Running Out of Rain

by Lori Leger

  He pictured her gazing up at him from her chair, her eyes brimming with sadness and a trace of tears. “Read this when you’re ready, John. Not a moment before. Do you understand?”

  He’d nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

  “You must promise me, John. There are some important …” She’d flailed her hands then, frustrated at not being able to come up with the right words, finally settled. “It’s important you read this.”

  She’d mentioned the same thing on many occasions since then, always forgetting she’d already told him.

  He took a deep breath and opened the book. “Let’s see what words of wisdom you’ve left for me, sweet Marilee.”

  Aided by his cataract-free vision, and new eyeglasses, he began to read. It was all there in blue ink upon bright white lined pages, sometimes a different shade of blue, but always blue ink, as was her way.

  Her first entry hit him hard:

  I almost killed my husband yesterday. I dropped a dishcloth next to a lit burner and walked right out of the house. Wandered around for God knows how long until the nice deputy I’ve known all my life (but whose name I can’t seem to recall) picked me up and brought me home. Thank God the smoke alarm had gone off and woke J.D. from his nap. He’d almost put out the fire by the time I got home. I shudder to think what could have happened had he not awakened when he did. I hate being away from him, but I’m where I need to be. I didn’t want to see it before, but I know this now. I love my husband too much to put him at risk again.

  The next several entries were about the multitude of visits from him and Johnny, and Zachary and Cathryn. How overjoyed she was to see the earlier ultrasounds of the twins. How thrilled she was her grandson had found the love of his life. How sad she was her son had lost his so many years ago.

  After the first twenty pages or so, she began to make notes of people who’d visited during the periods when she wasn’t “herself”. She’d asked her nurse to have them sign a separate spiral bound notebook so she’d know later on who’d visited with her. She’d check the list when she returned, and sometimes called her visitors to thank them.

  J.D. knew all of this. They’d discussed it. He figured she needed to write it all down for her own peace of mind. By the time he got to the middle of the journal, things began to change. She began making references to a section she’d added to the back called John’s Guide to Life.

  I’ve decided J.D. needs to remarry after I’m gone. He’s only 77 after all. The last four generations of Ferguson men have lived until their mid-90’s. I need to consider that he may also. I can’t stand the thought of him being alone. I need to find him someone. Not just anyone. It has to be someone I admire, someone I respect. This is my priority. I’ve started a section at the back of this journal called John’s Guide to Life (from here on out referenced as the Guide)

  Several more references to her “priority” had him saddened. He hadn’t realized how much she’d fretted over leaving him alone. How hard she fought to keep returning. She spoke of how sometimes when she was herself it seemed like she was gone for seconds. She claimed to remember seeing a particular look on his face before she left him. It tortured her because she knew she’d return to him and he’d have to suffer losing her all over again.

  Her notes became erratic, as though a panic had set in, anxiety over when God would answer her prayers. But one visit from an old friend changed everything, and she turned hopeful.

  The first thing I did when I woke up as ‘myself’ this morning was look at my list of visitors. Bess Robicheaux’s name is on there several times, sometimes alone, sometimes with her daughter, Cynthia., who happens to be Johnny’s new girlfriend. I found snapshots in an album Zachary and Cat left here for me of Johnny with Cynthia. I’m thrilled! Our Johnny has found someone, and such a lovely young lady. Cynthia was always such a kind girl. Thank you God for small blessings.

  Shortly after her entry, there was an addition to the journal.

  New development! I’ve found my replacement. It is duly noted as #11 in the Guide at the back of this journal. Thank God for huge blessings. I have a plan for J.D. This has come just in time. I’m tired, so very tired of fighting my way back only to leave him again.

  That would be her last legible entry toward the front of the book. There were some minor scribbles on the following page, as though she’d made an attempt, but failed. Heartsick, he turned to the back of the book. And there it was, in her neat penmanship:

  John’s Guide to Life

  1. Wake up every morning thanking the good Lord that you are still breathing.

  2. Get up, Get dressed, and Get OUT of the house.

  3. Try new things, meet new people, do not stay stuck in a rut.

  He nearly laughed aloud reading the words, practically able to hear her preaching to him.

  4. Get those cataracts removed (I know you’ve been putting off the surgery because I’m in this place but it’s time to do it if you haven’t already)

  5. Get that prostate exam. Medicine will probably help with that problem if you have the guts and good sense to admit you have one.

  He snorted. “Ha! I got you beat, ol’ girl. I’ve already had the cataract surgery and got my new specs.” He shivered at a particular memory—the dreaded prostate exam—and with good reason, too. The jury was still out on the meds his doc had prescribed. He adjusted his glasses and continued to read.

  6. Spend as much time with our great grandchildren as you can. Youth has a way of rubbing off on people.

  7. Do NOT spend the rest of your life mourning me John David Ferguson. If you only knew how difficult it is for me to come back to this place, you’d stop being so hard headed about this. I don’t want you to be alone.

  He probably would have gotten a little weepy over number seven if number eight hadn’t made him laugh out loud.

  8. Get out in the evenings, visit people, or take a drive. No Wheel of Fortune or endless reruns of old westerns all night long. The least you could do is watch Sex And the City every now and then. You can always balance it out with an episode or two of Gunsmoke. The point is, don’t plan your night by what’s on television.

  His smile faded as he began to read the next item on her agenda.

  9. Find someone new. I can’t stress this enough. I can’t bear the thought of leaving you all alone in that big old house without companionship.

  10. I saw where Lavyrle Fruge came by while I was “away”. I know what that old tramp wants. Do NOT let that woman step one foot inside my house. If she comes sniffing around after I’m gone, you send her on her way and keep looking for something better.

  “Now Marilee, how could you ever think I’d look twice at Lavyrle Fruge? If that old chienne ever came sniffin’, around I’d throw her a dog biscuit and tell her to be on her way.” He shivered again.

  11. Bessie Robicheaux! She’s the one, John David. I want her for you. It’s nothing short of divine intervention. She’s always been such a good friend. She helped me so much when sweet Jenna was taken from us. She’s a good, kind person, and she’s alone too. She’s the one. She’s. I want. She’s for _______

  He shook his head. “No, Marilee, No. Bess is a good friend, but she can’t replace you. No one can ever replace you.”

  He started to shut the book, and stopped. Near the bottom of the page, in a barely legible scrawl, she’d somehow managed to add one last item. After some concentration, he finally managed to decipher number twelve.

  12. Let me go

  A sudden realization hit J.D. like a wrecking ball blasting into a condemned building. He sat forward in her chair, hugging the book to his chest, suddenly feeling much older.

  “Oh, God. No.”

  He couldn’t bear it.

  He raked one hand in his hair, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, fisting it in his right hand again.

  J.D. pictured Marilee scribbling in that book during visits when she was herself. She’d done that when Zachary, Cathryn, and the twins were there last, along wit
h Johnny and Cynthia.

  He remembered that visit with Bess, and how she’d stepped out of the room to give him and Marilee alone time. His wife had been writing in this journal like a mad woman, as though she had to get it all down before … before she left again.

  He remembered the moment she had begun to leave him. Her pen’s movement had slowed, stuttered, the scribbling eventually turning into a somewhat straight line, almost as though her brainwaves had shut down for a moment before she lifted her gaze to his, without a hint of recognition.

  He shook his head, used his handkerchief to wipe the moisture from his eyes. “So why the hell don’t I remember number twelve, Marilee?”

  Where had he been when she’d written that last directive? The one much messier, much less legible than the others?

  It could only mean one thing.

  She’d been alone, totally alone, and had apparently been herself just long enough to get one last item on paper. It was her last message to him.

  Her goodbye.

  The very last time she’d been herself.

  “And I wasn’t there for you.”

  He flipped to the front of the book again, passed his fingers over the scribbles, examining the failed attempt to put down the words locked away in her mind. J.D. slammed the journal shut, collapsed back in the chair, suddenly too weak to stand, overcome by a flood of regret, and angry, so angry and bitter over the years that had been stolen from his wife. Eyes closed and head back on the chair, he wallowed in his own self-pity until he drifted off to sleep, with the feel of the book’s worn fabric under his fingers.

  He dreamed of Marilee, the sweet sound of her voice near his ear—chiding him, insisting he stop feeling sorry for himself. In his dream he turned to her voice, opened his eyes, saw her holding an abbreviated version of that stupid “Guide”. “Look John David. Look!” she insisted. He did, because she was so unusually demanding, how could he not? The list was similar to the other, with the identical heading, but cut down to one item. Let. Me. Go.

  “I can’t, Marilee.”

  “You can. You must. I want this for you.”

  “But, I love you.”

  “I know. I’ve always known.”

  “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I said goodbye. Now wake up, J.D.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Wake up.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Wake up!” She shook him.

  “No.”

  “Wake up, Pop!”

  She shook him again, rougher this time.

  “Pop!”

  A loud clap sounded at his ear and he jumped. “Son of a … What the hell!”

  Johnny stood there, hands in the air, his face twisted with a horrified expression. “Good grief! I thought you were dead.”

  “Well, almost! You about gave me a heart attack.”

  “Are you all right?”

  J.D. sat up. “Of course I am.” He waved his hand in front of his face. “I’m a little dizzy, though.”

  Concern etched Johnny’s face. “From what? Should I call an ambulance? Bring you to the emergency room?”

  “I’m dizzy from whatever smell-good you drenched yourself in. Back the hell away from me, boy. You’re making my eyes burn.”

  Johnny sniffed at his shirt. “Cyn likes it. She picked it out with me.”

  “It doesn’t mean you had to take a bath in it. You could use a lesson in subtlety.”

  “Well, I’m nervous, dammit.”

  J.D. eyed his son suspiciously. “Oh, yeah? What for?”

  “I’m taking Cyn dancing for the first time in a month.”

  “So what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I came by to see if you needed anything before I left town.”

  “No. I’m okay.”

  “All right, then. I’m gonna go ahead and go.”

  “Okay. Do yourself and Cyn a favor. Drive with your windows down on your way to pick her up.”

  “It’s still ninety degrees outside. I’ll be all sweaty by the time I get there.”

  J.D. shook his head on the way to the bathroom. “It’s bound to be an improvement. Now get the hell out of here. You’re making me woozy.”

  He entered the bathroom, came out a little later, freshly showered and shaved. He briefly considered putting on his pajamas to make an early night of it, but decided instead to put on a fresh set of clothes.

  J.D. took a deep breath and lifted his phone. He hit the speed dial Cynthia had programmed for him and waited. It rang once, twice, and a third time before Bess picked it up.

  “Bess, is that invitation still on for supper at your place?” He smiled at her answer. “I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes. Thanks.”

  J.D. placed the phone in its cradle and stood slowly. He leaned over to pick up the journal, considered placing it back inside the box. After a moment of contemplation, he tucked it under his arm instead.

  The way he figured it, poor Bess had every right to know what she was getting herself into.

  God, she loved this man. She loved the way he held her as they danced, how he made her feel cherished and protected. She loved the feel of his skin under her hands. She loved the feel of his hair as she ran her fingers through it. She loved the way he—

  “Excuse me! I’d like to cut in.”

  Cynthia turned, her eyes narrowed to angry slits at the irritating intrusion into her sexual ramblings. “Go away, Robin. You need to accept the fact that John Michael is taken.”

  “I’m only asking for a friendly dance, not to marry him.”

  Cynthia spun her date so that his back was to the bimbo and stared pointedly at her. “Go. Away.”

  “Sheesh! Somebody needs lessons in sharing.”

  “Somebody needs lessons in how to apply make-up.”

  “Oh, I’m sure!” Robin gave an indignant huff.

  “I am too. You look like Tim Curry dressed as the Sweet Transvestite in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Now go!” She shook her head as Robin finally got the message and flounced off. “If that tramp keeps crashing our party like this, we may have to find another place to dance. I’ll miss the food, but it’d be worth it not to have to hear her voice.”

  John waited several seconds before facing her. “Is it safe to turn around now?”

  “Yes, sweet baby, the scary lady is gone,” she crooned.

  “Are you sure? Because she seems to have brought out a side of you I haven’t seen before tonight.”

  “What you’re seeing tonight, is the woman who hasn’t been alone with the man I love in a month. Be thankful you don’t have to work with this me all day long. I threatened to castrate Kevin today if he ever asked me out on a date again. And I meant it.”

  “Ooh … Mama’s a little testy. Maybe I should get you outta here and back to my place.” The look she aimed in his direction had him rushing to explain. “I’m past all that, I promise. But if you have doubts, I can always rent us a hotel room.”

  She pursed her lips. “Are we talking by the hour, here, or for a full night?”

  He chuckled. “Considering the shape you’re in, an hourly rate would clean out my bank account.”

  “The shape I’m in?” She scraped her nails over his upper thigh.

  He hissed. “You got me. The shape we’re in. This could be an all-nighter.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a possibility. But let’s go on to your place, if you don’t mind. It’s in the country and I can make all the noise I want. Can we go now, please?”

  “Mm, thought you’d never ask. I’m going to get a to-go box for our leftovers and an extra order of hush puppies. I have a feeling I’ll need sustenance at some point during the night.”

  “Do what you’ve got to do.” She gave him a kiss and headed for the restroom. By the time she made it out, he was waiting for her at the exit, holding the bag of to-go boxes.

  The trip back to Lake Erin was agonizingly slow, until the Louisiana St
ate Trooper’s car in front of them turned off onto another highway. By then they were only two minutes from John’s place.

  He unlocked the door and followed her inside. Cynthia headed straight for the master bathroom to brush her teeth and touch up her makeup and hair. By the time she exited, John Michael was shirtless, barefooted, and sprawled out on his king size bed, waiting for her.

  She smiled when she spied the small square foam container of leftovers sitting on the dresser. “Are you expecting to get hungry that soon?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “One never knows. I’m expecting quite a workout from you tonight. Besides, it’s not my hushpuppies. It’s your dessert.”

  “D.I.’s serves dessert?”

  He nodded. “They did tonight.”

  She could go for a little dessert. She took a step toward the dresser. “What is it?”

  “You’ll have to open it to find out.”

  She reached for the box. His voice stopped her.

  “But, you’ll have to decide what you want first. The main course, meaning me, or your dessert?” He flexed his arms then linked his fingers behind his head.

  The man was dangerous, for sure. All thoughts of dessert pushed aside for the time being, she slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders. The silky fabric landed on the floor without making a sound. She stepped out of her pumps and approached the bed.

  “Why are you still in those jeans, John Michael?”

  Her question had him stripping them off in double time. He dropped back on the bed, wearing only his black boxer briefs. She crawled over to straddle him, and then ever so sneakily, reached for the dessert container.

  He burst into laughter. “I knew it!” he crowed. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

  She sat back, landing solidly on his pelvis to put a quick end to his gleeful claim at being right. “It’s your own fault. I could always pass up dessert until I started hanging around you. What is this, some yummy bread pudding with rum sauce?” She started to open the box. “Or coconut cream pie …” Her voice trailed off as she stared at the contents.

  John Michael couldn’t contain his laughter. “God, this was so not supposed to happen like this. I figured we’d either be partially clothed or under the covers, basking in the afterglow of our lovemaking. I wasn’t expecting your dessert stealing fake-out.”