Lullaby for the Rain Girl (42 page)

“I’ll try.”

“Back soon. Bye-bye for now.”

“Bye.”

It took me a moment to realize how to turn off the phone. Then I pushed the antenna back into the thing carefully. Sherry reappeared and sat down again.

“Everything okay?” she asked, as I handed the phone back to her.

“Yeah, fine,” I said. “Thanks. That’s the first time I’ve ever used a cellular phone.”

“Really?” she said, putting it in the bag again. “I swear, I couldn’t live without mine these days.” She looked at me. “A daughter. That’s wonderful, Ben. What’s her name?”

“Rae.”

She smiled. “Does she—get along with both of you?”

“Both? No, I’m not married. I was, for a while.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Do you share custody?”

“No, she’s...her mother’s dead.”

She looked at me sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Ben. That’s terrible. I’m really sorry.”

“Well. What about you? Married?”

“Never married. No kids.”

“Really? I would have thought you’d have made a great mother.”

She smiled sadly. “Still could, maybe. I’m not
that
old.”

“No. Not at all. Definitely not.”

Silence again. Under the table, I checked my watch. Five minutes to nine.

“How’s your dad?” she asked. “And Alice?”

“Alice is fine,” I said. “Married an architect. They live in Arlington. Beautiful house. Kids. As for Dad...” I shrugged. “He’s declined a lot. He’s pretty old now. He stays with Alice and her family, but I don’t know how long that will last. He may have to be put in a rest home.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“What about your folks?”

“They’re both gone, Ben. Mom died ten years ago. Breast cancer. Dad passed away a year later.”

“What happened? He couldn’t have been that old.”

“He shot himself.”

I looked at the table. I wished I hadn’t asked it.

“I’m sorry, Sherry.”

After a moment she chuckled grimly. “I wonder how many times we’ve said ‘I’m sorry’ to each other in the past twenty minutes?”

I smiled. “Well, it’s—awkward.”

“Yeah. I’d hoped it wouldn’t be. But I guess it’s inevitable.”

“Yeah.”

“Beer okay?”

“It’s fine,” I said, suddenly realizing I’d not touched it. I took a swallow.

Silence again.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten in touch, Ben,” she said finally.

“No,” I said. “No, no, it’s fine. It’s just—it’s hard.”

“Yeah.”

“To know what to say.”

“Yeah.”

“You look good, though. I mean that, Sherry. You look great.”

“Thank you. I’ve gotten fat, though.”

“You’re not fat. Anyway, you’re not the only one who’s gained weight, as you probably noticed.”

She looked embarrassed. “Well...”

“Tell the truth. You didn’t just come into that lobby. You’d been there for a while. You simply didn’t recognize me. Right?”

She smiled into her Diet Coke. “Guilty. But I’ll bet the same was true for you.”

I chuckled. “Guilty!”

We both laughed then—the first natural, relaxed moment of the evening. It felt good. Acknowledging how we’d changed somehow cleared some of the air between us.

“Oh God, Ben, it’s been so long. It’s so good to see you. I mean that.”

“Well, it’s great to see you. I mean that too.”

“It’s just weird.”

“I know. It is.”

“It’s just—I look at you and twenty, twenty-five years just melt away. You know?”

“We’re back at Stone’s End Middle School,” I said.

“Yeah.” She grinned. “You know, I
always
liked you. All the way back to when we were little kids playing Yahtzee together and going to your dad’s barbeques. But you weren’t that friendly to me then.”

“I wasn’t used to girls. I didn’t quite know what they were.”

“You had a sister.”

I shook my head. “Not the same thing. A sister’s not, you know, a
girl.”

“I guess not.”

“Anyway, I made up for lost time later.”

“You sure did.”

“I still remember,” I said, “the fourth of July picnic. The fireworks show. When we were, what? Twelve?”

“Oh my God. I remember that. Wow.” She looked at me. “I didn’t know
what
to make of you after that.”

“I didn’t know what to make of me, either. Or you.”

She laughed. “It wasn’t too long after that that we became ‘George and Mary’ to everybody. Remember that?”

“It’s a Wonderful Life.
Sure I remember. God, you know, I haven’t seen that movie in twenty years.”

“I have. It’s corny. But I love it.”

Quiet descended again, but this time it felt friendlier, more companionable. I sipped at my beer.

“So you went to San Francisco State?” I asked.

“Yeah. Got my marketing degree. What about you?”

“A.U., right by here. Got a Master’s, eventually. American Literature. Got a teaching certificate, and what do you know? Ended up in the D.C. Public Schools.”

“What a hard job that must be.”

“Yeah. It is. But we get great holidays.”

A pause.

“Remember  Mr. Reeves?” she asked. “From middle school?”

“Sure. The first black person I ever knew.”

“Did you know that he...” And we were off, or rather
she
was, on a string of reminiscences about our old teachers, old classmates (John Hubbard, Melody Wannamaker, Enid Forth, and more and more), people in the town we once knew, things we’d done together—mostly the less intimate ones, like the time she helped me cheat on a science test or when we tried to cook hot dogs using the broiler in her parents’ house and ended up with a burning, smoking mess. I tossed in a few of my own memories from time to time, but Sherry did most of the talking. She was animated, charming, funny as she ran over the old times, the old stories. I felt very relaxed with her. But finally I looked at my watch.

9:15.

“Oh, jeez,” I said abruptly, rudely. “Sherry, I have to go. I have to—” But how was I to explain it? How could I say that I had to be home by 9:42 or my daughter would be upset? That I couldn’t be even slightly tardy or she might think I’d betrayed her? That I couldn’t call and tell her I’d be a few minutes late or she’d think I didn’t love her? No, I
had
to be back on time.

And yet as I looked at Sherry, this long-lost ghost of my past, I could see from her expression I was hurting her feelings. She’d thought we were having such a good time, and now here I was rushing off. What did she want of me? I wondered. Friendship? A long, luxurious evening? Dinner, dessert? Did she think I would spend the night with her? Or was I totally off-base?

“Sherry, I’ve got to get home,” I said, standing, “but—look, I want you to come to the apartment, okay? It’s just a short Metro ride away. It’s at Dupont Circle. Tomorrow, maybe? Or the day after?”

“Yeah,” she said. “If you’re sure, Ben. You don’t have to invite me.”

“No, I...” Goddamn it, the clock was ticking! “I’m sorry, it’s hard to explain, but I want you to come. Really. I’d like you to meet my daughter. We’ll have dinner. Okay?”

“Okay.” But I could tell she thought I was blowing her off.

“Sherry, really...look...do you have a pen and paper?”

“Sure.” She rustled in her bag.

“Look, here...” I scribbled furiously. “Here’s my address. Here’s my phone number. Will you call me? Tomorrow? When you get a break from your conference?”

“Sure. If you want me to.” She stood as well.

“I...I’m sorry, Sherry. I have to run. Please call me. Okay? I’ll call you if you don’t call.”

“I’ll call,” she said, a curious expression on her face. “I will.”

“Okay, I...” I
had
to get out. I took her quickly by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. “It was fantastic seeing you. It—call me tomorrow, okay?” I rushed from the lounge, leaving her standing there looking confused. I charged through the lobby and onto the street, ran pell-mell up Connecticut Avenue to the Metro station. I had my card ready and almost leaped through the turnstile, ran down the escalator, waited anxiously for the train, hopping from foot to foot. It seemed to take an eternity, but at least I saw the headlights approaching through the tunnel. I checked my watch: 9:29. Once on the train I swore that it must be running at half its normal speed; I paced up and down the length of the mostly-empty car. I felt terrible, leaving Sherry like that. But I felt I had no choice. I didn’t know if Rae would forgive me for breaking my promise. Rae, my unreal child who was too, too real...

At last, after several eternities, the train pulled into the Dupont Circle station. I charged out, stuck the card in the turnstile—and was stopped.

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

Jesus Christ! I turned, taking the card and fumbling for change, stumbled to the ticket machine, stuck a quarter into it, pushed the button, grabbed the new card. This time I made it through the turnstile. I ran breathlessly up the escalator—the Dupont Circle station is very deep, the escalator is very long—and hit the street at full stride, a stitch already growing in my side. I ran all the way across the Circle, checking my watch once without slowing: 9:40. I made it to the building, rushed in. When I got to the elevator I pushed the button for the top floor and nearly collapsed. My heart, my heart—this was surely not the kind of exercise Dr. Nguyen had recommended. Yet I had no choice. The elevator, like the Metro, seemed to be running at half speed. Again and again it stopped to pick up others. At last the
ding
sounded for my floor. I rushed forward, got to the door, fumbled with my keys, dropped them, then managed to insert the right key into the lock and open the door.

“I’m home!” I managed to gasp. I looked at my watch.

9:42.

“I’m home, honey,” I said, panting heavily, kneading my pained side with my fingertips. “I’m here. I made it. I’m on time.”

The apartment, I noticed, was almost dark. Only the glow from the silent television illuminated anything in the room. I had to take a minute to catch my breath, though. I moved to the kitchen, took a drink of water, tried to slow my breathing and my heart. What a way to go, I pondered. Dropping dead of a second heart attack because I was rushing home to not disappoint my daughter, the daughter I couldn’t really have anyway, but somehow had.

At last my breath calmed. My throat hurt. I was trembling with exhaustion. I walked to the living room.

“Honey?”

She was lying on the sofa, staring at the TV.

“Why are you watching TV with the sound off?” I asked.

She didn’t respond.

“Honey?” I sat down beside her. “I’m here. On time. Just like I said. Two hours.”

“I don’t feel good,” she said finally, in little more than a whisper.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just don’t feel good.”

Something she ate? I wondered. Or psychosomatic—a punishment of sorts for me? Or entirely untrue?

“Would you like something to eat? Or drink?”

“No.”

I touched her hair gently. “I told you I’d be back in two hours. And I am.”

“Okay.”

“See, I keep my promises.”

“Okay.”

I looked at her. “Honey, what’s wrong? Your stomach? Do you have a headache?”

“I just don’t feel good.”

She seemed to be sweating; I placed my palm on her forehead to try to detect a fever, but the plain fact is that I’ve never been able to do that. I have no idea how hot or cool a forehead should feel. But maybe the gesture would look properly parental to Rae, at least.

“Are you hot? Cold? Do you want a blanket?”

I suddenly realized that she was crying. Quiet, quiet sobs in the flickering dark.

“Oh, honey...” I said, bundling her into my arms. “Honey, don’t. I’m here. Everything’s okay. I’m here. Dad’s here now. Shh. Don’t cry.”

“Love me,” she whispered. “Love me, love me, love me...”

“I do love you, sweetheart. I love you more than anything in the world. I do.”

“Love me. Love
me.”
Her arms wrapped around my back. Again I was startled at her strength, the astonishingly steel-like grip in which she held me.

But even as we embraced and cried in the dark, I couldn’t help but notice that she didn’t feel like the hale and hearty girl I’d hugged before. Now she felt thinner, bonier, as if in the past few hours she’d undergone some insanely rapid process of starvation.

“Love
me,”
she whispered.

“I do, Rae. I swear, I do.”

7

The next morning I was surprised to discover her still sleeping on the fold out bed as I sluffed out to the kitchen to start the water for tea. Usually she was up before me, already showered and dressed by the time I managed to make my appearance.

Standing there in my robe, I looked down at her. Her breath seemed quicker and shallower than it should be, and there were dark rings under her eyes. I moved to the blinds at the front windows, pulled them open slowly, looked down the eight floors to the street. It appeared to be a calm, clear day. Finally I moved back to the sofa.

“Psst. Hey kiddo. Time to wake up.” I shook her gently.

She was a long time waking. She stirred slightly, made an indistinct sighing sound—maybe it was more of a growling—and turned over on her back. For a while her eyes didn’t open. When I touched her shoulder, she pushed me sleepily away.

“C’mon, sweetie. It’s past nine. We both slept in late. Time for breakfast.”

When she opened her eyes I thought that I’d hardly ever seen anyone look less refreshed from a night’s sleep. Her eyes were red—a red film covered them, broken only by deeper red veins shooting in different directions like little bloody lightning bolts. The circles under her eyes seemed to make her cheeks sag; she looked ten years older. Her lips were dry and cracked. Her hair was limp, greasy. She looked at me silently.

“Honey, you don’t look so good,” I said. “How do you feel?”

“I’m okay,” she said lifelessly, struggling to sit up.

“How did you sleep?”

“Not great.”

“It shows. You look really tired. Maybe I shouldn’t have woken you up. Do you want to go back to sleep?”

She shrugged. “In a while, maybe.”

“Some juice? How about breakfast?”

“That’d be good. Yeah.”

I poured orange juice into two glasses, slipped bread into the toaster. When I came back to the living room I found her standing in her pajamas looking out at the morning with only slight apparent interest. She still had that thin, underfed quality I’d noticed last night. She looked skinny, too skinny, as she had when I first encountered her in my classroom on a rainy afternoon which seemed years ago now.

“Looks like a nice day, doesn’t it?” I asked.

“I guess. Sure.”

She took the orange juice and swallowed a healthy gulp. It seemed to help her a little. I turned on the TV while she wandered around the room, drinking the juice and shaking her head now and then, seemingly to help herself wake up. Finally I brought buttered toast on two plates to the kitchen table and we sat down together. She ate hers quickly, hungrily.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“That help?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Wow. You didn’t look so good a few minutes ago. Better now, though.” She
did
look better—color had started to fill her cheeks again, lessening the ghastly pale quality her face had had a few minutes before.

“I’ll be okay,” she said as I brought our morning tea to the table. “I just had a bad night, that’s all.”

“Wonder what caused it.”

She glanced at me, then away. “Who knows?” Then, after she’d sipped her tea for a moment: “Dad, we’ll just be alone together today, right?”

“What do you mean, honey?”

“I mean...you’re not going out anywhere, are you? By yourself?”

“Today? Um...” I thought carefully about how to answer. “No. No, I don’t think so. No, it’ll just be you and me today. How’s that?”

Her face suddenly seemed to glow, to absolutely
radiate
happiness. “Great!”

It was strange, how changeable she was. No doubt it was a trick of the morning light touching her face, but suddenly she looked fuller, healthier, more herself. The cheekbones and fingers that had seemed semi-starved were normal again, rounded, well-colored. The rings under her eyes were less pronounced. Even her hair seemed bouncier, livelier than it had just a moment ago.

I shook my head, wondering if my own morning bleariness was playing tricks with my vision. No doubt I was oversensitive to every nuance of my new daughter’s health, I thought; even paranoid about it. That must be it. Yes.

Still, as we sat there quietly drinking our tea and the morning news played softly on the TV, I thought of last night and of Sherry O’Shea. I’d been surprised at how much I enjoyed seeing her again. The pain of how our relationship had ended so many years before seemed entirely gone: dust: I could hardly remember who those young people, myself included, had been. Instead sitting there with her had brought back a flood of happy memories, some of which she brought up in the conversation, others which infused my mind then and later. I’d buried Sherry O’Shea, buried her long ago just as I’d buried Rachel Blackburn. My life was teaching, living in Dupont Circle, occasionally writing, dealing with Vincent and Kate and Alice and Dad, trying to pick up a woman now and then. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was mine. Bow everything old was returning; all the things I’d submerged in an extremely deep lake of unvisited memory. I’d been horrified at the thought of revisiting Rachel in any way, and yet the presence of Rae somehow made it all right, even good, to talk about her again, as I had with this daughter of mine for hours and hours.

And Sherry? How nice it had been, how pleasant, how
right,
to sit in that lounge with her like the oldest and best of friends. I knew I had to call her today. But, looking over at Rae, I knew just as clearly that I would have to tread carefully. Her jealousy, her possessiveness, was real. It would have been cute if it hadn’t been so deeply felt, so obviously a profound part of her—of who she was and how she thought of me. There was a temptation to just drop everything, say, “You’re right, Rae—it’ll just be the two of us from now on,” but that was, naturally, impossible. Work would start up again in January. I would be in classes, in meetings. She would be in her classes and clubs and athletic activities—whatever she decided to join. No, Rae would have to acclimate herself to the fact that we couldn’t always have sole possession of each other.

But I also knew that this moment, father and daughter enjoying breakfast together on a lovely morning, was not the time to bring these things up. I decided to let us—to let
her
have an uninterrupted day with me. I could call Sherry at a convenient moment and, if she were willing (and I found myself surprisingly hopeful that she would be), invite her over for a drink tomorrow. That way I could stay here and Rae wouldn’t need to be without me. Perhaps seeing other people taking some of my attention would be less frightening, less dispiriting for her if she could be here.