When It Raines

I push my Curtin of smooth dark hair away from my eyes as I crouch down, checking over my bags inside of my rig. It’s already 7:00 am and I still haven’t had my morning cup of joe. I begin every morning with a bagel and cream cheese and my coffee, with lots of cream and sugar. So I’ll have to apologize to my coworkers in advance if I’m a little grouchy. The still quiet of the unit delivers a sense of calm, but soon we’ll be racing down the highway, on our way to aid someone who was just involved in a car accident, a shooting gone bad between rival gangs or most commonly, drug overdoses.  

“Hey, Rayne. How’s your morning treating you?” I swallow hard, trying to hide my smile as I continue to check my bag of supplies. As Luke climbs into the back of the ambulance, I can feel his large 6’3 frame gently shift the interior, myself included as I struggle not to fall over. But suddenly, I feel a strong pair of arms catch me from behind. Oh god, I’m blushing. The sounds of Luke’s chuckles fill the space as he helps me up. 

“Haven't had your cup of coffee yet, Rainey?” Luke asks his tone a low sexy baritone. Ugh. I love it when he calls me Rainey. He helps me to my feet and I happen to catch a glimpse of those gorgeous, dark blue eyes that hit me front and center, every damn time. 

“No, but that’s not why I fell over. I think it has to do with a certain Tarzan, turned EMT, trying to make a mess of my rig.” I hold his gaze, but I can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at either side of my lips. I take in his sharp jawline, adoring the dark shading of facial hair coming in nicely. It seems as if time just stands still between us, and I fight the urge to kiss his perfect, full lips.

“Bull in a China shop,” he says, leveling my stare, and very gently tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, sending chills down every inch of my body. 

“I hate to interrupt you two love birds, but we have chores to do before the calls start coming in.” My stomach plummets as I hear my Deputy Chief call me out for flirting with my partner for the past three years. 

“Sorry, Chief,” we both mutter in unison and Luke looks up at me through his thick lashes and smirks in my direction. 

“If you need me, I’ll be washing the rig down. You know, in case you want to watch.” And my face turns about five shades of purple; realizing Luke caught me peeping at him the last time he was hosing the truck down. He flashes me that wicked, sexy grin of his, flexing one huge bicep and pretends to kiss it. I can’t help it, and I burst out laughing. Luke is anything but narcissistic, and I love his playful sense of humor. Before working as an Emergency Medical Technician; my life was heading down a dark road, with no end in sight. 

The neighborhood that EMS frequents the most, is Cherry Hill; the same place where I spent a good portion of my teen years and began my slow descent into hell. Growing up, my father didn’t know how to parent. My mom did everything for my sister and me, and our dad was the provider. We were a typical Catholic family, living in Baltimore. After many years of trying to get pregnant, my parents decided to adopt from a poor village in El Salvador. They were only looking for one child, preferably a newborn. But when they were introduced to my sister, Brooke, and myself; it was decided they had to have us. 

I was only five years old when they took me home, and the adoption itself took almost a year to complete, but I remember meeting with them again for the first time in almost a year. We landed on American soil, with our social worker and set out to meet them in the airport terminal. Either Brooke or I spoke any English but were so excited when we saw mom and dad waiting by a bank of hard plastic chairs, holding a large white banner that read Bienvenida a casa bebes. It was a sweet gesture, but at ages of only three and five, either one of us could read. My social worker bent down to my level and whispered to me in Spanish what the banner had said. 

Welcome home, babies. I was going to be someone’s baby. I was beyond overjoyed at the prospect of having a real family. Of course, our names were changed, once the adoption was legalized, and getting used to a whole new identity was bizarre. I was suddenly thrust into a whole new world. We were no longer allowed to speak Spanish, only English. If we were caught speaking our native tongue, both Brooke and I were spanked with a paddle by our father. It was his way of making sure we were taught correctly. 

From then on, I grew distant from the man who fed me, clothed me, and sheltered me. He provided for us in the most basic ways, but never tried to high five me after I scored a goal during the soccer game, or thought to hug me good night once in a while. My mom would dismiss his behavior as That’s just how males are. You know he loves you. But I didn’t. My dad was a beat cop for the Baltimore police department for many years and always made sure my sister and I never got into any trouble. But with as strict as my parents were, I welcomed it right in, just for spite. Our quaint three-bedroom house in Fells Point was just 14 minutes from Cherry Hill. 

Every night, my dad would come home and tell us about his day, and how stressed out he’d been. His beat was focused out in Cherry Hill, and he was always petrified that his little girls would end up a pawn for a gang leader, or drug dealer. During my ninth-grade year, I had to write a report entitled  My Hero: The person who saved me. I wrote about my father, the beat cop. The man who kept the streets of Baltimore safe and crime-free, or as much as he could. I also included our adoption story. We were instructed to read our stories out loud, in front of the entire school. Everyone was there, including all of the parents or guardians of almost every student. And when it was my turn, my mother sat crying, clutching her tissues. But my father, he was stoned faced. I couldn’t figure it out, until after the assembly when he yanked me out back, near the football field, by my arm, and pulled me outside with him. I remember dad sneering underneath the dim buzzing lights; his large frame illuminated against the brick wall behind him. 

“You know better than to tell our business,” he hissed and sharply backhanded me across the face. The sting cut across my cheek, making me wince in pain. I whimpered and held my bruised flesh, as I tried not to look at him in the eyes. 

“I wrote about you, dad. You’re our hero, you saved Brooke and me, bringing us to America for a better life.” Even though I didn’t want to write about my father, painting him in a positive light, I knew it would make my mom happy. My words fell on deaf ears as he pulled his belt from the worn loops of his jeans. My eyes grew huge as I took in his reddened facial features and cold, blank stare. I was almost fifteen years old, and my father was going to spank me with a belt on school property, for simply attempting to give him praise. A piece of my soul died that night, while I received those lashings, underneath the dim glow of those lights. 

I wanted to become an EMT to make a difference in someone’s life; to be the hero that I should have written about in my essay, back in ninth grade. As a teenager, I wanted to be a bad seed. I wanted so badly to teach my dad a lesson about karma. You do bad, and the bad will come right back to you. Cherry Hill was a forbidden playground and I wanted to go exploring. After years of being under my dad’s thumb, my mom moved out and never spoke to any of us again, and she left two vulnerable teenagers at home with a raging, angry monster. I bought my first car that year and began dating this kid named Julio, who lived in the Cherry Hill Housing Projects. 

We spent the majority of our time together, which meant getting high on his couch and passing out in his bedroom. Julio wasn’t my first love, but the beast he introduced me to. Heroin. Since our mom was gone and out of the house for good, I blamed myself for her absence and tried as I might, I wanted to be there for Brooke. But I was quickly becoming a mess. I dropped out of school my senior year and moved in permanently with Julio. Brooke looked up to me, often saying I was the one who saved her from her portion of my father’s beatings when we were kids. 

“Not all heroes wear capes, Rainey.” Her voice, like smooth velvet, is still fresh in my head, and I wish I could just hug her one more time. I’m ripped out of my thoughts as I hear the loud siren of my pager, telling me I have to respond to a dispatch call. 

“We’re heading out to Cherry Hill,” I hear Luke say as he runs through the large break room area and grabs his name tag from the counter. I take a deep breath before screwing the cap back on soda. Images of my little sister run through my mind as we climb into the rig and head out to the scene. 

“Drug overdose, have the Naloxone ready.” Flashes of Brooke’s beautiful brown skin and shock of black hair assault my memory as I buckle my seat belt. The sirens blare as we make a quick descent North. Years ago, when I was seeking revenge against my dad, I did so by dating the most toxic person in existence; Julio made my dad look like an angel. I quickly formed a love for heroin, and with no money to support my habit, I had to rely on Julio, so I wouldn’t become dope sick. My former life fell away, piece by piece until I had nothing left. I sold my car for drugs, after just one year of being the proud owner. I hated relying on Julio to give me money, and soon when there was nothing else left to sell, I sold my body to get a fix when I needed it. My palms are sweaty and I can feel my heart hammering against my chest as we near the address the dispatcher gave to us over the radio. I’ve been quiet the entire ride over, but I feel Luke’s reassuring touch as he grabs my hand with his free one as he drives. He knows about my past with substance abuse, and the untimely death of my little sister, Brooke. He gives my fingers a good squeeze as we pull into the parking lot of Meadowlark Homes; the same place I spent the darkest days of my life. 

As we hop out of the unit, my brain goes on autopilot. I am an EMT. I am the hero to many people, that I should have been to my flesh and blood. 

“This is medic unit 9,” I hear Luke mutter into his walkie, as we run over to the site. The large black duffel I’m carrying smacks against my hip as I come closer to a young woman with long dark hair. She’s laid out on the concrete with a few other girls, who frantically wave us down. 

“It’s okay, we’re here to help,” I say, swallowing back my tears as I kneel next to my patient. 

“She’s unresponsive. She’s presenting with early signs of cyanosis, of the lips and skin,” I say as I press my fingers to her carotid artery, hoping to like hell I find a pulse. I breathe a sigh of relief as I feel her heart beating and her breath sounds are regular, just underneath my fingertips. With a pulse, there is no need for CPR. I look to Luke, who already has the Naloxone ready. 

I take the needle from him, prepare the injection site, and plunge it right into her deltoid muscle. The girls, who must be friends of hers, wipe their tears as we see signs of life returning to her cheeks and lips. Seeing the love that surrounds this girl, warmed my heart. 

After dropping our patient off at the hospital, safe and sound, Luke and I headed back to the station. 

"I'm going to make a gas run. Need anything?" He notices how quiet I've been on the way back as I look out the window. I silently shake my head no, refusing to make sure eye contact. When Brooke died, I was high; nodding out on the couch with Julio next to me. 

I was so out of it. If you asked me what day it was, or who the current president was, I wouldn't have been able to answer. Suddenly, a ring of gunshots rang out. POP! POP! POP! I jerked my head to the side and forced my eyes to open. 

Hearing gunshots go off wasn't uncommon, but I had a gut-wrenching feeling that something was wrong. I watch as Luke hops down from the driver's seat and closes the door. I wait until he's inside and I slip around back to use the bathroom. 

I can't help it and I slam the flimsy door shut behind me, screaming. I kick the door, grunting in frustration! I can't get Brooke off my mind lately. She was my best friend. We survived hell together, and now I'm living my life clean and sober and she's not here to see it. 

"Rainey?" I hear Luke's voice from the other side of the door. I'm breathing so heavily, I'm afraid I'm going to pass out from a mixture of anxiety and anger. The door handle jiggles some more before I finally let him in. 

Luke's big frame fills the doorway, as he takes in my sullen face, ruined makeup, and alligator tears. 

"Rainey," he says in a whisper and pulls me close into his warm embrace. I rest my cheek against his hard chest as I sob. 

"I was that girl, Luke. I overdosed at least four times before even thinking about treatment. I was high when Brooke was murdered in cold blood. She was trying to come and see me. She missed me." 

   "She was at the wrong place at the wrong time, Raine. It's a tragedy that will never be right, but you didn't do it, baby."

   "I could have stopped them. I was so busy trying to get back at my dad, I didn't see the damage I was doing to myself or my sister." 

   "You had a problem. You got clean, went back to school, and now you've got a great career, good friends, and a wonderful life. I think Brooke has forgiven you, Raine. Now it's time you forgive yourself." 

   We stand there in that tiny bathroom as Luke continues to hold me and be the refuge I need. After a few more calls, I'm finally able to sit down and enjoy a cup of coffee. The lounge has been my home away from home since I started here as an EMT. 

  I enjoy the quiet, but sometimes it can hinder, more than help. Then I see a pen and a small black notebook by the sink, adjacent to the fridge, and get an idea. I take the materials, my coffee included, and settle into the recliner. 

  My hero: The person who saved me. 

This person wouldn't ordinarily consider themselves hero material. She always told me "Heros don't always wear capes, Rainey." Referring to me as her savior; the one to rescue her when needing to be saved. But in all honesty, it was my sister Brooke who saved the day on many occasions. She never let me down, held my hand when times were rough, and always gave me a reason to smile. I guess we saved each other because, at the end of the day, we were all each other had. I did a lot of dumb things in my time, but she never made me feel as if I failed her, even though I still struggle with those feelings of inadequacy within myself. Brooke has since passed away, but I honor her memory in every way that I can. I love you, Brookie. Always and forever.