Page 60 of Norah

She thinks I can’t tell when a memory hits her; her hands trembling and eyes darkening in fear. She tries to hide the flashes of recollection with weak smiles and reassuring words, but I can tell that she’s suffering.

When I asked if she wanted to talk about things, she refused. Not wanting to push her, I’ve backed off, tried to let her have some time. But seeing her this morning as she tried to cover up her pain, I think the time for space has drawn to a close. While I hate the idea of pushing Norah to talk, I think it’s the only way to help pull her out from beneath the punishing waves of memory.

I hear the shower turn on, muffled by the mostly closed bathroom door. It’s still slightly ajar; I haven’t failed to notice Norah’s aversion to being in enclosed spaces since the attack. This is the first time she’s wanted to take a shower by herself, and while I’d like to believe it’s a sign of healing, I think it’s more likely an attempt to hide.

I hate that she thinks she needs to hide how she’s feeling from me, hate that she thinks she needs to protect me. I should be protecting Norah, not the other way around. It haunts me. I couldn’t protect her before, but I’m damn well going to make sure I take care of her now. To do that, I need a plan.

I get out of bed and look through my suitcases for a shirt. Keeping one ear on the sound of running water, listening for any signs of distress, I head into the kitchen area and start a pot of coffee. Even though caffeine doesn’t have the same sort of effect as it did when I was human, the taste and aroma still signify an important start to each morning.

As the coffee brews, I grab my laptop and head to the couch, making sure I can see the bedroom from my position. The idea of Norah being out of my sight makes me feel anxious, bringing back my own memories of coming home to find Norah gone, terrified of not finding her.

Pulling up my old realtor’s email and starting a message about buying a new apartment, I add open-concept to my list of requirements. I’ve decided that we need a new place to live, somewhere that doesn’t trigger traumatic memories.

I can’t imagine living in our old apartment without being reminded of everything that happened. Sleeping in the bedroom where Norah had to jump out the window to escape. The thought of living there fillsmewith dread; it could only be worse for Norah.

I hope the realtor can find some options for us to look at soon; I’m more than willing to dip into my savings if it means we can find a place to move into quickly. This hotel suite is fine in the short term, but it’s not a home. And that’s one thing the both of us need; a new home to start our future together.

Email sent, I lean back against the couch cushions and try to figure out the best approach for my imminent conversation with Norah. I know she won’t want to talk about the events on that day, but it’s something I have to convince her to do. It’s painful but necessary, like lancing an infected wound that’s spreading its sickness throughout. Each day that she doesn’t talk about the memories makes her pain worse.

It’s not just for her; I need to hear everything, too. Not knowing exactly what happened is eating me up inside. I need to know if the images I imagine are better or worse than the reality.

And I need Norah to share the burden of memory with me, so that I can carry the weight when it’s too much for her to handle alone. I understand she doesn’t want to upset me, that she wants to pretend it didn’t happen, but ignoring the truth will only continue to hurt both of us.

I hear the shower shut off, a sign that Norah will head into the living room soon. Placing the laptop on the coffee table, I walk into the kitchen to grab two cups of freshly brewed coffee, inhaling the comforting aroma.

The familiar scent helps calm my nerves. I’m worried about how Norah will react when I push her to talk. I don’t want to cause her more pain, but I don’t know how else to help her get through this.

With a deep breath, I sit down on the couch and place Norah’s coffee on the table while taking a sip of mine. The hot liquid burns the tip of my tongue, and the sharp bite of pain helps steady me.

I glance up from my cup to see Norah walking out from the bedroom and towards me. Her still damp hair is pulled into a low ponytail and drapes over her shoulder, leaving a small wet spot on her shirt. She’s dressed in a t-shirt and yoga pants, new clothes that we ordered and had delivered to the hotel, so we wouldn’t have to spend extra time in the apartment packing. Looking over at me, her lips turn up into a small smile when she sees the cup of steaming coffee. It’s not her usual smile; instead, it’s dimmed, forced.

I pat the couch next to me, gesturing for her to sit down. “I made you coffee. It’s pretty good.”

She walks over and takes a seat, then picks up her cup to taste the fresh coffee. “You’re right. It is good.” Then she goes silent, staring blankly at the dark liquid. It seems like Norah’s even more withdrawn after her shower, and frustration mixes with pain as I look at her.

If I had any doubts about pushing her to talk, seeing her face is all the proof I need. I put my cup down and take her free hand in mine, drawing her attention to me.

“Norah,” I keep my voice gentle. “We need to talk.”

She blinks at me, then turns her head away. “I’m tired,” she responds in a soft voice. “Maybe later?”

I reach over and tilt her face back towards mine. “I’m sorry, baby, but it needs to be now.”

NORAH

But I’m scared. Talking about it makes it all real.

I try to avoid Ethan’s gaze, but his hand cups my chin and holds it still. His expression is serious, and I can tell there’s no convincing him otherwise. As much as I want to keep things to myself, I know I can’t hide anymore.

His voice is low and commanding as he says, “You need to tell meeverything.” When I flinch, his hand covers mine, giving it a comforting squeeze. “I thought giving you time and space would help, but it’s doing the opposite.

I can’t watch you suffer in silence like this anymore. Let me share this burden with you. You shouldn’t be carrying it alone.” His voice cracks. “It’s killing me to see you in so much pain. I can handle whatever you tell me. Just let me help you.Please.”

I feel sick to my stomach, cold all over, as I try to gather some measure of courage. My eyes fly to Ethan’s, then back to my lap. Swallowing thickly, I try to force the first few words from my mouth, but they feel like poison. Tears are already prickling behind my eyes, and my nose tingles.

For the last four days, I’ve been trying to push away the memories, to pretend like the most frightening and horrifying experience of my life never happened. The thought of allowing all the memories to come to the surface fills me with dread. I don’t want to remember. I want to shove every terrible thing that happened into a tiny box and keep it hidden away forever.

Looking into Ethan’s eyes, I can see his worry. Fine lines crease his forehead, concern written across his face. He says, “I know you’re scared. And I know it will be hard. But I’ll be right here the entire time. Don’t try to carry this on your own. Let me carry some of the weight for you. Please.”

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