Watch the Falling Rain

When I first see the old man, he’s lying in bed, watching the falling rain. His room Shady Grove Elder Care Facility is small, the bed placed so it faces the room’s only window. Fat raindrops strike the glass in a rhythmic cadence, sliding down, leaving meandering trails that cast strange shadows across the gloomy space.

The nurse puts a hand on my arm, stopping me in the doorway. “Just a warning,” she says. “Bob Mitchell is a… special case.”

“Special?” I already don’t want to be here, and now it sounds worse than I expected. “How?”

“Well, he’s been diagnosed with a severe attention deficit disorder. Likely due to senile dementia. He spends a lot of time just lying there, staring at nothing, unresponsive. Especially this time of year. Don’t be discouraged if he doesn’t react to you. Okay?”

“Right.”

She gives me an encouraging smile. “Just talk to him, act natural, but don’t expect a lively and stimulating conversation.”

My gaze darts from her to the motionless figure in the bed. “Got it.”

“Mr. Mitchell,” the nurse raises her voice. “I’ve brought someone to visit you. This is Ryan. Think you’re up for some company right now?”

There’s no reply. The old man doesn’t even blink. She seems to take this as a good sign.

“Okay,” she checks her phone. “According to the terms of your community service, you have three hours to spend, ah, visiting with our residents.” She glances at me. “We’ll try it a half hour at a time to start. Your thirty minutes begin… now.” She backs out of the room, closing the door behind her.

I stare at the door for a second, then heave a sigh, and look around the room. Spartan is the best word for it. A bed, a chair next to it, no other furniture. There’s a TV mounted in one corner, but it’s turned off, not even plugged in. An oxygen tank sits by the bed, a nasal cannula running from it to the old man’s face. There are no pictures on the walls, no cards from loved ones, no flowers. But somehow, it doesn’t feel as… sad as it should. It’s like it doesn’t matter to Bob Mitchell, so it shouldn’t matter to anyone.

I know from the nurse’s brief orientation that Bob Mitchell is ninety-four, widowed, no surviving children, no other known relations. He checked himself into Shady Grove six years ago, and since then he’s spent more and more of his time lying in that bed, staring out the window.

“Mr. Mitchell?” I say, leaning towards him. The skin of his face is age-spotted, with that papery, brittle look. Strangely, though, his eyes are clear and bright, focused, moving slowly, like he’s reading or watching something. “Can you hear me? Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

He gives no sign that he’s aware of me.

I purse my lips. Maybe this won’t be so bad. “So, how are you today? Good? That’s great. Me? I’m doing just fine, thanks for asking.” I shrug off my coat, glance at the old man. Still no response. He’s just keeps staring at the window. I follow his gaze. “Yeah, it’s really coming down. Forecast says it’s supposed to rain for the rest of the week. But that’s autumn around here. Not that I mind, to tell you the truth. I kinda like the rain; takes me back, you know?”

“Is that so?”

The sound of his voice is so unexpected, coming just as I’m sitting down in the lone chair, that I freeze. I look at Mr. Mitchell, only to find those sharp eyes looking back at me.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, is that so? Does the rain really take you back?”

“Um, yeah.” I glance at the window. “Well, you know, it reminds me of other times, other places.”

“Good ones or bad ones?”

I hesitate. “A bit of both. I guess it’s more a feeling than anything else.” I look back at the old man. “How about you? Does the rain take you back?”

“Oh, very much so,” he says, returning his gaze to the window. “Very much.”

Silence falls over the room again. I clear my throat. “So, Mr. Mitchell—”

“Just call me Bob.”

“Right.” The silence comes back, stretching for an awkward minute. “So,” I say at last. “Anything you want to talk about? Sports? Politics? Or maybe you have a book you’d like me to read to you?”

Bob breathes out a sigh. “Sonny, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to just lie here and watch the rain fall. You okay with that?”

“Sure. We can do that.” I only have to be here a half hour. We can spend it any way he’d like.

I settle back in my chair, focusing on the window, and the trails of water streaming down it. It’s a nice sight, calming and soothing. After a minute, I almost feel like I’m slipping into a trance, like I’m being hypnotized.

Then an image flashes before my eyes, clear and vivid. It’s a young woman, beautiful, with dark hair and eyes, smiling as she looks at me. Her hair and clothes are old fashioned, from the Fifties or Sixties. She’s standing in the falling rain, soaking wet, strands of hair plastered to her face. But she still seems so happy…

I start violently, jerking in the chair, and the picture vanishes.

“Something wrong, sonny?”

Feeling strange, like I just woke from a dream, I glance at Bob. He’s eyeing me intently. “No,” I say. “No. Nothing. I must’ve dozed off, had a dream.”

“Really? What kind of dream?”

I shake my head. “Just a… a picture. A woman smiling, standing in the rain.”

Bob shifts in his bed, the metal frame creaking as he turns toward me. “Is that so? Well, that’s never happened before.”

“What? What’s never happened before?”

Bob’s shoulders lift in a shrug. “It’s just that I’ve never had anyone else go back with me, that’s all.”

“Go back?”

He smiles, a sheepish grin, but there’s a wary look in his eyes. “When I said the rain takes me back, sonny, I meant it literally. It’s something I’ve been able to do for as long as I can remember. When I watch the falling rain, I can travel back to other times, points in my life when the rain was falling.”

I just stare at him for a moment. Okay. So Bob doesn’t just have an attention disorder or dementia: he’s certifiable.

“I can tell you don’t believe me,” Bob says. He takes a deep breath. “So let’s try something.”

One hand reaches out, coming to rest on my arm. I flinch at his touch, so light and dry, like a butterfly resting against my skin. It’s a struggle not to pull away.

Then I’m somewhere else. The room around me is gone, replaced by what looks like a living room, in someone’s home. Everything is so different, so old fashioned, like a period movie set a century ago. But my attention is caught by the sight of a little boy, no more than five or six. He’s perched on a sofa, kneeling against the backrest, staring out a window at the falling rain.

“What?” I manage to gasp.

The hand on my arm tightens, and I look down to see Bob next to me, still lying in his bed. We’re both here, he in his bed and me in my chair, in this unfamiliar room. But, somehow, we aren’t out of place. It’s like we’re the fourth wall: no one in the scene is supposed to notice us.

“Don’t be afraid,” Bob says. “We’re in one of my memories.” He sighs. “And not one of my fondest.”

Across the room from the boy, the door opens. The sound of the rain flows into the space, the soft patter of falling drops, accompanied by that damp, fresh smell that rain always brings. A man stands in the doorway, soaking wet, his coat dripping.

“Robert,” he says, his voice very faint. He takes a step into the room, a slowly shuffling motion, like he can’t quite remember how to walk. “Robert, I need to talk to you. There’s something I need to tell you.”

The boy doesn’t turn around. It’s clear he’s trying not to listen, not to acknowledge that the man is even there. But his shoulders hunch, as if he’s preparing for a blow.

“It’s… it’s your mother,” the man says. Looking at him, I can see the resemblance to the man lying in the bed beside me.

“Yes,” Bob whispers, his voice soft and pained. “That’s my father.”

“Robert,” the man takes another step into the room. “She’s gone. The doctors did all they could, but… She didn’t make it.”

The boy still doesn’t turn around. He stares out at the rain, his features scrunching up, like he’s trying to fight tears. His hands clutch the sofa, twisting the fabric. The first tears start to trickle from his eyes.

The scene dissolves, and Bob and I are back in his room.

I stand up, fast, shaking off Bob’s hand and backing away. “What was that? How did you do that?”

“Sorry,” Bob says, though he sounds distracted. “I had to be sure. This is a first for me, you see.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Look, if this is some joke or something, then ‘ha ha’. You got me. But how did you do that?”

Bob smiles up at me. “Like I said, it’s something I’ve always been able to do. I like to think of it as a gift.”

I give a ragged laugh. “You expect me to believe that you can travel back in time?”

“More or less. I don’t actually travel, not physically. It’s more like watching a rerun. I’m there, but I’m not there. I can’t speak to anyone or touch anything.” He looks away. “Can’t change anything.”

This is crazy. Literally. I’m torn between calling for the nurse and just walking out.

“Tell you what, sonny,” Bob says. “Let’s try that again, only this time, you take the lead.”

“What? Are you out of your mind?”

The old man snorts. “Trust me, my wits are the one thing I haven’t lost.” His features droop is a sad frown. “The one thing.” He shakes his head, rouses himself. “Come on, just give it a try. If it doesn’t work, then you can call me a crazy old coot and leave.”

I’m ready to do just that, but something stops me. Just a little nagging voice, telling me that maybe this is real, maybe the rain really can take me back. I glance at the window, still streaked with raindrops. What do I have to lose? Better yet, what could I gain?

“Fine,” I say, slowly resuming my seat. “But I still think this is a trick.”

“If it is, sonny,” Bob places his hand on my arm again, “then it’s been played on both of us.”

An instant later, we’re both somewhere else.

It’s outside, in the rain. Before us is what can only be a schoolyard, a chain link fence surrounding an open area. Swing sets and jungle gyms glisten wetly in the diffuse light, neglected for the moment, as everyone present has gathered into a crowd around two figures. Two boys, young teenagers. They’re grappling and struggling, pushing and shoving at each other, grunting out curses and insults.

I realize I’m still sitting in the chair. Bob’s still beside me in his bed. Again, we’re there, but we’re not there. The rain can’t seem to touch us. We’re just observers, remote and powerless, only there in spirit or mind.

As we watch, one of the struggling figures swings a clenched fist into the other’s face. He falls to the ground, his hand going to his cheek.

I raise my hand to my own face, feeling the memory of that blow.

“Scrappy, weren’t you?” Bob says.

“Yeah.” I can’t look away, even as I answer. “I was always getting into fights. Even now. They tell me I have anger issues. It’s why I’m doing community service. But this time… this time...”

I can’t finish, but I don’t need to. The fallen teenager surges back to his feet, a hard, cold look on his face. He charges back at the other boy, barreling into him, taking them both to the ground. He draws back a fist and drives it into his opponent’s face. Then he does it again. And again. After the third or fourth hit, the other kid stops resisting, going limp. But the attacker—me—doesn’t stop. He keeps punching his senseless victim, putting his whole body into each blow. The other kid’s head bounces off the ground. Around them, the onlookers have gone silent, staring in uneasy surprise, shocked by the brutality. By my brutality.

A shrill whistle cuts through the air. A man, a teacher, pushes his way through the gaggle of onlooker. He grabs hold of my teenage self and pulls me away. I can see myself struggle against him, so full of uncontrolled rage that I want nothing more than to lash out and hurt someone, anyone. Even myself.

I look away then, and the scene fades. An instant later, we’re back in Bob’s room.

Bob lifts his hand away from my arm. For a moment, he says nothing, just stares at me. Finally, he clears his throat. “Sorry about that,” he says. “I shouldn’t pry into your memories. But I had to be sure.”

I stand there, numb, still lost in the past. But I don’t doubt anymore. “How is this possible?”

Bob shrugs. “I don’t know. How is anything possible?”

I draw a shuddering breath. “So, this is what you do, huh? Spend your time watching the past? That why everyone thinks you have an attention disorder?”

“Beats daytime TV,” Bob replies.

“Do you… control which memories you see?” I ask

Bob sighs. “Not exactly. Sometimes I see happier times, sometimes sadder. I think maybe it—this ability, or power—picks up on things. Sometimes it shows me what I want to see. Sometimes it shows me what I need to see.” He pauses. “Let’s try again, shall we?”

I’m not sure I want to see any more, but I don’t want to leave it like this. I nod, and Bob rests his frail hand on my arm again.

A flood of images rush past my eyes, moving in a blur, so fast that nothing stands out. It’s like I’ve spun a roulette wheel, and now wait to see what number comes up.

Then we’re on a porch, outside of a small house, in some remote part of the world. Forest surrounds the building, thick stands of spruce and fir trees, in vibrant green hues that are only enhanced by the gray skies and the curtain of misty rain.

A figure stands before us, a man, his features indistinct in the dim light. He’s swaying back and forth, rocking slightly, staring out at the forest. And then I notice a small bundle in his arms, a small form cradled against his chests.

I start visibly, leaning forward. A strange sensation courses through me, a mingling of hope and fear, a feeling of desire and loss so strong it’s staggering.

“Ryan?” Bob’s voice is like a splash of cold water, bracing and reviving. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Yeah.”

The man on the porch lifts the baby in his arms, kissing the small head with its sparse covering of dark hairs. There’s a creak of metal, and a screen door opens. The man glances over his shoulder, smiling as a woman emerges from the house. She comes up to stand beside the man and slips an arm around him. For a long moment, they just stand that way, staring at each other. Then the man bends down, and their lips meet.

“That’s you?” Bob asks, softly.

“Yeah.”

“Who’s she?”

I take a moment to answer, staring at the scene. “Megan. And that’s David.” I swallow. “My family.”

“You lost them.” It’s not a question.

“I drove them away.”

The woman, my wife when she was mine, turns and heads back for the door, catching hold of the man’s hand and leading him along with her. The screen door creaks open again, and then closes behind them.

The scene dissolves, the colors running together like a painting left in the rain.

I take a shaky breath, wipe at the tears in my eyes. “Incredible,” I whisper when I can speak again.

“No,” Bob says, the strength in his voice surprising. “It’s amazing. Wonderful. But it’s not beyond belief.”

“Bob,” I say, licking dry lips. “Have you ever told anyone else about this?”

He shakes his head. “No. Who would believe me? I’ve never been able to show it to anyone before. So I just keep it to myself, and go back whenever the rain falls.”

“You were right,” I say. “It’s a gift.” And maybe it’s something more. Maybe it does show us what we need to see, help us feel what we need to feel. Maybe, just maybe, it lets us know that it isn’t too late.

I can’t change the past, but maybe I can do something about the future.

Just then, there’s a knock at the door. It opens, and the nurse pokes her head in. “Half hour’s up. How’re we doing?”

“Fine,” I say. “Just fine.” I look down at Bob; he stares back at me, something hopeful in his expression. “Bob, I need to go now. There’s… something I need to do. But can I come back tomorrow and visit you again?”

He nods. “I’d like that, Ryan.”

I stand, slip on my coat. “I’ll see you then, Bob. I’ll come back, and we’ll watch the falling rain together.”