6. Nora
NORA
"Ready?" Diane asks, popping the trunk of her car.
I look back at my building one last time. Six months I’ve been here, and I'm leaving it the same way I arrived: with everything I own in the back of a car and nowhere particular I'm supposed to be going. Only this time, somewhere particular is exactly where I'm headed.
"Ready."
We load the last boxes. Clothes, toiletries, books, and a few kitchen things that are actually mine.
Everything else got sorted yesterday: furniture arrangements with my landlord, Tyler agreeing to cover the rent until November, and everything organized.
That's what I do when I don't know what else to do—I organize things.
My entire life fits in the back of Diane's car with room to spare.
"You okay?" she asks as we pull away.
"Fine. It's just a place."
She doesn't push, which I appreciate. She has an instinct for when people need silence rather than words. It's a rare thing.
We pull into Tyler's driveway, and Emma is already at the door.
"Perfect timing! Tyler's feeding Harper in the nursery, Maya's making breakfast, and I've cleared the guest room closet." She grabs two boxes from the trunk. "Come on, let's get you sorted."
The guest room is at the end of the upstairs hall, across from Harper's nursery. It’s bigger than I expected, with a queen bed, a dresser, a desk, and its own bathroom. The closet is empty, and the bed has fresh sheets on it, corners tucked.
"It's yours for as long as you need it," Emma says, setting down her boxes. "Make it feel like home."
Home. The word catches somewhere behind my sternum before I can stop it.
Home was a specific thing once: a kitchen that smelled like my mother's cooking, a father who said goodnight from the doorway, and a car on a bridge that didn't make it to the other side.
I have been to many places in the two years since then, and called none of them that.
I nod and start unpacking, because it's easier than explaining any of that, easier than saying that I don't know yet what to do with a word that used to mean everything and now mostly just means nothing.
Diane and Emma help me organize. Clothes in the dresser. Toiletries in the bathroom. Books on the desk. Everything finds a place.
The last thing I unpack is my parents' photo.
It was taken at my aunt's barbecue the summer before the accident.
My dad said something, and my mom turned toward him, laughing, and whoever had the camera caught it perfectly, both of them looking at each other, not at the lens, as if the rest of the world had excused itself for a moment.
I've carried it to every placement since.
It's the first thing that goes on the nightstand and the last thing I pack.
I trace my thumb over the glass. Then I put it down and turn away before the grief gets a proper grip.
Two years. I keep expecting it to get easier to set down, but it never does.
When I make it back downstairs, Maya has made breakfast. Eggs, toast, fruit, and coffee are laid out on the kitchen table.
Tyler is in the living room with Harper in his arms, and I stop in the doorway before he sees me.
His hold has changed. It's only been two days, but I can already see it: he's supporting her head without thinking, her body is settled against his chest with the ease of someone who has been practicing.
He's talking to her in a low voice, narrating something, and she's watching his face with the absorbed attention that newborns give to the people who care for them.
Something about the image makes me look away.
"She ate?" I ask, coming in properly.
"Six ounces. Burped twice. One diaper change." He looks up, and those blue eyes are still exhausted, but the wild panic of yesterday has been replaced by something more manageable. "I'm getting better at this, right?"
"You're doing well. Two days in, most fathers are still fumbling the diaper tabs."
Something softens in his face. "Thanks to you."
Professional boundaries. This is just a job.
"Let me walk you through the charts," I say, moving to the kitchen. "I want to make sure the system makes sense to you."
The color-coded charts are attached to the fridge by magnets Emma found in a drawer.
"You fill these out every time something happens," I explain, pointing to each section.
"It helps you track patterns and notice when something's off.
Helps to remember what worked and what didn't. Babies thrive on routine, and the charts maintain the routine even when you're running on three hours of sleep, and your brain won't cooperate. "
Tyler studies them. “I noticed yesterday you had them color-coded. It’s so organized.”
“Mm.” I focus on straightening a magnet that doesn’t need straightening. “Easier to read at a glance. When you’re exhausted at three in the morning, you don’t want to have to think about which column is which.”
“This is really smart.” He looks at me again. “You’ve thought of everything.”
I walk him through how to fill it in. He listens the way he does, completely, not paying attention, but actually giving it.
"And I just fill it in every time?"
"Every time. It seems excessive now, but when you're exhausted and can't remember if she ate an hour ago or two hours ago, you'll be grateful."
Emma appears with a marker. "I'm laminating these so you can use dry-erase."
"You bought a laminator?" Tyler looks between us.
"I brought a laminator from home," Emma says cheerfully. "Also labeled all your cabinets. You're welcome."
The day settles into teaching. I walk Tyler through bottle prep even though he has it down, because repetition builds muscle memory, and muscle memory is what saves you early in the morning. He demonstrates it for me twice without being asked.
"You're a fast learner," I tell him.
He tilts his head slightly. "High-stakes motivation."
There's something dry and self-aware in his humor that catches me off guard. I've been filing him as an overwhelmed new parent, but these small moments keep rearranging the file.
Diaper changes next. First attempt: too many wipes, tabs too loose. Third attempt: smooth, efficient, Harper barely fussing. By lunch, he's doing it in one clean motion.
"Support her legs, lift her bottom, clean front to back, slide the clean diaper under, fold up, and secure the tabs. Two fingers in the waistband so it’s not too tight, and not too loose." I demonstrate the test. "See?"
He practices three more times throughout the morning. The fourth time he does it, I notice he's already anticipating the snaps on her onesie before I have to prompt him.
Burping fills the afternoon: over the shoulder, sitting up with support, across the lap. We test each position with Harper until she has opinions, and she does.
"Not too hard, not too soft," I tell him, adjusting his hand position. "Firm enough to hear it."
He practices, and Harper rewards a particularly good attempt with an enormous belch that makes him grin like he's just scored.
"That's my girl."
Three words. Three words said with a certainty that's only been building for two days, and yet, it’s there. Complete. I notice it the way you notice something clicking into alignment.
The late afternoon is spent reading Harper's cues. The hungry cries that start soft and build up, and the tired ones that are more intermittent and whiny, and the uncomfortable ones that are more urgent.
"She's rubbing her eyes, see? That's a tired cue. And she's yawning, starting to get fussy. Time to start the bedtime routine before she gets overtired and can't settle."
"How do I know if she's overtired?"
"She'll fight sleep even though she's exhausted. Crying that won't stop, arching her back, and refusing the bottle. It's miserable for everyone." I take Harper from him. "Better to catch the early cues and get her down before we get there."
Emma, Diane, and Maya move through the house around us all day.
Emma labels things, Diane folds laundry, and Maya runs to the shops for things they forgot.
They're staying tonight before the drive back to Hartford tomorrow.
Diane has commandeered the sectional with the confidence of someone who has earned it.
Emma and Maya have inflated an air mattress near the TV and are currently arguing about whose pillow is whose.
"It's like a slumber party," Emma announces at dinner. "But with more screaming and less sleep."
"Sounds exactly like the slumber parties I remember," Maya says dryly.
Tyler catches my eye across the table, something flickering across his expression, quick and gone, and I look back at my food.
Harper goes down, and Tyler marks it on the purple chart. His handwriting is unexpectedly neat, careful in a way that doesn't match the rest of him.
"How long should she sleep?"
"Three to four hours. Maybe longer. Rest while you can. She'll be up again later."
He pushes a hand through his hair, which has the effect of rearranging rather than improving it. The stubble on his jaw has filled in more today, going from five o'clock shadow to something that looks deliberate even though I'm fairly sure it isn't.
I'm noting this for absolutely no reason.
"Nora," he says, quietly, like he's been holding onto the moment. "I don't know what I'd be doing without you here. Genuinely."
"You'd figure it out. You're doing better than you think."
"I'm doing better because you're teaching me." He holds my gaze, and there's something in it I'm not going to look at directly. "So. Thank you."
“You’re welcome, West.” I nod and head upstairs before the conversation can get any more personal.
My room is quiet. I can hear Emma and Maya laughing downstairs, and Diane telling them to keep it down. The house settles around me, full of people, noise, and life.
West.
I don’t know why I said that. Tyler would have been fine. Using his last name shows that I’m trying to keep him at arm’s length, which I guess is why I said it, yet it still came out sounding strange.
It keeps things professional, though, and that’s the whole point.
I change into pajamas and sit on the edge of the bed with my parents' photo.
They're looking at each other again. They're always looking at each other.
This is just another job. A few months, maybe a year. I'll teach Tyler what he needs to know and move on to the next family, the way I always do. I will not let myself get comfortable. I will not let these people become anything more than clients.
I hear Tyler's footsteps in the hallway, one last check on Harper before bed. Two days in, and he has a routine already.
I turn off the light.
It’s just a job. It’s just temporary. Just one more house that isn't mine.
I listen to its sounds and tell myself that that's what it is, but I'm not sure I'm convinced.