora who’d made her leave him.
“He wants us to come home.” I want you to come home... I want you... Nora couldn’t bring herself to say that her mother had only been mentioned once. You’re selling your paintings... how are you going to eat... I want you to come home... tell your mother she’s nuts... Cynthia was broken and fragile. Nora had to protect her.
“He does, does he?” Cynthia asked a wistful tone in her voice. Nora knew that longing. She remembered it from the other million times Connor and Cynthia had a fight. She stumbled the few steps from the front door to their poky kitchen and collapsed on one of the cheap dining chairs they’d gotten from a garage sale for next to nothing. “We’re not going back of course. That’d be ridiculous, crazy, stupid.” For a moment there was silence, nothing but the delicate crackle of flames.
“Don’t worry, I got rid of him.” Nora wasn’t sure if that was a comfort to her mother, but it was the best she could do. “Do you want anything to eat or drink?” Cynthia shook her head.
“It was good that you sent him away, Nora. You did the right thing.”
“What would’ve happened if I hadn’t?”
“That would’ve been fine, too,” Cynthia sighed. “We would’ve figured something out. Did Keith ask about him?”
“No, not tonight.”
“Good. You should go to bed, baby girl. You have school tomorrow.”
“I’m going back? But who will look after Keith?”
“I’ve organised from Miss Donald upstairs to watch him,” Cynthia replied, referring to the elderly woman who lived on the ground floor. “Now to bed with you.” Nora obeyed but, as she turned her back on her mother, she could’ve sworn that she saw her shoulder’s quiver. She could’ve sworn she saw a tear roll down her mother’s face. She’s fragile, after all.
