If It Rains

by Jennifer L. Wright

  But Dr. Barrett never flinched. He turned it over and over in his hands, which were as soft and warm as fresh bread. “Does that hurt?”

  I shook my head.

  “This is a rather severe case, I’m afraid.”

  Of course it was. I should have known better than to even try.

  “But I still think I can help.” The corners of his mouth curled. “It’s a simple procedure that involves cutting the tendons to allow for normal growth. What makes my method different is a cut here—” he pointed to the pad of skin beneath my toes—“and here.” He ran a finger along the side of my foot, causing my skin to prickle. “This gives us a better chance to mold the foot into the correct position rather than just by cutting the Achilles.”

  Cut, slice, cut. Just like a piece of meat.

  He stood and jotted a few notes on a yellow pad. “There are risks involved. It’s rather unfortunate, actually. If your father had elected to have surgery done as a baby, this more complicated procedure would not even be necessary.”

  The table shifted beneath me. “What?”

  “I said, if your father had elected to have surgery done as a baby, this wouldn’t be necessary. It’s dangerous, of course, but all surgery is. Especially on infants. But still, usually highly successful.”

  He didn’t look up from his pad, completely unaware I was falling on the inside.

  “I will need to perform a few simple tests to ensure you’re healthy enough for surgery, and we will need to . . .”

  Blood pounded in my ears. Earlier surgery, he’d said. As a baby, he’d said. If my father had elected . . . The ridiculously large breakfast I’d eaten that morning lurched in my stomach. I could have had surgery as a baby. All these years, my foot could have been normal. Fixed. No one would have known I had a clubfoot. I wouldn’t have known. My father could have saved me years of pain, years of struggle, years of want . . . and yet he “elected” not to.

  “Miss Baile?”

  I glanced up to find Dr. Barrett staring at me.

  “Have you been listening?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you understand I need to take some blood?”

  He had a needle in his hand, frowning under one bitten lip.

  He wanted me to lie back. Roll up my sleeve. But I couldn’t do it. My body was frozen.

  “Miss Baile?”

  “I could have had surgery as a baby?” I whispered.

  Dr. Barrett cocked his head. “Yes. Yes, of course. Most clubfoot cases are treated at birth.”

  “But mine wasn’t.”

  “Obviously.”

  I felt numb. The question I needed answered the most was not one Dr. Barrett could satisfy. Why? Why wouldn’t my father have chosen to fix me when he had the chance?

  “Lie back, Miss Baile. Please.”

  I allowed myself to be nudged backward gently onto the hard table.

  “This might hurt a little bit. Have you ever had blood drawn?”

  I felt my head shake.

  “Best look away, then.”

  He turned my head for me. I felt a sharp stab in my arm, then coldness. It traveled through every part of me. Was that from the blood? Or something else?

  There was no question I’d deserved the life I got. It was punishment for killing Ma. For taking away the person Pa loved most. A murderer before I knew what a murderer was. You couldn’t send a baby to jail. But you could keep her in the jail she’d been born into.

  Pa had relented in the end. Insisted, really, that I come get the surgery. Maybe he’d finally decided I’d done my penance. Fourteen years was enough. Maybe he’d felt guilty. Or maybe he figured surgery was the only way to get me to leave Oklahoma. To punish me in a way worse than clubfoot.

  I’d never get a chance to ask him. But I guess it didn’t really matter. I didn’t need to know the answer. Because no matter what his excuse, no matter what his reasoning, the truth would be the same: I thought Pa loved me, and I was wrong.

  The coldness spread. I couldn’t even feel my foot anymore. Or my fingers. And my head—my head felt heavy and light all at the same time.

  “Almost done,” came a voice to my right. “Almost done.”

  Dr. Barrett was still here somehow. My eyes struggled to focus. A wall. A chair. A plant. A table. A table with books. Three books. Blue. Yellow. Green. Green like grass, like new wheat. Green like . . . No, it couldn’t be. But it was. The gold lettering was bright, even to my blurry eyes.

  “The Wizard.”

  “Hmm?”

  “The Wonderful Wizard . . .”

  “Oh! Yes! I knew I had a copy of that book somewhere. I found it last night. Brought it in here for your appointment. Thought it might make you feel more at ease.”

  I would never feel at ease again.

  “There. All done. Hold this.”

  A pinch, a tug, and a piece of fabric tucked into the crook of my elbow. Flashes of color floated in front of my eyes. Dr. Barrett’s face was swirling.

  He reached over me and grabbed the volume. “Have to say I haven’t read it in ages. Didn’t care for it. The ending was a bit trite for my tastes.” He flipped through the pages. “Ah, yes, here. ‘“Your Silver Shoes will carry you over the desert,” replied Glinda. “If you had known their power you could have gone back to your Aunt Em the very first day you came to this country.”’ Bah.” He snapped the cover shut. “See? The entire book needn’t have happened. Nonsense.”

  I closed my eyes. I was still cold. I’d never be warm again. And my head—my head would never stop spinning. I was falling deeper inside myself. Away from Dr. Barrett. Away from Indianapolis. Away from everything. From everything except the book. Because from somewhere inside the spinning came Melissa’s voice. Faint at first, then deeper. Reading. Just like she’d done with me hundreds of times before.

  “‘But then I should not have had my wonderful brains!’ cried the Scarecrow. ‘I might have passed my whole life in the farmer’s cornfield.’

  “‘And I should not have had my lovely heart,’ said the Tin Woodman. ‘I might have stood and rusted in the forest till the end of the world.’

  “‘And I should have lived a coward forever,’ declared the Lion, ‘and no beast in all the forest would have had a good word to say to me.’”

  From the darkness, I could see them. Not the Scarecrow and Woodman and Lion. Not even Dorothy. I could see my family. And they were smiling. Melissa smiled. Pa smiled. My mother smiled. I’d never met her, but I knew it was her. And she was smiling at me, the silver cross around her neck burning with hot, white light—the light of a star.

  The reason my father hadn’t allowed me to have the surgery wasn’t because he didn’t love me. It was because he did. Because Ma had loved me. Because he had just lost her and couldn’t lose me, too. And because, if I’d had it, everything would have been different. Pa would have been different. Melissa would have been different. I would have been different. His choice had molded us, shaped us, defined us. If I’d had the surgery, who we were—and were supposed to be—might never have been.

  I’d spent years making him feel like he’d been wrong. Like everything in life would have been better if I’d just had a better foot. And in the end, he’d given in. He’d traveled all this way to make right what was never wrong in the first place. Because he loved me.

  And this journey—this journey I’d never wanted to make, that had beaten me down, stripped me bare, forced me to question everything—this journey was a part of that. A father’s love.

  And a Father’s love.

  This trip had been hard and full of grief. But all along the way there had been stars—stars I’d misunderstood but whose light now shone bright in the recesses of my mind. This whole journey was not a punishment from a mean, spiteful, distant God, a way to emphasize my weakness. Rather, it was His way of showing me my strength. Because I’d had it all along—and it came from Him and who He’d made me to be.

  Not darkness. Not a mistake. Me. Because God wa
sn’t bad. And neither was I.

  I sat up suddenly.

  “Miss Baile!”

  Butterflies fluttered inside my head. I tried to stand on shaky legs, forcing down several waves of nausea. But I was warm again.

  “Miss Baile, please. You need to lie back down.”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Barrett. I have to go.”

  “Go? Go where?” He placed a hand on my forehead. “Child, you’re woozy. Blood draws can do that sometimes.”

  I pushed his hand away gently. “I’m fine. I just have to go home. I’m not going to have the surgery.”

  “What?”

  “This was a mistake. I . . . I thought I wanted the surgery. Thought I needed it, really. But I was wrong.”

  “Kathryn, don’t be foolish.”

  “For the first time in my life, I’m not.” I covered a twitch in my lip with the back of my hand. “My family kept trying to tell me there was nothing wrong with me. And I thought they were nothing but a bunch of doggone fools.”

  “Oh?”

  “But they weren’t. They were telling me the truth. This foot may be different from yours. But it’s a part of who I am . . . and who I am is also bigger than this foot.” I pursed my lips together and stuck out my chin as I stood, my knees no longer shaky, my twisted foot steady and strong against the cold tile floor. “Who I am is Kathryn Marie Baile from Boise City, Oklahoma. And I’d like to go home now.”

  Dr. Barrett’s face drooped. I thought he was going to yell. Tell me how stupid I was. Maybe try to stop me even. But after several moments, he simply shook his head. “I believe you are making a mistake.”

  “Dr. Barrett—”

  “Let me finish.” He cleared his throat. “I believe you are making a mistake. But if you refuse to have the surgery, may I at least give you a new brace? Clubfoot is entirely manageable if you have the proper equipment, and, my dear, an old pair of shoes and a wadded-up sock is most certainly not the proper equipment.”

  I nodded, feeling my face stretch with a smile I didn’t know I had.

  He walked toward the cabinet and bent to get into its dark corners, his white coat sweeping against the floor. “I thought I had . . . Ah, yes. Here.” He stood suddenly and held up a new pair of pale loafers with a shiny brace attached to one.

  I wanted to laugh. I was finally getting a pair of Silver Shoes.

  “Kathryn.”

  I froze. I should have just left. Should have walked straight from Dr. Barrett’s office to the front door and never looked back. But I wanted my old dress. It didn’t seem right to leave it. I couldn’t let it be thrown out with the trash, as I knew Helen would do as soon as I left. Not after the journey it had made.

  “What are you doing?”

  Helen stood in the doorway, fingers entwined in front of her chest. Her hair was curled atop her head, not a strand out of place. Her dress was blue, starched. Only her face showed signs of wear. Tired and overused. Not even the makeup could cover that.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving? What about the surgery?”

  “I ain’t having it.”

  “What? Why?”

  I shook my head until I rattled. I didn’t need to explain myself to her. Not anymore. I made a move to brush past her, expecting her to move out of the way.

  She didn’t. “Kathryn, please don’t go. I . . . I need you to stay.”

  My fingers curled around the dress. “You need me? You need me?” The words came out as a half chuckle, half snarl.

  She stepped back like I’d hit her. Her chin trembled.

  I straightened my back. My new brace made me feel taller. Or maybe it was something else. I opened my mouth, prepared to list all the ways she’d failed me, all the times she’d never cared about the things I needed, but realized I didn’t want to say it. I would not squander one more word on this woman. And if she wasn’t going to move, I’d push my way out instead. Her body gave way limply under my shove.

  “I made a mistake.”

  I was halfway down the hall. Keep going, Kathryn. Just keep going. Don’t turn around. Her voice was quiet. I wasn’t even be sure I’d heard her. But I knew I had.

  “I’m sorry, Kathryn. I know that doesn’t mean much, but . . .”

  Stop talking. Please stop talking.

  “I was scared. I was desperate. Your father was sick. Melissa was gone. The crops were withering. And the babies . . . I didn’t know what to do.”

  I bit my tongue. Tears sprang up in my eyes instantly. Yes, I was crying because of my tongue. Just because of my tongue.

  “All I could think about was your father, about getting out of Oklahoma before . . .”

  I spun around, ready to yell. Anything to get her to stop talking. I found her still in the doorframe, her hands on her stomach. Our eyes met and she pulled hers away quickly. So quickly I might’ve missed it. But I hadn’t. And now I couldn’t unsee it.

  She was pregnant.

  “I had to get out of there, Kathryn. I had to go home.”

  The weight of her words settled on me like rain. We stood frozen, the air thick with the words she had spoken and all those left unsaid, Helen’s ragged breathing the only sound in the absurdly long hallway.

  Finally I took a step toward her, walking slow, hesitating before placing my hand on her arm. I’d never willingly touched her before. The fabric was soft beneath my fingers. Her perfume was fainter this time. Lilac. I stared into her face, the face that had plagued me for so many years, the face I’d hated. I wanted to remember every detail, every line, every freckle, even the flecks of brown in her green eyes. Because I knew once I left this house, I’d never see her again.

  “He loved you.” I could barely whisper the words.

  Beneath the silky fabric, her muscles loosened. She dropped her chin to her chest as if burdened by the weight but said nothing.

  “I don’t know why you never loved me. Maybe it was because I was awful to you.”

  “Kathryn, I—”

  “Or maybe it was something else. Maybe it was because cursing the land was useless and screaming up to heaven did nothing but scratch up your throat. It was easier to just blame me, a flesh-and-blood person. Someone you could hate, someone you could condemn. For everything that was wrong in the world. For everything you lost.”

  “Kathryn.” Quieter this time.

  “Because, for me, that was why I found it so hard to love you.”

  Helen’s lips quivered, but no tears broke free. There was no need. I was only releasing the truth we’d both always known.

  I pulled away from her, the feel of her dress still etched into my fingertips. “You’re going to be fine.”

  She grabbed my hand, her palm clammy. Her head jerked forward, sending one stray curl cascading onto her forehead. She did not push it away. “Will . . . will you stay? We could try to be a family, the three of us.”

  I smiled slightly. I could stay. With a clubfoot, Indianapolis would be an easier life for me. A good life. I might learn to like it. There were libraries and theaters and even a racetrack. I could get used to the food and the clothes and the people. Maybe get used to the noise and buildings. And I might even figure out a way to forgive Helen. And then there was the baby. Of course I wanted to meet him or her. I hoped my brother or sister would want to meet me, too.

  But this baby would grow up a Barrett, not a Baile. He or she would know the color green, the gentleness of rain, the satisfaction of a full stomach. There would be happiness here, soft beds, clean water, and dust that stayed firmly on the ground. Growing up in the City of Emeralds, the baby would never experience life on the prairie, never have a chance to get Oklahoma in his or her blood. And maybe it was better that way. Because once that child did, he or she would never be able to get it out again.

  Helen knew this. Her words were spoken not out of a genuine need, but out of a want to make things right between us. To cling to what few pieces of her husband remained. She released her grip on my hand slowly, her fingers lin
gering on my skin. She knew my answer, too.

  “Goodbye, Helen.”

  “Goodbye, Kathryn.”

  And so I left her, my old dress and Pa’s ashes in a bag, a few dollars for a train ticket in my hand—put there at the insistence of Dr. Barrett—and my thoughts and my feet focused westward on home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  MELISSA

  I rose, remembering to put on my shoes before letting my feet hit the floor. I’d fallen back into dugout life quickly in nearly every way except this one. The dirt floor was so cold this time of year. The stove warmed the air, sure, but it didn’t touch the floor. Rugs were one of very few things I missed about the Mayfield house.

  I shuffled through the dugout quietly. Dust coated the table and sink. More evidence of last night’s duster. I’d have to clean again. Later. Right now, there were more important things to do. I eased open the door and pushed my way out into the early morning.

  The air was cool, a taste of winter on the horizon. Soon the dust would freeze to the ground, and we’d be safe for a few months. Maybe it would even snow. But for now, a haze still hung in the sky, mainly dirt and dead wheat heads. It smelled like harvest, and we liked to pretend that it was, although the reaping was slim this year. Mother Nature claimed most of the yield. Most people in Boise City hated the smell. The dirt, the grass, the disappointment. I used to, too. But not anymore. Now it reminded me of that night. That terrible, awful night in the storm when I nearly died. No, the night Henry Mayfield tried to murder me. The night Oklahoma saved me, swelling her waters and lifting me anew from her depths. The night I’d truly understood who God was and who He always had been.

  The same storm that saved me killed Henry. Dr. Goodwin said his lungs were filled with water and silt, his brain swelled under a fractured skull. A horrible tragedy. A terrible, excruciating death. He called me a miracle, though he couldn’t explain the bruising around my neck. He’d never seen a thunderstorm do that. “How did that happen, Mrs. Mayfield? Why were you both out in such weather to begin with?”

  I couldn’t expose Henry without exposing myself. The stealing. The lies. The escape plan. I was the reason he was out in that weather. And exposing myself would set me up for retaliation from the Mayfield loyalists. They would never see me as a victim; I would only be an enemy, someone who wanted to scheme my way to the Mayfield fortune. We’d been clearing the dugout, I’d said, and got disoriented in the storm. An accident. I was lucky to be alive. At least that part was true.