Water from the Sky

I hate rain. I despise every aspect of it: the sound, the smell, the deceptively massive puddles that engulf my fairly worn Adidas, I simply hate it. It’s not my fault that I’m a product of warm southern California. You expect a curly haired Los Angeles native to enjoy rain? You can sit there on your high horse, telling me tales of New York winters, trudging through the streets blinded, during a snowstorm, where North was East and West has still yet to be found, but I don’t have the capacity to care. I don’t need to hear how worse off you had it; you can pat yourself on the back without the addition of my hands getting in on that action as well, thank you.

           Anyways, we’re fast approaching April, which means spring and sunshine have finally arrived. It’s a Tuesday, again. There’s a list of things that need to get done today: laundry, clean, more laundry…it’s piled so high I can barely open my closet door for fear it’ll all spill out, like that one time I cooked rice on the stove and accidentally put the cover on. Has that every happened to you? You turn your back for one minute, and suddenly it’s overflowing, covering 3 burners, leeching down onto the oven leaving its sticky white residue in its wake, simply reminding you of your idiotic mistake. I don’t recommend it. I should probably call my niece today too, I’m pretty sure it’s one of their birthdays but it’s a toss up as to who’s birthday it actually is, so maybe I won’t risk it at all. It’s the thought that counts anyways, right? I do a swift check of the apartment to see where all my dirty socks wandered off to, shove them with full force in my blue IKEA bag, and off we go, down 3 flights of stairs to the dungeon, I mean basement laundry room. I fully believe my neighbors must think that Shrek lives in their building, with all the grunting, huffing and sidestepping I’m doing to try and get this 20-pound bag of laundry down the stairs. I arrive at the door that separates me from the outdoor backyard space, which will lead me down a dark, narrow hallway, to defeat a dragon and save the princess. Just kidding, it’s to a roach-infested laundry room. But as I open the door, I hear it; large droplets hitting the pavement with such fervent desire and anger rolled into one; the door creaks open at the slightest push, and it’s raining. No, not raining, pouring.

           “Fuck.” I take a breath. I’m in blue cotton shorts, a black tank top, and flip flops, so I definitely prepared for this 25-second sprint in the rain. I’m doing this awkward run while grasping the blue handles for dear life, as they’ve seen better days, keeping head down to deter the rain from completely blinding me, and as I’m about to reach for the handle, to the sanctity of shelter, the door flies open and knocks me down, dirty socks and jeans droop to the ground and lay amongst the dirt.

           “Am I asleep? What’s going on?” I’m no longer in my apartment building, I’m no longer 23, I’m no longer living, did I die somehow? I see my mom, sharp green almond eyes, much shorter than my adult self, about 15 years younger I think, wrinkles have disappeared entirely…she’s collecting our mail in front of the house I grew up in. I haven’t been here in a long time, two Thanksgivings ago maybe, but it feels like yesterday. Part of me is freaking out, but a larger part of me doesn’t care. There’s something so comforting about this place, about this home. It’s safe and happy and reminds me of a better time. It was never perfect here, but it was as perfect as I could ever want it to be. I hear a high-pitched girl behind me say “bye, Elaine, see you tomorrow!” followed by the hurried shuffles of an 8 year-old me, bouncing towards home. I am most definitely dead.

           I follow her towards the porch, look back and see the dark clouds coming, threatening to ruin this otherwise breathtaking perfect day. I’m distracted by a smell hypnotizing me to enter the house…my mom’s chicken soup. What is it with moms making perfect chicken soup, that’s more nourishing for the soul than anything else. When you become a mom do you get this secret instructional manual as to how to make chicken soup? Since I’m dead I’ll probably never find out, but if you happen to know, send me a message somehow will ya. The front door slams shut, and I’m immediately brought back to reality, if you can call it that. Standing in what we coined the “computer room,” I turn and see my dad had just come home from work. The real me, the 8 year-old me, bounds past my ghostly self and jumps up to give him the biggest hug I’ve ever seen anyone give another human. I’m now starting to notice the old feathered couch that I used to make forts out of, the eggshell white walls, my homework strewn about the room like a tornado. This is home. This is just how I remember it, if I ever choose to remember it at all.

           “H, Peanut, I’ve had a long day at work, how about you give me 15 minutes to relax and you can tell me all about your day later, ok?” My mom convinces young me to take a shower before dinner, and I happily oblige because it’s just what I did back then. I’m looking forward to a dinner with my parents, I’m looking forward to extra dessert, I’m looking forward to playing poker with my dad before bed, behind my mom’s back of course, I’m looking forward to being a kid for a little while longer. Ghost me is walking the hallways while real me showers, looking at the old family photos on the walls, reminding myself what this house used to look like. Real me turns off the water and I hear shouting coming from the kitchen. Not uncommon, parents fight, I’ve always ignored it as best I can. I see real me in my pink and grey heart sweatpants and a white t-shirt, coming out of the bathroom door, and I suddenly remember this day. My body turns cold and stiff as I remember what happens next. I wish I could tell myself to stay in the bathroom an extra minute. I wish I could stop being ghost me so I can physically push my younger self back into the bathroom and lock the door so I can have a few extra minutes to be a kid. But I can’t move, I’m still at the end of the hallway watching it unfold as my throat tightens and tears start coming from my eyes in a way that my therapist would deem a breakthrough. My mom rounds the corner, crying, screaming, “Your father is leaving us, your father is leaving us, I can’t believe it, why, why…”

           Have you ever had a memory be so painful, that you force yourself to forget about it? I think I read about Freud’s repressed memory theory once, freshman year, but it’s been so long now. I never thought I’d have to re-live this memory, especially not when it’s being acted out for you again, live in front of a studio audience, yet here we are. “What are you talking about, mom?” So naïve. So innocent. So stupid. I’ve never seen my dad cry before, maybe once when his mom almost died, but never like this before, never with so much pain. “Baby, I’m sorry, I just can’t do it anymore. I love you.” All I wanted was soup. All I wanted was to tell him that Simon Phillips from school tried to kiss my friend, Rachel Abril, on the playground, and how my teacher got involved because she happened to see it play out right in front of her, and how our recess got cut short; but instead, I get this Shakespearean play. “Don’t, don’t you say that, if you loved her you would stay, but you’re leaving us.” My dad chimed in “Stop, I’m not leaving you both, I just can’t do this anym-,” “Don’t, don’t say it, 20 years, it’s been 20 years!-” I’m still just standing there, watching them do this odd dance up and down the hallway, my dad following my mom around, trying to say whatever it is he wants to say, her just yelling back at him. And I’m just, there. Standing there, ghost me and real me. We can’t move, we can barely breath. I can’t take them yelling anymore, I can’t stand it, real me bolts for the front door and I run after her. She stops just outside our porch. It’s raining. It was sunny and bright before my shower, and now it’s dark and raining and sad, everything’s sad. Real me starts running down the block, nobody’s out on this little suburban street because of the rain I presume, or maybe they heard my parents and got scared and ran inside. Either way, I’m running, no clue where I’m going, but I just know I need to go. Ghost me follows suit, at a slower pace, seeing how this plays out, but deep down knowing how it plays out and not wanting to rush it.

           “Stop, Peanut, stop, please.” My dad used to call me, Peanut. I never knew why, I forgot how much I’ve missed that. My dad catches up to real me, and I slow down to let him. “What was mom talking about, you’re leaving us?” “No, no, I’m not leaving you. I’ll always love you, Peanut, that’ll never change. I just can’t be married to your mom anymore. It has nothing to do with you, this is between your mom and I, ok? We’ll figure it out, I promise.” I started walking away from him, but not too fast, I still wanted him close by. I was furious, I was screaming on the inside, I never felt hate before now. He was my best friend, and I loved him so much, how can you hate and love someone at the same time? My brain wanted me to scream, my heart wanted me to cry, and here I am, in the rain, in the realness of life, wanting to not feel emotions anymore. I stop moving and he catches up with me. I give him a side hug, part of me pulling away, part of me punching his arm with mine, saying I love you and saying I hate you at the same time. I push myself off of him with full force, and continue to walk home, my dad trailing behind, not saying a word.

           Things were never the same again after that day. Everything changed, he moved out, cause my mom kicked him out the next day. He eventually re-married and had a new family of his own, and I was his reminder of the family he left behind, the woman he left behind. He never said it, but whenever he looked at me, I would see it in his eyes. I was no longer his Peanut, I was now the pre-teen girl helping her mom figure out divorce papers because she couldn’t deal with it by herself, and he was gone. I was her husband, her child, and her mother in one tiny human. I just wanted to have one more family dinner, one more game night, one more normal night.

           “Wake up, please, shit, I’m sorry, wake up.” I feel cold raindrops on my face, mixed in with my tears, my head hurts, like really hurts, what the hell. “Ow,” I muster. I’m back in my apartment, back to being 23, back to being in the rain in my flip flops with my dirty laundry lying in a messy heap next to me, a mustached man I vaguely recognize in round glasses standing over me. “I didn’t see you, I just opened the door, and I heard you go down, you’ve been out a few minutes.” “I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s ok,” I’m still not present. I’m closing my eyes remembering my home, remembering the soup, remembering the hot steam from the shower as young me opened the door, it was so real. It was all in my head, all of it. I stand up, gather my things, my brow furrowed together, poor guy felt so bad and I couldn’t give him the time of day right now. “I’m fine man, it’s really ok, I just need a minute alone, you can just go you know, really I’m fine.” “Ok, ok, well I’m in 3C if you need anything ok,” and he leaves. I gather my laundry, chuck the bag against the wall, and sit next to it, like a statue. I close my eyes, tilt my head towards the rain and let myself be engulfed by it. I let it wash over me. I give up all control of my thoughts, my emotions, my self, and just sit there.

           It might have been 4 minutes, it might have been 45, I couldn’t tell you. Oddly enough, I didn’t care. I would’ve sat there all day, in the rain, drenched from head to toe. I hated rain, always have, but today I let the rain cleanse me. Today, I embrace the water, I embrace the cold, the wet drops drenching my hair, giving me goose bumps. I sit, and let go and let the water take me where it’s going to take me for as long as it’ll have me. Today, I don’t hate the rain. Today, I let the rain begin to heal me, and I welcome it with cold, wet arms.