Saving Rain(48)

What does that say about me? What does it say about her?

I’m thinking about Mom tonight, obviously. I wish I weren’t. But that’s my downfall too. She’s my mom, and for every moment that I hate her, there’s a moment in which I miss her and all the potential we had to have more than this dysfunctional, toxic bullshit of a relationship.

Anyway, I’m wondering why your parents named you Rain. Was it raining when you were born? Were they hippies? Did they make sweet, passionate love outside during a thunderstorm the night you were conceived?

I just laughed out loud and woke up the guy next to me. He’s pissed. I should stop now.

Soldier

***

Dear Rain,

Today, they moved me from laundry duty to the kitchen again. I like the kitchen, so I’m cool with it. Laundry gave me too much time to think and get trapped inside my own head. You’d think I’d feel like that about cleaning, but I don’t. Cleaning is relaxing. There’s instant gratification for the work you’ve done. You can see your progress as it’s happening. But laundry? Hell no. All I can do is load the machines and watch them spin while my mind plummets into places better left untouched. It’s too monotonous, you know? Kitchen duty is better. I get to hang with a couple of the guys I like and eat as much of the food as I want.

Not that the food is great, but you get used to it.

Anyway, one of the guys on the kitchen crew asked about my scar, and I thought about you. It’s a little crazy, isn’t it? Of all the shit I’ve been through, the one thing that marked me for life was a direct result of saving you. And I’m glad for it. I’m glad for this scar. Because every time I look at it or touch it or someone asks about it, I get to remember all over again that I am capable of doing something good without it ending in someone else’s pain. And if I tell myself that enough, maybe, one day, I’ll start to believe it.

Soldier



P.S. Oh, and he thought my scar was pretty badass, like I’m some kind of gallant hero or something, and for once, I agreed.

***

“Are you a bad guy?” Noah asked me one weekend as I pulled the weeds from the small plot of dirt I had to my name.

I glanced over my shoulder and wiped the sweat from my brow. “Do you think I’m a bad guy?”

He dropped his gaze to the gravel beneath his feet and seemed to consider his own question for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he replied, although he sounded unsure. “But you were in jail, and my friend Greg says that only bad guys go to jail.”

With a deep breath, I sat back on my heels and rested my hands on my knees. “Good guys go to jail too, Noah,” I said, choosing my words carefully, still not wanting to divulge too much information. “Unfortunately, sometimes, accidents happen, and even good guys have to pay for them.”

“So, is that what happened with you? An accident?”

I still wasn’t sure that his mother wanted me to talk about this stuff with him. But he was curious, and his questions were incessant, and trying to steer him away from them was exhausting.

“Yes,” I said with a held sigh. “It was a horrible accident.”

“So, like … if it was just an accident, why did you have to go to jail?”

I released my breath and squinted up toward a sky that looked like it was about to pour at any second. “Because … I made a decision—a really bad one—and I had to be punished for it.”

I glanced over my shoulder at him again to watch the gears in his head turn. He was a smart kid, even in the things he didn’t understand. He reminded me of myself in a way—except his mom was better.

His mom was more like Billy’s. The kind I’d always wished I had.

“I know you’re a good guy,” he finally said. “But I think my dad’s a bad one.”

My eyes narrowed at him with suspicion. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he does bad things and they’re not freakin’ accidents.”

There was no way I was getting more gardening done. Not with the sky looking like that and certainly not with Noah dropping bombshells out of nowhere.

So, I stood up, brushed my hands off on my jeans, and asked Noah if he was hungry because I was starving. He followed me into the house—Ray had lifted the restriction after realizing I wasn’t in fact a creep—where I grabbed my T-shirt from the back of a chair Harry’s wife had helped reupholster and pulled it on. Then, I went into the kitchen to make us a couple of bologna sandwiches while Noah hung out with Eleven.

“So,” I said, taking out four slices of bread, “what do you mean, your dad does bad things?”

“Like …” I glanced over my shoulder to watch as he pulled in a deep breath while his mouth twisted angrily. “Like when he hurts my mom. Crap like that.”

The brace that had been on Ray’s arm came to mind immediately, and I clenched my hand tighter around the butter knife as I slathered mayo onto the bread.

“He hurts your mom?”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“Does he hurt you?”

Noah didn’t reply right away, and I took another glance over my shoulder to see him frozen with his hand resting on Eleven’s back. I didn’t want to push him or dig for information I wasn’t privy to. The last thing I wanted was to make him uncomfortable. But I also wanted him to know he could tell me if he didn’t feel safe, if he was scared. I wanted him to know that, as long as I was around, I’d do anything to protect them—him and his mom.