Powerful Storms #2
I pouted. It wasn’t cute at my age, but I hated my birthday and any reminder of the parents and loved ones I lost. Anger festered below my skin like a boil that I couldn’t reach.
My fingers twitched as she left the kitchen, only to return with two packages.
One, with shiny blue paper and a red ribbon that I had already seen in the living room days earlier.
The second, with green stars and a white ribbon.
Water stars…
Noma placed them both before me, giving me a stern look like she dared me to refuse, and began scooping dirt dessert into our bowls. I stared at the gifts, fighting the urge to pick them up and throw them out the window.
“Here.” Noma slid a bowl toward me. “Eat first.”
Maybe she thought eating sugar would soften me up. It didn’t. I ate the dessert, finished every bite, and shoved the bowl aside. I stood, nearly knocking over my chair, cracking my neck, holding back words I knew would sting if I spoke them aloud. “I’m done.”
She looked at me, sized me up, and snorted. “Sit down, sinner. Don’t test me today.”
Maybe it was the tremor in her voice or the fatigue on her face that I seemed to notice as she sat small but mighty in her chair, but I listened. Defeated, I sighed. “Which one first?”
Relief flitted across her worn features. “The blue.”
The blue box was considerably smaller than the one with green stars, and I hated to admit I was curious.
I ripped into it, not caring if I destroyed the paper in the process, as I lifted the lid off the small box.
Inside, I found a pair of brass knuckles.
They shined in the kitchen lighting as I reached inside the box and lifted them out, slipping them onto my right hand.
My fingers curled as I formed a fist, deformed but somehow stronger.
“A reminder that you aren’t weak. Missing part of your finger? Eh, still a badass.”
Maybe.
“Now, for the other one.” She gestured for me to continue.
The second box contained a knife. Not some flip-open, flimsy pocketknife. No. This knife was half a foot long, if you included the handle, and was created for slicing, hacking, and carving. Sturdy. Vicious. Sharp.
It wasn’t new. I could see a few fine scratches, but it didn’t take away from the quality or the durability. “This belonged to someone else before me.”
“Yes.” Noma nodded. “Your father.”
Emotion surged inside me, clogging my airways, making it difficult to breathe. My father. His knife. “And the brass knuckles?”
“New. A symbol of strength.”
This woman knew how to get to me, how to invade my heart where bitterness, rage, and grief battled for a stronghold over me.
She wanted me to know I was seen, loved, and despite my anger, worthy.
A volatile eruption of these overwhelming feelings threatened to happen in front of her, and I couldn’t allow that.
I ran outside, leaving the tiny table and two chairs in that little corner of the kitchen, slamming the door behind me as my lungs fought for every breath.
I stared without seeing, nearly blinded, crazily trying to find something to anchor me to this moment.
Presents. Life Date. My favorite dessert. A birthday I never wanted to celebrate.
The tree. It stood in the front yard as a pillar of strength and endurance, of life, and a reminder that I had a home despite what happened to my last one. I wasn’t alone. My Noma was here.
I rushed to the tree and lifted the knife, carving into the ancient wood as one word, one truth, echoed throughout my body. My hand held the knife steady as I completed the carving and stepped back, feeling a calm wash over me that I didn’t expect.
I still hated my birthday. Today wouldn’t erase its deadly toll.
But as I stared at my creation, I realized I could be two things at once. Both lost and…
“Found,” Noma whispered as she joined me, her voice filled with awe. Her hand reached and held mine. A gentle squeeze followed. “Always.”
Love could do that. If not for the courageous woman beside me, I might not have ever known.
“Hello?” I answered the phone while sitting on a stool at the kitchen window.
Noma was cooking me a pot of homemade spaghetti.
She would roll her own meatballs with fresh garlic and herbs, breadcrumbs, and a little Parmesan.
Simmering on the stove was a sauce so rich the aroma was making this starving teenager ready to dive headfirst into the kitchen and be shamelessly gluttonous.
In my ear, I heard, “Hello. This is Beth from Doctor Dan’s office. May I please speak with Erika Watts?”
Still not used to Noma being called that name, even though it had been hers for four years, I laid the receiver on the open window ledge to the kitchen. “It’s for you.” Then stared at the boiling noodles that were holding up my feast.
Noma didn’t reach over the small bar from inside the kitchen.
Instead, with pep in her step, she exited, eager to tease me with yet another taste of her cooking perfection.
Handing me a wooden spoon full of spaghetti sauce to sample, she picked up the phone.
“Hello?” Eyebrows knitting, she nodded. “Oh. Uh, yes, I’ll hold. ”
Slurping the sauce, I got up to give her the stool. As she slid past me for the seat, a wave of worry shot from her body, almost making me lose my footing.
Wooden spoon hanging in the air, I stared at her, shocked, a calm evening was being upheaved.
Noticing my stare, Noma quickly masked her concern and referred to the spoon. “Any good?”
Taste buds hadn’t been able to register flavor since I was now under attack by fear. However, I lied, “Delicious,” hoping I was overreacting. Or misreading her.
“Good,” she told me as she sat down. Releasing a shaky breath, she told me, “Uh, I’m waiting for a doctor to get on the phone.” When I didn’t move, she assured, “From work.”
I exhaled so hard I almost laughed out my next words. “Noma in trouble at work?”
She rolled her eyes. “Where the hell do you think you get your sinner ways from?” Her chuckle not as sincere as normal, suddenly had me concerned again, but I obeyed when she instructed, “Stir the noodles for me?” Already walking to the kitchen entry, my eyes wished to be like Superman’s, so I could see through walls for the three seconds Noma was out of my sight.
In the kitchen, I found myself swallowing repeatedly. It wasn’t due to drooling for dinner. It was for the precipitous gloom that was threatening to take possession of this house.
With the wooden spoon, I stirred the boiling noodles, praying I was being paranoid. I couldn’t stop staring to the right of me, where Noma was waiting. By the way she kept peering away, I knew she was well aware of my focal point.