Make It Rain

I met her at the cafe on the corner. I was waiting at the back of the queue, seventh in line. She was at the counter scanning the board wondering which coffee to choose. It can be a problem, there are twenty-five different coffees on offer – Espresso, Latte, Americano, Red Eye, Black Eye, and Flat White to name a few – it’s not always an easy choice. I don’t have that problem myself because I always order the same – the cheapest, biggest, hottest drink up there – double latte (two shots of espresso with steaming milk). What I’m looking for is something that takes a while to drink. I’m not fussy about the taste, I’m not a connoisseur, just so long as it’s hot so it takes a while to cool down. I can take an hour over the same coffee. I get my money’s worth.

She was holding up the queue and the guy behind the counter was getting impatient – as were the other customers. She couldn’t make up her mind so she stood to one side and let the next customer get served. She was still undecided by the time I got to the counter. I ordered two double lattes, paid the bill, and when they were ready I handed one to her.

 “Save you from having to choose,” I said with a grin. She was so grateful that she agreed, without hesitation I add, to come and sit with me.

Marianne: twenty-eight years old, pretty as a picture, and nearly twenty years younger than me – and I’d picked her up without any smart-ass pick-up line, just a nice gesture and the help she needed at just the right time. We talked for two hours, ordered more coffees – my treat – and discovered we had a lot in common: the films we like, the books we read, our view of the world, our morals and political preferences… A match made in heaven, though we both agreed heaven didn’t exist. The only inconsistency was in our decision-making abilities. I leaned definitely towards “impulsive”, always have. Never thought of why, it just works for me and saves a lot of time and trouble. Maybe it was just practice – over the years I built up a strong sense of intuition that I could trust. I made decisions on the spot and, as it turned out, few had any serious consequences. So I learned not to worry about consequences, and anyway, I had the mindset that believed there’s something to be gained no matter what you choose – it’s a matter of perception whether something is good or bad and I always sought the good in things. And if I ever encountered a difficult choice I just flipped a coin in my head and went with it.

Marianne was my polar opposite. She told me she’d always had difficulty making decisions. She also saw the good in everything but that was what made it so difficult, she said, and she’d made some bad decisions in the past – relationships and jobs mostly – and that made her so insecure that it affected even simple decision-making, like choosing what to wear that day, where to go walking, which coffee to order…

When it was time for me to leave – which I would have chosen not to but I had another appointment – I gave her my number and said I’d like to keep in touch, but I was leaving the decision up to her. She said she’d think about it.

“Or toss a coin,” I said, and she laughed.

It was a week later that I got her call. I picked her up and took her to the sea. It was the middle of December and blustery – all raging surf and salty spray. We strolled up the beach, two lovers-in-the-making, close but separated, reading each other sentence by sentence, testing familiarity with flirty remarks and elbow-nudges… walking back down we were already holding hands. I kissed her by the car and she didn’t resist. We shared side-glances and smiles on the way home. I invited her to my place for dinner, she accepted and ended up staying the night. We dated for a year before I asked her to marry me. That’s the longest I’ve ever taken to decide on something, not because I was unsure – I could have easily asked her after that first walk on the beach – but I was truly afraid of the consequences if she’d said no.

As it turned out she said yes, and we were married the following spring.

Life was easy and fun – we fitted each other like the wedding rings on our fingers. I made all the big decisions in the beginning: new house, what to cook and eat, where to go on holidays, which restaurants, bars, museums, galleries, and shows to visit, channels to watch on tv, Christmas and birthday gifts to buy for relatives and friends. Our circle of friends dwindled as we spent more and more time in our own company – we kept it to a select few and didn’t socialize much, which suited me fine because I was getting too old for galavanting, and she was just relieved not to have to keep choosing what to wear, and when we did go out she’d actually ask me what she should wear and she wouldn’t question my preferences.

It sounds like it could have been a recipe for disaster, like she was handing over her independence to me, and if I’d been a control-freak it may have turned out that way… but I’m not. It was easy for me to make decisions so it didn’t trouble me, and over time she got to understand my mindset and learned to adopt it in a way, learned to be more nonchalant about choices and outcomes. I’d give her little decision-assignments from time to time – it was a game, I’d give her a selection of choices regarding something and she had thirty seconds to make a decision, then we’d follow through regardless. Eventually, she got comfortable with it, becoming almost as impulsive as me.

It was the morning of her thirty-third birthday when she said it. I was shaving and she was standing by the door watching, her reflection smiling at me in the mirror.

“Checking out my ass again?” I quipped.

“I want a baby,” she said. Out of the blue. I nearly sliced my face off with the razor I was so surprised. Maybe I should have seen it coming, she was at that age after all, but I didn’t – we’d never discussed babies before.

I dabbed my bleeding face with a towel and turned to face her. “Where did that come from,” I asked. “You been thinking about it a long time?”

“No, just came to me.”

“A bit impulsive isn’t it? Even for you these days. I mean, a baby is a big, big decision.”

“I know but I’m listening to my intuition just like you taught me and I’m certain it’s a good idea. What’s wrong, you don’t think so?”

“No… I mean… yes, of course, it’s a good idea. You just took me by surprise that’s all.”

She came up to me then, still smiling. Took the towel from me and started patting my wound clean. “Hope you’re not getting too insecure in your old age,” she said. “Come on back to bed, I want to start right now.”

Old? Was I getting old? Was I getting scared of consequences? I don’t know. But I couldn’t decide right then if I wanted to be a father or not. I followed her to the bed and we made love, and for the first time, I admit my mind wasn’t entirely focussed on her or the activity. She didn’t seem to notice though – obviously I wasn’t yet too old to still please her.

We tried for two months but nothing was happening. On a spur decision, we decided to check if there was anything wrong with either of us. We made an appointment with a physician but when we got to the clinic she paused outside the door.

“I’m not sure I want to do this,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t think I want to know. Suppose we find out that one of us is infertile… what then?

“Then we deal with it, the way we deal with all consequences. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”

I could see she was still hesitant but she agreed to the test when I reminded her that we wouldn’t get the results right away – we could always choose not to know later.

The results came in the post a week later. The envelope still lay unopened on the table after another week. And another week. And another. Each time I mentioned it she shook her head saying she wasn’t ready to know. I left the decision up to her – possibly the hardest decision of her life, but I couldn’t make it for her. I would have been happy regardless. I told her if I was the problem she could always get impregnated by a donor and I’d go along with any choice she made because I loved her and I would love the child whether it was my own or not.

“But if I’m the problem?” she asked.

“Then we adopt. Simple.”

She thought about that for another week and suddenly the envelope was gone from the table. She said she’d put it away, unopened. Decided conclusively that she didn’t want to know. Told me she loved me and wanted my baby and no other and if it wasn’t destined to be then so be it. We didn’t talk about it again. We still made love unprotected though, and often, pushing destiny to the limit you could say.

Life went on. Five years passed. Everything was fine. I thought. Until I came home one day to find her sitting at the table, eyes red from crying, the envelope open before her.

“I needed to know,” she said. “I’m sorry… I needed to know.”

I read the results. I was the problem – some hereditary genetical condition, unlikely to improve with treatment given my age. I took her in my arms and she wept on my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she kept saying.

“Don’t be,” I said, “it’s not the end of the world.”

But it was the start of the end… for me at least.

We didn’t make love that night. Over the following months, she became moody and distant. I tried everything to cheer her up. I couldn’t mention anything to do with babies though without her tearing up. She lost interest in all the fun things we used to do together. She stopped caring. She stopped wanting. I was running both our lives, making all the decisions again. It wasn’t as easy as before though – I was starting to worry about consequences.

She left without notice. I came home to an empty house, empty dresser, empty wardrobe – all trace of her gone. A short note on my pillow saying: “I’m sorry!” and nothing else. I collapsed onto the empty bed and lay there for three days, weeping until there were no more tears to weep. My heart was a black, cold stone in my chest. My mind was a bottomless pit of sorrowful bleakness.

A month has passed.

I haven’t worked, I haven’t answered any calls or responded to the mountain of messages on my phone. I haven’t left the house once. The food cupboards are almost empty, the sink is full, the house is a dump of strewn clothes and empty beer cans and wine bottles. I sit like an oversized, bearded rag-doll in an armchair across from the window, staring out at a grey sky. Grey has become my colour through and through. I stink. I know I stink because I can smell it myself. I need to wash but I can’t be bothered. I know I should do something soon – get up, clean up, get my life together – but I’ve lost all motivation. I don’t know what’s important anymore. I can’t decide if anything is. I can’t even decide if I should be angry, or sad, or disappointed, or hurt. I don’t feel anything anymore. The flame of life within me has gone out and I don’t know how to light it again. I don't know if I want to.

In the past, whenever I felt down or indecisive about something, I’d take a walk. A walk always brought clarity – an answer, an idea, a decision. Simple. Maybe I should take a walk. But that would mean deciding to get up and go out. I don’t want to make any decisions. I don’t want to think. I would start thinking about her.

I’m lost. I’m scared. Of life. Of myself. I can’t see the good anymore, only pain and suffering and emptiness, and I’m scared to confront it. I don’t want to confront it.

The sky is getting darker. It looks like rain. Walking in the rain would just add to my misery – or wash it away. I can’t decide. I could flip a coin – another decision I don’t want to make. I want someone to make it for me. I decided a long time ago that God doesn’t exist but I find myself praying now – not for guidance or forgiveness but for a decision.

I stare out at the sky.

“Please God…” I cry aloud, “make it rain.”