Healing Rain

 

by Katy Newton Naas

Published by Clean Reads

www.cleanreads.com

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

 

HEALING RAIN

Copyright © 2015 KATY NEWTON NAAS

ISBN 978-1-62135-407-9

Cover Art Designed by Melody Pond

 

This book is dedicated to my family.

Thank you all for the support, encouragement, laughter,

and inspiration you provide each and every day.

 

 

The smell of blood – sickeningly thick, fresh blood – filled my nostrils before I ever opened the door. I didn't recognize that smell at first; I had never encountered that much blood in one place before. But I knew that the smell was off, somehow. The room usually smelled just like my dad – a mixture of pine trees and cologne, a combination of aromas that I had never quite understood but they belonged to him. I knocked, but no one answered. Cautiously, I pushed open the door. “Dad?” I whispered as I entered.

That's when I saw his legs. His signature khaki pants and brown loafers stuck out from behind his desk. He was on the ground and didn't move when I said his name, didn't even twitch as I opened the door and walked inside. “Dad!” I called again, louder this time.

Oh no, he's had a heart attack
, I thought. I rushed over to the desk to see his face. But what I saw stopped me in my tracks like a deer in headlights.

I was frozen. My brain screamed at my body to move, to get away from the sight, but my feet were glued to the floor. My arms and legs suddenly felt like sandbags, and I collapsed.

This is not my dad
. There was no face, no way to identify him for sure. But it was him. I knew the shape of his body, the clothes he wore. But the pool of blood under his neck took my breath away.

Who did this? Who did this to my father?
I heard violent, blood-curdling screams, which I quickly realized were coming from me. I pleaded for help, still unable to get up off the ground, but it was useless. No one else was home.

Or was someone else in the house? My heart stopped beating as I considered this. Someone had broken in, had murdered my father in cold blood. Maybe I was next. Maybe my whole family was next. At that point, I almost wished for it. Death would be a welcome release from the idea of losing my dad, the man I admired most in the world. My funny, loving, attentive, adoring father. My best friend. And now he was gone.

And that's when I saw it. The gun. The murder weapon that was used to kill my father was still lying on the scene. I stared at it, too shocked to cry or get scared or have any of the other normal reactions I should have had.

My mind was racing but remained blank. I had to get up, had to call for help.
Move
, I commanded my feet.
Get up and go call 9-1-1. Tell them there's been a murder, get the police to catch whoever did this and make them pay.

And that's when my brain began to truly process the scene. The gun – the murder weapon – was in my dad's own hand.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
And then the tears came, slowly at first before gushing out of my eyes until I couldn't see straight anymore. I curled my legs up to my chest and hugged them, putting my head down on my knees as my shoulders shook uncontrollably.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.

I forced myself to look back at my dad one last time, just to make sure my mind wasn't playing tricks on me. He couldn't have done this. He
couldn't
have.

I looked up toward the sky and asked one simple question:
Why?

 

 

“So, tell me about yourself, Rain Sawyer.”

Automatically, I rolled my eyes. I
hated
trying to come up with what to say to that. It was just so…broad. What sort of things should I focus on? Should I tell her that my favorite color is orange, that my favorite food is macaroni and cheese? Or should I tell her what I'm sure she really
wants
me to say – that my life is and has been a total disaster since my father committed suicide and that my mother is never around?

See, that's the thing with psychologists. She asked me to tell her about myself, giving me that warm smile and pretending to begin a normal get-to-know-you conversation when I knew that she would analyze everything about my answer, including what I said and how I said it. I didn't like the idea of someone picking me apart, and I really didn't trust people who wanted to do that to other people for a living.

I let the possible answers swirl around in my head for a few minutes as she sat there patiently, waiting for me to speak. Finally, I gave up. “What exactly do you want to know about me?” I asked with a glare.

She tilted her head to one side, looking at me with a slight smile. “Anything you would like to tell me,” she said. She was not going to help me decide on an answer.

“Alright.” I paused, and then put on my best fake smile. In an extremely peppy but phony voice I began, “Well, my name is Rain. I'm an Aquarius and a vegetarian, and I enjoy long walks on the beach. How's that for an answer? Can you solve all my problems yet, doc?” I looked at her with mock concern, expecting her to start furiously jotting down notes on the little black clipboard that rested on her lap.

She kept the hint of a smile as she slowly pulled her thin, square-framed glasses off of her face. Looking me right in the eyes, she said, “Actually, that answer tells me more than you know. Besides learning a few ‘fun facts' about you that may or may not be true, I now know sarcasm comes naturally to you and is probably the way that you handle uncomfortable situations. I also now know that you don't want to be here, talking to me. How's that for an answer?”

I stared at her in total bewilderment. Who did this woman think she was? Wasn't she supposed to be a professional? I had only spoken a few sentences to her, and she was already accusing me of possibly lying. Which, I was, but she didn't know that. And how would she have a clue how I handle uncomfortable situations? She thought
this
was an uncomfortable situation for me? My life, especially the last few months, had been so full of uncomfortable situations that this looked like a day at Disney World.

Just as I was about to explode and tell her what I thought of her, she stood up and walked carefully over to my chair. She stopped in front of me, towering over me for just a moment in her open-toed three-inch red high heels. How had I not noticed how tall she was when I first came in? Just as I thought she was about to try to exert her power over me and give me a lecture on respect or some other lame topic, she did something unexpected: she squatted down until we were face-to-face – not too close, but close enough to where I could see her features soften as she spoke.

“Look,” she said calmly, maintaining my eye contact, “here's the deal. I can see that you're a tough girl, and you may feel therapy is a waste of your time. But, as you know very well, it doesn't matter how you feel about it; this was mandated by your doctor. I know that I am the third psychologist you have been to in the last month. So, the way I see it, you have two options. You can leave here today and tell the doctor this one didn't work out either, and they will set you up with yet a fourth psychologist that you will find reasons not to talk to and you can move on to a fifth. Or, you can keep coming to see me, twice a week for an hour each session, and I can do my very best to get to know you – the real you – and maybe even help you work through some of those issues that you are trying so hard to handle all by yourself. I'm not here to play any games or get into a battle with you to get you to talk to me. I understand that this therapy is mandatory for you and I can't make you
want
to be here. But, if you really want to, I think that you can get something out of it. It's only going to work if you put the effort into it; I can't do my part unless you do yours. So, what's it going to be? It's your call.”

I boldly held her eye contact, thinking over what she had just said. Much to my dismay, she did have a point. I had no way of escaping this punishment, no matter how much I wanted to. If it wasn't her, it would be some other jerk who thought they were brilliant because they went to school for, like, fifty years just so they could get that little ‘Ph.D.' attached to the end of their name. As if that made them a real doctor, like the ones that actually save lives. But, like she said, I didn't have a choice of whether or not I wanted to see one – I only had a choice as to which one I tolerated seeing twice a week for an undetermined amount of time. Until I was “fixed.” Ugh. Why did I get myself into this in the first place? If I could only go back and erase that one bad decision…

I looked her over carefully. Still squatting down in front of me, she watched my face as I considered what she said. She seemed young – not old enough for this job. She dressed somewhat fashionably but still professionally, in a fitted knee-length black skirt with a small slit on the side and a white short-sleeve button-down shirt with small black polka dots. Her red belt matched her red shoes and her dark brown hair was cut so that it angled down just below her chin in the front but was stacked shorter in the back. It was a flattering cut for her thin face. I hated to admit it, but she was pretty. Her bright blue eyes seemed honest and gentle. I still didn't trust her and was offended by her initial presumptions, but she didn't look quite as horrible and uptight as the last two psychologists I had seen.

I had seen a male psychologist first. It only took one visit with Dr. Atwell before I switched, and I didn't even last the full hour with him. I knew I didn't like him from the moment I walked in his office. He was one of those guys who cared a lot more about furthering his career than his actual patients. While he came very highly recommended and was well-known in the area for his work in the psychology field, it was obvious that his little pathetic fame had gone straight to his head. His office was full of the books that he had written – each book, I might add, had a picture of himself on the cover. That drove me crazy. I felt like he used everything I said as an excuse to promote one of his books. (“You know, in my book
Dealing with Depression:
A Guide to Finding Happiness Within Yourself
, I devoted a whole chapter exclusively to dealing with the death of a loved one. There is also a whole section on suicidal thoughts and attempts that may help you understand what's happening inside your mind…”) How could someone whose mind was so full of himself possibly make a little room in that tiny brain to really listen and comprehend another person's deepest fears and concerns? I was out the door right away, requesting to be switched.

That was when the doctor set me up with a female psychologist, Dr. Thompson. She wasn't as bad as Dr. Atwell, but she just didn't…
get
me. She had no idea when I was being sarcastic or making a joke; those things only seemed to confuse her. I will admit it – I sometimes have a dry sense of humor and many people aren't sure how to take me exactly. This woman was definitely one of those people. Sometimes I would even be making fun of her, and she wouldn't pick up on it. I once told her, when she asked about my plans for life after high school, that I wanted to be a professional human scarecrow when I grew up. She started praising me for creating a goal for my future without even recognizing that my answer was not a
real
answer. I kept going to her for two and a half weeks – five sessions total – before I threw in the towel with her too. Which was what brought me here, to doctor number three – Dr. Hope, who
had
recognized my sarcastic answer and had even called me on it. I had to admit, she seemed smart – or at least smart enough to understand my dry humor.

Dr. Hope. What kind of a name was that, anyway? Maybe she felt obligated to go into this kind of work because of her name; she wanted to give unfortunate, jaded people like me hope for their futures even though we jaded people knew that our futures were bleak because of the past mistakes that would follow us everywhere. I considered this for a while as she remained perched in front of me, watching my face the whole time. She had to be getting uncomfortable in that position, but she showed no sign of it, waiting patiently for me to answer.

Rather than acknowledging her speech, I decided to turn the tables and find out a little bit about her, beginning with the conversation that just took place in my head about her name. “So, Dr. Hope, I guess you didn't have much chance to become anything besides a psychologist or something else in the helping-people field with a name like ‘Hope',” I said, still slightly glaring at her.

She laughed a little as she finally dropped our eye contact and stood up. She walked over to the chair that sat beside me and lowered her body into it gracefully. Putting her glasses back on, she looked at me again and said, “Actually, I became a psychologist before my last name became ‘Hope.' That is my married name. I have been a psychologist for a year now, but I just married about seven months ago. Before that, I was Dr. Martin. Does that sound like a name for the ‘helping-people field', as you call it?”

“No,” I admitted. “But maybe it was meant to be that your last name became Hope, since you chose a job where you think you can give people hope.” I looked around her office as I spoke. There was a picture on her desk of a big bulldog snuggled happily on a couch with drool running out one side of his mouth. Another photo sat beside it, this one of her and a man I assumed was her husband, sitting on top of a cliff or a mountain with their fists pumped up in the air in accomplishment.

Before I could ask her about the picture, she came back with a question of her own. “Do you really believe that a person's name can tell you about him?”

I brought my gaze back to her. She was sitting casually in the chair, leaning back into the cushions with her legs crossed toward me. Holding her glasses in her hand again, she watched me as I studied her office. Her question took me a little by surprise. To be honest, I hadn't really been serious about what I had said to her about how her last name was meant to be Hope. I was just talking out loud as I was studying her office. But, now that she mentioned it, I thought a little more about it.
No
, I thought to myself,
that's ridiculous.
But instead I answered her with, “Sure I do. Not always, of course, but it's true a lot of the time.”

She smiled slightly and said, “Explain. Give me some more examples.”

I thought for a moment before I spoke. Finally I said, “Okay – there was this one girl I knew at my old school whose name was Candy. Her actual birth name. She was a total ditz, and could be really annoying at times, but she was probably the nicest person I have ever known. Even when the other girls were mean to her, she would still be nice to them. She was always apologizing for things that she really shouldn't be sorry for, and I don't think she ever said a mean thing about one person in the whole world. And, even when everyone was whispering about me after all the drama, she was still nice to me and would say ‘hi' to me in the hallways without looking weird or scared of me. Doesn't that seem to match her name?” After I finished speaking I regretted bringing myself into the story. I really didn't want her to push me any further on that topic. Slumping down in my seat, I tried to look preoccupied with retying the striped shoelaces on my pink tennis shoes.

Miraculously, she seemed to understand that I didn't want to get into that conversation. Instead of asking me about it, she simply said, “Well, is
your
name appropriate for your personality?”

I looked up at her and blinked. I didn't hesitate before I answered, and this time, I was completely honest. “Of course. Out of all the weather that exists, there is pretty much nothing more depressing than rain. Rain ruins everything. Picnics, hiking, going to the park, taking the dog for a walk. As much as I hate my name because it's so weird and makes me sound like some kind of hippie, I really don't think there could be a more appropriate name for my personality. You know, you better be careful if you and your husband have a kid. That's a lot of pressure to pick a good name.”

For a second, she tilted her head and looked at me sadly. Then she sighed. “Well, our hour is up. I really hope I see you again on Thursday. I would honestly like to get to know you, Rain.”

I stood up, surprised that it had already been a whole hour, and surprised that she did not have a response for what I had just said. Not that I really knew what I expected her to say – did I think she would reassure me and tell me that I was not depressing or that I did not ruin everything? She couldn't lie, and she didn't really know me enough to argue with me. From what she knew of my background, she probably knew that I was right. I walked to the door without saying a word. Slowly I opened it and started to walk through.

Before I was all the way out of her office, I turned around and looked at her one last time. She was watching me closely. I looked up at the clock and said, “Well, I suppose I can try it again on Thursday. Same time?”

She smiled and said, “Yes. I'm looking forward to it.”

“Not as much as I am,” I said in my faux enthusiastic voice before I walked out the door and out onto the street toward our apartment.