The Rain is my Enemy, but You are my Friend

“MASON!” Callie yelled from her porch, the rain splattering heavily on the sidewalk. She watched from the porch, desperate for a sign of him, but it was raining so hard she could barely see. It would be hopeless to look for him, especially in the storm.

She knew he had been upset, but she thought he’d have come home by now. He’d been gone all afternoon. She walked back in the house and flopped on the couch, petting her dog, Rosco, in short, quick rubs.

She wanted to call the police, but she also didn’t know when he’d be back, or if he was at a friend’s. He was pretty mad, she knew, he probably just went over to Carl’s or something.

 He was her responsibility for the weekend; his parents were away in court. But she was sure he wasn’t actually hurt, and she didn’t even know where he was. She’d just wait a few more minutes.

She hardly recalled what he’d been screaming about before he left. Callie knew that Mason was upset about his parents divorce that weekend, but he’d been reclusive all weekend, shut up in his room when he was normally very much an extrovert. 

The divorce and following custody had been tough on him; she doubted it was really about Mason, and more about hurting the other parent. She thought it was disgusting how they would use their son like that, especially when Mason was such a sweet kid.

She stacked her textbooks on the table, then took them into her room, pausing by the framed picture of the two of them when they went to St. Catherine’s Children’s Museum for the day. It’d been one of the best days of her life. 

She was sure Mason was fine; he’d been gone for a lot longer before. 

However, the pit that had formed in her stomach yesterday was now a hole, and as each minute passed and Mason wasn’t home, it ate at her, making the hole more expansive. 

But she had to think practically; Mason was a tough kid. He could take care of himself. It was cold out there; he’d probably like it if she made a fire, so the house was warm. She’d also make hot chocolate, one of his favorites. Maybe after a cup, he’d tell her what was really going on, and they would laugh together, and maybe play his favorite board game. 

She went down to fix the fire and gathered some wood with shaking hands, feeling the bottoms of the wood damp from the storm. When she went to light the fire, she flinched at the flicker. She managed to light the kindling, and watched the fire burn slowly, eating the pizza box from a few days ago with an orange tongue, and her arms chilled with goosebumps. She shook it off and walked upstairs, her bare toes curling at the cold concrete. She could smell the almost metallic scent of the rain brushing against the concrete, and her nose wrinkled. Roscoe whined slightly, the smell irritating his nose.

She went upstairs and made the hot chocolate, boiling a cup of water and a cup of milk; he liked his richer than hers. She poured it out, and decided to take it to the living room. The cups almost burned her clammy hands as she took them out, but she hardly noticed.

She was ready for Mason to come home. He’d probably be back in a few minutes. 

And her cocoa was suddenly gone, and Mason’s was cold. Roscoe whined at the door. She went to drain Mason's cup, and she saw all the dirty dishes. He probably wasn’t coming home because they weren’t done, that was it. She began running the hot water, and put her gloves on. 

She finished the dishes, and opened the cabinet under the sink. While she was in the mood, she might as well clean the house. It would make the time pass, anyhow. 

She first cleaned the rest of the kitchen, rearranging the fruits and spices, and cleaned the fridge out of the leftovers - or, Mason’s food that he never ate. She gave some to the dog, but threw the rest out.

Soon the house, save the bedrooms, was sparkling clean. She knew he had to be home soon. She reached under the couch, feeling for the worn-out box that held Scrabble. She knew Mason loved that game, and she was hoping they’d play a round after he came home. 

She felt nothing but the shaggy carpet, and frowned. She knew the game was down there, Mason liked it too much to get rid of it. She felt around a little bit more, until her hand hit something sharp. She hissed in pain as she extracted a kitchen knife from underneath the couch. She looked at her palm, which had a long trail of blood down it, and winced as the shock went away.

 She stood up, cradling her left hand in her right and threw the knife into the kitchen sink on her way to the bathroom. 

She ripped off some gauze and wrapped her hand up, and afterwards, she curled up on the couch, heart dropping with every second.

By now it was an hour past worrying. Callie was freaking out. She hated to do it, but she called Mason’s dad. However, she went straight to voicemail.

She clicked off, and there was a sinking feeling in her stomach. Something was horribly wrong.

She knew she had to get out and find him, no matter how long it took. She raced into his room, looking for a clue to where he could've gone.

She saw his phone on his bed, vibrating, and grabbed it. She opened the message. It was from Carl.

Hey, man, where are you? We were supposed to meet an hour ago.

Her heart sank. He was supposed to be somewhere. Somewhere safe, but he wasn’t. She needed to find him.

Below that were the voicemails from Callie. Callie put the phone on the bed stand and opened the drawer. There was nothing in it but a few pencils and a notebook. She opened his closet, and didn’t find anything but his clothing and a few spare basketballs and footballs. 

She turned to his desk, where there was a dirty shirt hanging from the chair. She ignored it and sat down, and started scrounging around. She found a notebook, and tossed aside, afraid it might be something personal.

She sat back down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something, a piece of paper, sticking out of the notebook. She picked it up lightly, and read it. 

She gasped. No, no, no. It wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be happening no. He couldn’t have written that note. It was something for his English class. He was happy, he was outgoing. He wouldn’t do this. 

She read it once more. It was in his handwriting. She ran into the living room, heart beating wildly. She fumbled in the numbers for the police station. 

“911 what’s the emergency?” she heard the operator say. 

“He’s going to kill himself, Mason’s going to kill himself,” Callie said into the phone, voice choking.

“Where is Mason, ma’am?” 

“I don't know, I'm going to try the bridge.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to stay at the house. We’ll send out officers immediately, and we will find him,” the operator said, “Where do you live?”

“1700 Ontario Drive,” she spoke into the phone, “Please hurry, he’s been gone for hours.”

She clicked off and sank back into the house. Her fingers were shaking numbly. 

She never imagined he would’ve done this. She should’ve done something earlier. 

She thought back to all the times she’d asked him if he was okay, and how he always responded with, “Good.” Maybe if she’d wrestled the truth from him, maybe if she would’ve tried harder, this wouldn’t have happened.  

She felt like she was going to throw up, and ran to the bathroom. As she finished, she leaned against the back wall, and felt the heat kick in. This infuriated her; while Mason was suffering out there, she’d been making a fire, and cleaning, and making hot chocolate. How stupid was she? She knew he wouldn’t just run off. She couldn’t believe herself.

And now he was gone, maybe gone forever. She ran out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, and threw herself on her bed. She curled up, and pulled a comforter over her body, wanting to hide her face. Maybe it was the worst nightmare possible, and she’d wake up soon, and Mason would be sleeping on the other end of the couch, the movie from last night still running on loop. 

Callie couldn’t sit still; her nerves were on a spin cycle. She almost jumped up, and paced back and forth in the house, which suddenly seemed to be shrinking. 

“Please, please, please,” she said, into her hands, screwing her eyes tight. She could feel her fingernails dig into her cheeks. 

Roscoe whined at her feet, and she picked him up, rocking him up and down. She checked her phone; it had only been 3 minutes. 

She started sobbing, the shock wearing off. Her face was red, she was sure, but she didn’t care; she just wanted Mason to be home.

She leaned against the wall, hiccuping, tears streaming down her face, hair in her mouth, her throat dry. 

And then it was an hour, and the memories had been suffocating her.

Her heart was pounding hard in her ears; she couldn’t take much more of the waiting. When the knock at the door came, she jumped up, eyes blinking out tears. She tried composing herself, but then just ran to the door and threw it open. 

“Ma’am, is this 1700 Ontario Drive?” The cop officer asked sternly. 

“Yes, yes, where’s Mason?” 

“Ma’am we’re here because we got a call about a suicidal young individual -”

“Mason!” she said, as he poked his head out. She pulled him into the house and almost tackled him into a hug, the tears returning at a higher force. 

“You’re okay,” she beated, then amended quickly, “You’re not dead, you’re alive.”

“Ma’am are you the guardian of this young individual?” The cop continued, his partner standing almost menacingly. 

“Oh, no, I’m his babysitter,” she said, “His parents are in court right now.”

The officer said, “We might have to ask you a few questions, about MAson and such.”

“Is that okay with you?” Callie asked Mason, who nodded.

They all sat in the living room, and the second officer started. “Why weren’t the authorities contacted immediately after he left? You said he’d been gone for hours.”

“Well, sir, I figured he’d gone to his friends or to the park to cool down, he’d just gotten really angry,” Callie said, glancing at Mason, “Mason where’s your sweatshi-” she glanced down at his arms and gasped lightly, her heart feeling like it was shrinking. He shied away, pulling a blanket over himself. He was still drenched. “Mason, go change into clean clothes,” she said. He left, the dog at his heels, rubbing them with his furry head.

“We found his sweatshirt 15 feet away from him at the scene,” The first officer said gently, “Now what made you contact authorities when you did?”

“I was in his room -”

“You were what?!” Mason said incredulously, visibly more upset, reappearing at the doorway.

“Mason, your phone vibrated,” she said, “He forgot to take it with him, and his friend messaged them. They were supposed to meet earlier, but Mason had bailed. I checked his room to find hints of where he could’ve gone, and I found a - a -” She couldn’t bring herself to say it - “a note.” 

“May we see the note?” the second police officer asked. Callie glanced at Mason, who nodded lightly, head in his hands.

Callie rose to get it, and Roscoe rubbed her heels. Mason reached for the dog, and Callie gave it to him. He leaned back, burying his face into the dog’s fur. 

When she returned, the first police officer had migrated to her spot, and so she gave the note to his partner and sat down in the comforter. 

“That’s all questioning we’ll do for now,” the first officer said, “I trust you’ll take good care of him?”

“I will,” Callie promised.

As the officers left, Callie slid to the floor, sitting on her knees. 

“I owe you an apology,” she said, “I should’ve done something way sooner, this happened because of me.”

“How can you say that?” Mason asked, clutching Roscoe, “I tried to kill myself, Callie, you didn’t!”

“Mason there’s a reason you decided to, and that’s not because of you,” Callie said, “You’ve been going through so much lately, and it got to be too much. It’s anyone but your fault.”

“I haven’t been eating at Carl’s,” Mason blurted, “I haven’t, I haven’t been eating lately.”

“Mason,” Callie said, “Why?”

“Because I guess I’m tired of my parents just viewing me as a - a weapon!” Mason said, “I want to mean something to them, you know?”

“Mason it’s your parent’s fault that they’re using you,” Callie said, “It’s horrible, and awful of them, but not you. I’m sorry, but not eating isn’t going to help. And you mean so much to me, and to Carl, and Keith, and Roscoe -” Mason sniffled quickly, almost a laugh - “We don’t care if you weigh a few extra pounds. And if your parents can’t see anything beyond that, I’m sorry, they’re not worth the time of the day. It’s not you that’s the problem.”

“I just thought it’d be easier if I disappeared,” Mason said.

“Mason, come with me to the bathroom,” Callie said. She took his hand and led him there, and showed him the dent in the wall, while getting the alcohol and cotton balls out.

“I made that, a few minutes ago,” she said, showing him her bruised knuckles, “If you were gone, Mason, I would shut down. You are so important to me.” She indicated sitting on the sink, and he did so. She gently took his left arm, and began washing it, like she’d done for so many of his previous scabs. The air was different now, and Callie felt something catch in her throat. He hissed the same way as if it were just a mosquito bite, and she patted it dry with a paper towel. He hopped down, and she enveloped him in a hug, squeezing him tight. 

They went to the kitchen, where she made him a salad and some scrambled eggs. She knew he probably had to ease into being comfortable eating more, so while she wanted to make him a turkey, and potatoes, and cakes, and casseroles, she knew it was hard enough for him to eat what she made. 

Once he finished, they sat on the opposite ends of the couch, both wanting desperately to sleep. While Mason curled up with Roscoe, however, she found she couldn’t sleep, the possibilities of what could happen if she fell asleep keeping her up. At long last, morning came, and she shook Mason awake

“Your parents should be back in a few hours,” Callie said, “What do you want to do?”

“Play Scrabble,” Mason said.

“I couldn’t find it last night,” Callie said, “Did you dad get rid of it?”

 “No,” Mason said, “I did, because, you know, I thought I wasn’t going to play anymore.” Callie’s throat tightened, the previous night haunting her, before knowing what she needed to do.

“How much money do we have left, that your parents left us?” Callie asked, running into her room before bringing the envelope back out. She counted a few tens and ones. 

“Think you could lend me ten dollars?” she asked, and he nodded, unsure of where she was going with it.

“Well, come on then!” Callie said, “The Scrabble game isn’t going to buy itself, go get a sweatshirt on!”

Mason ran to his room, returning in seconds with his University of Michigan sweatshirt. He threw it on while Callie grabbed an umbrella, as it was still raining heavily outside.

They ran out to her rusty Jeep, and in seconds were on the road, heading to the nearest Wal-Mart.