Patterns In The Rain

“Strangely, the sea doesn’t get tedious to look at. Wave tracks converge and criss-cross in patterns that have never happened before and will never happen again.” 

Sebastian Junger, The Perfect Storm.

The March rain has all but stopped, and my wipers intermittently push water across the windshield. A rainy night on a busy road, cars sometimes toss up sheets of water that sparkle beneath the streetlights I pull into the Applebee’s parking lot, pass the bright red, orange, and green neon sign and, because the dinner crowd has gone, I find a space near the building. I turn off the engine and lean back in the seat, reminding myself to relax, to simply be myself. Or, maybe, my inner critic says, I should be better than that. I try to shut him up, take a deep breath and get out, walking along the wall, avoiding drips of water from the overhanging roof and tiny rivulets that intertwine in puddles along the sidewalk.

I see her just inside the arched doorway, near the dark-paneled wall. Short blond hair, a hooded green sweatshirt, tennis shoes, blue jeans, in so many ways the high school senior, yet small and slight for her 18 years. It still strikes me as odd that she drove herself here tonight, instead of waiting for me to pick her up. I know she’s had her driver’s license since the day she turned 16, but in my unguarded moments she’s still my little girl needing a ride. Eight years since she left to live with her mom alone. A lot of time in a young life, and she’s gone through so many changes, most without my knowledge, certainly most with little input or advice from me.  

When I come inside she flashes a nervous smile. Despite weekly phone calls, we haven’t talked openly for years. I’m hoping for some sort of breakthrough tonight, to somehow wash away the residue of the past, to find the light beneath. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable thing to want. I hope not.

We greet awkwardly and make small talk as we follow the server to a back booth. Eight o’clock on a Thursday evening, so we will be alone enough to talk freely. I ask the server for a Corona.

“I’ll have one too,” she says, “Michelob Light.”

I look surprised for a moment, and she laughs. “Remember, Dad, in this State minors can drink alcohol if they’re with a parent.”

Now I laugh too. Inside I note she called me “Dad,” and that she still sees me as her parent.

 The beers arrive and it’s time to talk. My opening words feel scripted, because they are. When I have nothing else to add, silence ensues. While waiting for inspiration or for her to respond I watch a bead of water work its way down the window, its path edged by unseen imperfections. It pushes relentlessly onward and disappears. I imagine it dropping into a puddle and losing itself in an ever-expanding ripple, a perfect circle that will soon be gone forever.   

“What are you looking at?” There’s a nervous edge to her voice.

 “Nothing,” I reply, “just looking at the rain.” 

“We could talk about the weather,” she says, “but I’d rather hear about you.”

“Not much in that,” I say, “nobody wants to hear a middle-aged man talk about himself.” 

“I do,” she says, “I want to know you.” 

I truly meet her eyes for the first time that evening, maybe for the first time in years. I realize she really does want to hear my stories, needs to hear them. I know I need her to hear them.  For her, they suggest her own beginnings, evidence of our shared humanity, of the quirks unique to our family, events and actions that help make sense of who we are. For me, telling my stories gives meaning to my past, channels my memories. More than that, I want to share these things with her, afraid that otherwise I will slip wholly from her life, and her memories of me will fade to nothing, like rain falling on the empty open ocean.

 I get a second beer, she switches to Coke. I smile at that, glad she has the maturity to remember she must drive home. She settles in and tells stories of her own. As time passes we shift from stories to memories, and our words work their way down a potentially perilous path through the lost years.  We skirt the dark days of the divorce, sensing that something heavy lurks in those depths, something we don’t want to dredge up tonight. There will be a time for that, but not now. Tonight we focus on the good times, on memories whose edges have been worn smooth by the flow of time, rounded and polished, like rocks long tumbled in a mountain stream.

She glances at her watch. “I had no idea it was so late. I promised mom I’d be home by 11.”

I nod and force a smile, holding back the unreasonable resentment of this intrusion by her mother, reminding myself to focus on what we found tonight. “Sure, kiddo,”is all I say.

 We stop in the doorway, where I hope to find a real moment of resolution, to say something or do something that would impose something solid on this moment, create a clear and bright new memory that will shine forever.

We stand stiffly separate, then both lean in for a long goodbye hug that softens into a solid embrace. “I do love you,” I say, “and I am so sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”

“I know,” she says, “I love you too.” She pauses. “And I hope you can be here for me, now.”

 “I will,” I say, and I mean it.  

We step apart, and she looks at me with tear-shiny eyes. A tear forms in the corner of my own eye, and I feel its wet warmth working down my cheek. 

The rain has returned, and she runs to her car. As she pulls out of the parking lot the sweep of her headlights causes raindrops to sparkle like diamonds that vanish into darkness. 

On my own drive home, I stop at a traffic signal and notice the steady drip of rain off the red light, the drips glowing crimson, making ragged patterns down my windshield. The light turns green and I drive on. 

By now she’s halfway home.