Lullaby for the Rain Girl (48 page)

My own ancient story, “The Burning Girl,” was in the box too. I lifted up the few browning pages, flipped through them. Rae looked at them in my hands.

“Will you read it, Dad?”

“I don’t guess it’s much good. I haven’t looked at it in fifteen years.”

“I don’t care.”

I read it. God, Robert and Robin the burning girl. I didn’t think much of this early effort as writing, but as my eyes scanned the lines I found them bringing back, in a way the other mementoes didn’t, how it felt then, how it was to live with Rachel.

Rae held my arm tightly for a long time after I reached the end of the story. We didn’t say anything about it.

There were a few old Post-It Notes in the box as wellas well, looking much as they must have looked sixteen years before when Rachel would write them and leave them for me to find. Many of them still clung to each other after all these years: “Running late! Luv U!” “Don’t forget BREAD, Hippie Boy!” I was relieved to see that none of them contained anything embarrassing, but these juiceless remnants of a long-ago life depressed me. I wondered if I’d remembered the bread that day.

At the bottom of the box were two photos. One, a slender farmer, I recognized immediately.

“Rachel’s dad,” I said. “Your grandfather.” She knew already, of course; I’d told her everything I knew of Rachel’s family.

The second photo I had a harder time recognizing, for some reason. For a moment I wondered if it had been placed in the box by mistake. But no, I realized, it was Rachel, Rachel before Santa Barbara, Peter Welch, Ben Fall. Rachel, younger than I remembered her, her hair long and straight, in a plaid flannel shirt, hands on her hips, in front of a rundown farmhouse. Brown fields were blurrily in the background. In the picture Rachel was smiling, a big, broad smile that displayed the gap between her front teeth and made her look enormously farm-fresh and cute, and vastly innocent of anything that was perhaps even then rushing toward her, like the faraway sound of a locomotive on the High Plains. Still distant, yes, but growing closer hour by hour, minute by minute.

“She said she was fifteen when this was taken,” I said.

We both studied the image. It was the only photo I had of her—other, of course, than our video.

“She looks so sweet.”

“Yes. She does.”

Rae reached into the box and brought out several of her mother’s old silver piercings, dull now, tarnished. They looked tired and dead to me.

Without saying anything, she carefully hooked two little rings around her left ear and held a little silver bar up to her eyebrow.

“Is this how she wore them?”

My voice was hollow. “I think so,” I said. “It’s been a long time. I don’t really remember.”

She hopped up from the sofa and moved to the bathroom, turning on the light and studying herself for a long time in the mirror. Finally she came back out again, her expression bright. “Maybe—can I wear them?” she asked, smiling.

I said nothing, staring at her. I could think of nothing to say. Studying me, her expression darkened. She took off the silver things and dropped down onto the sofa next to me. She put the metal pieces into the box again.

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“It’s okay.” Time and age seemed to push into me, through me.

“No. I was rude. I should have realized, Dad. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay, honey.”

We had reached the bottom of the box. That was all there was. I had nothing else of Rachel Blackburn in my life....

Nothing but Rae, leaning her head on my shoulder and staring in silence at the pitiful little collection of relics.

“Why can’t things just stay like they are?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Just you and me. And Mom. Here. That’s all I want. That’s all I’ll ever want.”

I looked at her. “Well, honey, we’ve talked about that. We have to live. I have to work. You know what would happen if I didn’t go to work? We’d get very hungry. And pretty soon people would come from some office in D.C. and throw all our belongings out into the street. That’s—that’s just life. It’s okay. It doesn’t mean we’re not together.”

“But it hurts,” she said. “It hurts so much when I’m not with you.”

“We spend lots of time together, sweetheart.”

She sighed. “I guess.”

“Sherry and I will be going downtown tomorrow,” I said, deciding that now was as good a time as any to tell her. “We’d love for you to come with us.”

She seemed to shrink, somehow. “Dad, please don’t.
Don’t.”

I stroked her hair. “Honey, don’t get excited, okay? You’re just going to have to get used to the fact that there are other people in my life. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I love you more than anything.” I kissed her temple.

“Please don’t go with her, Dad.”

“I told you, you can come along. We
want
you along.”

She moved slightly away from me, wrapped her arms around herself.

“I’m tired,” she said. “I want to go to bed.”

“Honey, please don’t be like this.”

“I want to fold out the sofa now. I’m
tired.”

And, very suddenly, she looked it. Black rings had appeared under her now-bloodshot eyes. Her skin looked sallow, sickly.

“Oh my God, honey,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just want to go to bed.”

“Rae, I don’t—I don’t understand. Just a minute ago...”

“Please help me fold it out. I’m so tired I don’t think I can do it.”

I packed away Rachel’s things and together Rae and I converted the sofa. Rae dropped onto it without even arranging any bed sheets. She curled up fetus-style, her back to me.

I sat next to her and touched her shoulder. She was crying. “Rae, sweetheart,” I said softly, “when are you going to stop being like this?”

“Never.”

“But why? Why do you...?”

“I’ll never stop being like this. I’ll never
stop.”

“I think if you tried, you’d see that...”

“I don’t want to see anything except
you.
And Mom.”

I watched her as she sobbed, her body quivering. “Rae,” I said, father-firm, “I’m going out tomorrow with my friend Sherry. We’ll be gone a few hours. You can stay here if you want. But we’d
love
to have you come along. It’s your choice. But that’s what’s going to happen.”

I stopped, feeling like history’s most heinous monster. After a minute or two her weeping subsided and she was quiet, still. We sat there for a long time. I looked at her, flashing on my character Jane, from “The Girl That Nobody Liked.” Jane Hooper, utterly motionless on Mitchell’s bed. Jane Hooper, who was no longer living.

Suddenly frightened, I took Rae by the shoulder and turned her over toward me. She was breathing: short, shallow gasps through her mouth. Her eyes, though, seemed to roll in their sockets.

“Rae?
Rae?”

It took her a moment. Her head twisted. Her eyes came back into focus. She looked at me.

“What...?”

“I just wanted to—to make sure you were okay.”

She closed her eyes, then pulled my hand to her face. She rubbed the backs of my fingers against her eyelids. “Oh Dad,” she whispered, “I’m not okay. Don’t you know that.
I’m not okay at all.”

# # #

That last week in December: days bifurcated from nights, my life feeling like two lives in one. In the morning I would go out with Sherry—to the monuments, the museums, the tourist attractions (some of which, like many locals, I’d never actually visited). We wandered the streets of the city, occasionally ducking into a government building to get warm. We held hands through our wool mittens.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” she would ask me again and again. “Your heart, Ben, I’m worried about your heart...”

“I’m fine, Sherry,” I’d say, my breath smoking in the cold. “I told you, this is just the ticket for the old ticker. Lots of walking. Perfect.”

We were easy together, as only old intimates can be. The years didn’t melt away when I was with her—all I had to do was look at her to recognize just how much time had passed—but there was something peaceful and right about our re-acquaintance. It took me back, somehow, to all the vanished days of my life, days that weren’t necessarily always joyful but which did represent, for better or worse, my youth, the only one I had. Of course, she remembered things I didn’t, and that had the effect of freshening and reanimating memories that had been lifeless with repetition within my own mind. I did the same for her. We laughed a lot, with real delight.

The nights were different. Sherry came to the apartment a couple of times, but Rae couldn’t even pretend to be pleased to see her. My daughter was ghost-pale, fragile-looking, weak. She spent most of her time in her pajamas, within the rumpled sheets of the fold out bed. She cried a lot, softly: so softly that at times I didn’t even realize she was crying.

After the second such visit, as we were heading down the elevator to the lobby again, Sherry asked me: “Ben, is Rae sick?”

“She—she may have the flu,” I said.

“No, I mean—really sick. With something more serious.”

“I...”

“Because she doesn’t look good, Ben. She’s too thin. She looks like she doesn’t eat anything. She’s not anorexic, is she?”

“No. Definitely not. She eats. She doesn’t throw it up.”

“Well...” She chewed her lip, obviously uncertain how far she should go in advising me how to raise my child.

“I know, Sherry,” I said, as we stepped out of the elevator. “I know. She’s always been—sickly. You’re right. I need to take her in for a checkup.”

“Do. It’s important.”

“I know.”

We stepped out to the street. I was walking with her as far as the Metro station. Our arms intertwined within our heavy coats.

“When do you fly again?” I asked.

“The ticket says Thursday.”

I thought about it. “Are you in a hurry?”

“A hurry?” She looked away. “Not necessarily.”

We walked in silence.

“What are you suggesting?” she asked finally.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just—you know, if it was possible for you to stay a couple more days...”

She didn’t respond. We walked for a while in the cold dark. When we got to the escalator that would take her down to the trains, we stood looking at each other. Her expression was thoughtful.

“What do you want, Ben?” she asked finally.

“Want?”

“Want.”

“I—I dunno. What do you mean?”

“Do you want me to stay a few more days?”

“Well, yeah. I would.”

“Why?”

I looked at the pavement. “Well,” I said, “you’re the one who sort of, you know, implied...‘That’s what my ticket says,’ you know...like tickets can be changed...”

We stood apart. The moment was awkward; I was aware of my receding hairline, my protruding gut. Yet I found myself excited somehow. My heart, faithful friend, was pumping rapidly.

Then, suddenly, she grinned and leapt forward, kissing me on the cheek.

“G’night, Ben!” she said, turning quickly and heading down the escalator.

I felt exhilarated as I walked back toward the apartment, even if I wasn’t sure why. I’d not thought out anything consciously about Sherry, about the future. And yet we kept seeing each other. We continued to enjoy each other’s company. Maybe it was just nostalgia, but somehow it felt like more. After all, she wasn’t married. I soon wouldn’t be; I’d talked with her about Kate. (Kate! Good Lord, how far back in time that marriage now seemed, even though, legally speaking, it wasn’t quite finished yet.) Was I getting completely ahead of myself? Had any such thoughts crossed Sherry’s mind? But then (I found myself hustling quickly, excitedly through the cold), how could she have
not
thought of such things? Why else was she here, anyway? Why was she arranging her schedule entirely around me, if not...I shook my head. So she had a few days of holiday and decided to spend them in D.C., that’s all. She had no family to speak of, none to go running back to in Oakland, so why not? It didn’t necessarily mean anything. Certainly not.

And yet somehow I couldn’t quite convince myself of it.

Reaching the apartment at last, I stepped into my night world. From the happiness and anticipation of time spent with Sherry I came into an apartment with Rae lying there listlessly, her hair lank, her eyes mysteriously shining in the darkness.

“Hey, kiddo.” I sat down beside her.

She didn’t respond. I touched her shoulder, shook her lightly.

“You should’ve come along today,” I said. “We had a good time. It would have been even better with you.”

She looked at me. The hollow in her throat seemed startlingly deep. Her lips were dry and flaking away in little strips.

“Are you in love with her, Dad?” she whispered.

I rummaged in my coat pocket for a Chap Stick, brought it forth, and spread some carefully across her lips. She didn’t resist.