Rain Shadow (2 page)

“What is Rowan? Like, what does it mean?” Taylor had blurted out her curiosity a few minutes after meeting the serene, grandmotherly woman—a hippy sort of grandmother with dreadlocks, long turquoise
dream catcher earrings and a huge tattoo of a tree that grew up the length of one deeply tanned arm. Forthright was not her usual style with strangers, but the woman’s open demeanor put Taylor at ease.

“Rowan is a type of tree. I chose the name when I was ten. I have a special connection to this tree; perhaps I was a Rowan in my previous life—roots deeply coiled around the earth, arms reaching for the clouds.”

Her future landlady opened both hands, made deliberate fists around invisible air, then extended her arms toward the sky. Taylor gawked at the tree tattoo, fascinated with the way its leafy branches drooped into the folds of old lady skin that sagged toward Rowan’s shoulders as she reached heavenward. The tattoo turned into an upside down weeping willow. Her eyes were striking, a cool vivid green like the inside of a kiwi. With her hair, eyes, and droopy tan skin, Rowan could be a cover model fo
r
National Geographic Magazine.

If she had been her mother, Taylor would have made a show of checking the schedule on her Blackberry at that moment. She would have told Rowan she had other “prospects.” Made it seem she was already late and, “I’ll call you if I’m interested.” But she wasn’t her mother. Not even close. The herb farm was peaceful and conveniently inconvenient for visitors—her mother, for instance.

Taylor parked her ’91 Toyota and sat for a minute, watching the purple, daisy-like heads of the flowers flutter in a warm September breeze. There was no doubt she felt pulled toward this patch of earth. Her own roots longed to coil around something sheltering.

A moment later she sunk her fork into the coconut cream pie without bothering to defrost it. This was the joy of independence, no one
around to tell her she couldn’t have pie for dinner
—
froze
n
pie. Taylor
finished the entire dessert, crinkled its foil tin into the trash and cracked open a beer. She walked outside and sat in a lawn chair, considering her new environment. 

Across the street was an old graveyard. “Sacred Cross Cemetery,” read a wooden sign. It hung crookedly from two broad posts and had a subtle green patina permanently etched into the grooves of white painted wood—moss and mildew, the state “flower.”

Taylor had already wandered around the cemetery and noted the names and dates on the tombstones. Some were so old the etchings had crumbled and she could only make out the odd letter or a date. Rhododendrons and azaleas were scattered like green sentries guarding the dead.  Rowan promised they were “a glimpse of paradise” when they blossomed in May.

Ian would love the cemetery Taylor thought, as she sipped the Corona.
He’d love to take walks there and read the epitaphs. He would be close, his hands never far from her body; twining with her fingers, brushing against her back, finding a lock of brunette hair to coil and uncoil around an index finger. His restless, masculine energy was like an electric fence she’d touched once. She could sense the current pulsing
through the fence, vibrating in some sort of dangerous other dimension.
A place not meant to contact tender skin. The pull to feel that energy had been irresistible. She still remembered the jolt when her childish hand grasped the wire, still hear herself cry out. 

The fact that she would choose her new home across from a cemetery probably said something important. She was a head shrinker’s dream, no doubt, drawn back to the horror of that day in the same way a passerby is drawn to look at a traffic accident. Only she wasn’t an innocent passerby and no matter what she did the memories seeped back into her mind at every opportunity, like a bad smell. Something dead needed to be buried.

Taylor guzzled the last of the beer and pushed the feelings down—deep down—as the warmth of a buzz mellowed the edges of memory.
She might be a head shrinker’s dream, but she would not cry. No drama.Just a new start in this land of plant people and strangely soothing
cemeteries. And rain.

Oh, the rain was coming. Taylor could feel it in the fall chill that chased away the remnants of an Indian summer day. A record breaking summer in terms of heat Rowan had shared. The grass around the little cottage was crispy and tan, like southern California without irrigation.
But it would turn green again, even in winter. The rain would demand it.

She’d left Seattle—and the rain—at 17, pulled as if by a magnet to San Diego. To life with her father, beaches kissed with eternal sun and the promise of endless summer. Nobody could stop her. Interstate 5 stretched out like a race track and she had sped toward the pot of gold waiting near the Mexican border. For three years she hadn’t wasted a moment thinking about her mother, the Pacific Northwest, or the eternal, depressing rain. No grey skies allowed.

It was funny how things changed. In a way she had returned for the rain, longed for it while barreling back up I-5. As she crossed the Columbia River into Washington the first rain drops pelted her windshield. Not a serious rain, just a few welcoming drops. She had sighed deeply at the sight of them, cracked the window to smell the cool fresh moisture. Yes, she had returned for the rain. And to bury her dead.

Goose bumps prickled Taylor’s skin as she rose from the chair. She heard her cell phone beeping a reminder that someone had left a message. Seeing as she knew nobody in greater Bellingham it could only be one person.

Taylor Ann, it’s your mother. I need to talk to you about the office. Two days a week you’ll follow an agent, learn the ropes, and be gofer girl. I’ll give you a week to get settled but the Bellingham office is expecting a call. Got it? Make sure you go for your broker’s license, too. Call me so we can talk about it. I’m planning to be in Bellingham on Saturday.

Punching a button to delete the message, Taylor sank into the lone
chair and flicked on the TV. Conflicting emotions swirled like a tornado.
Was this the dumbest thing she’d ever done? No, definitely not. But it still felt like a future train wreck. She was back under her mother’s thumb and the subject of her charity. There were expectations now, not like when she lived with Neal and Tom. Her mom had been resolute on the phone.

“You’re going nowhere, Taylor Ann. I can feel it all the way in Seattle. Get your real estate license and come work at the office. I’ll help you get started. It’s time t
o
d
o
something. You can’t lounge on the beach for the rest of your life.”

Taylor hated that her mother was right, hated to admit that by accepting
the offer she needed help. He
r
mother’
s
help. But nothing—and nobody—begged her to stay. The fine-as-sugar beaches and
pounding surf no longer appealed to her. Even the sun had gotten tiring
—relentless and unchanging. She felt naked in that sun, her faults accentuated for all to see. Instead, she craved the rain of the northwest; it complimented so many comforting things—fog, slouchy sweats, mugs of cocoa, blankets. Her thirsty soul would sop up that rain like a dry sponge.

One would think a good movie or two could be had on a Friday night, even with limited channels. Taylor flicked her way through an infomercial, a weather report, a TV preacher, and two sitcom reruns. She went back to the preacher.

“Jesus told a parable about talents. Know what a talent is, people?
That’s your abilities, your resources, your time, and your money. It’s what God gave you to manage on this earth
.
What are you doing with it
?
”

The preacher was working himself into a frenzy. Taylor watched him loosen his tie, his red face bunched with emotion. “Most of you are waiting to get mugged by happiness, all the while burying your talents in the sand rather than investing in God’s kingdom
.
Do something with what God’s given you
!
Happiness will come when you do that.” A number came up on the screen for donors to call in. Taylor shut off the TV. If God was so great and powerful, why was He always short on cash? Still, the preacher’s words lingered.

What am I doing with my talents?

In the silence she considered the question. She had no money and very few abilities. Still, Go
d
ha
d
given her something. But she had proven she could not be trusted. She probably deserved to be mugged, and not by happiness.

Tears swelled behind Taylor’s eyes. She felt fragile, her emotions
sloppy and unmanageable. She’d accomplished a whole lot of nothing
in 21 years, existing only on the good graces of others. The latest adventure—becoming a real estate agent—wasn’t even her idea. It was
an escape, a pathetic attempt to get on with her life. She felt the sudden
urge to do a good deed, to give to someone else and atone for her own neediness, her mistakes, her squandering of God’s gifts. A warm, benevolent feeling struggled to rise above the fog of alcohol and tears. But do what?



Chapter 2

I

t took Taylor several wrong turns to locate the animal shelter. It was tucked away on the outskirts of town, neatly hidden behind a row of self-storage units and a lumber warehouse. Parking the Corolla, Taylor noticed a field and a three-sided shelter directly behind the building.
The grey-blue sky glowered overhead, threatening rain. An early autumn
wind blew leaves around her feet as she walked to the door of the facility.

“Hi. I called earlier about volunteering. Taylor Reed.”

The woman at the front desk was rifling through files in a cabinet. She seemed oblivious to Taylor’s presence
.
Li
z
was the name on a plastic badge pinned to a berry-colored Carhartt vest. Just as Taylor opened her mouth to speak again, Liz looked up. She pushed a double-sided piece of paper across the desk.

“Fill this out, then I’ll give you a tour. It’ll be brief. I gotta pick up feral cats in an hour.”

As she filled out the paperwork, Taylor snuck peeks at Liz who alternated
between plucking on a computer keyboard and hobbling in and out of a doorway leading to the animals in the back. She was a wiry woman who looked like she lived her life outside. Not something you’d expect from a person obviously handicapped. Cerebral Palsy, maybe.  While the left side of Liz’s body looked normal, the right sagged dramatically as if continually tugged down by unseen forces.

The process seemed to begin at the corner of her mouth and continued
through her shoulder, hip, and knee, pulling the joints out of alignment. Instead of parallel to each other, Liz’s legs turned in, the right knee constantly brushing up against the left. She walked with a peculiar gait, her slim shoulders shrugging slightly with each step, hitching up the uncooperative side like a too-big pair of pants. Her face was small and sharp and she blinked often, the muscles in her face twitching to an inner rhythm.

Despite physical handicaps, Liz had an intimidating presence. She moved with the efficiency of someone with an important job to do; someone who disliked wasting time on small talk.  Her eyes never lingered anywhere for long but continually looked for a new task to focus on. When Taylor handed the paperwork in, Liz barely glanced at her. She scanned the paper as she walked to the hallway, beckoning Taylor to follow.

“What days are you available?”

“Sunday.”

Liz’s left eyebrow raised, “Just Sunday?”

“Just Sunday. I live out in the county; it’s a half hour drive to get here. I’m in real estate school … this is just something to fill in my free time. Help out a little.” Taylor felt irritation rise. She’d expected a little gratitude. Did these people get volunteers everyday or something? Liz seemed skeptical.

“And why did you want to work here?”

No way would she tell the truth
:
I drank two beers and watched a
preacher on TV talk about giving back. The next show I watched was Animal
Planet; it seemed like a sign.

“I like animals?”

“I should hope so.”

Liz frowned, as if Taylor had flunked some sort of test. “You know this isn’t all warm and fuzzy, playing with puppies and such. You’ll be doing lots of cleaning up crap.”

What is with this woman
?
The knee jerk sympathy Taylor had felt for Liz evaporated.

“Speaking of which, I give you exhibit A.”

They stopped in front of the first kennel. A yellow dog that looked to be a mixture of pit bull, lab, and something unknown, exploded to the front, clawing at the wire and whining like he was high on methamphetamines. From front to back, the kennel was a stinking soup of feces and water.

“Forrest here likes to make an obscene mess of his cage. Came from a filthy house where he literally slept in his own droppings. I hope you have a strong stomach.”