Bring the Rain

by Lizzy Charles

  Maybe it’s a trust thing. I know it’s not his fault a wildfire almost burned me alive. Hell, without Dad, I’d be as dead as those calves. But still, because of this stupid custody agreement, I’m here and I nearly died. Now I spend most of my time upstairs when he’s home—isolated in Colt’s room, emailing Mom or talking to Gina. I even retreat from him when Colt’s around. It's easier to be alone.

  Colt kills the engine in front of a pile of rubble. I take a deep breath at the absence of the house and new open skyline. A few large beams lie charred between cement blocks in a heap of ashes. There’s a mangled bed frame near the front of the debris, legs melted into the earth. I gasp as I make out the faint hint of a gold knob on the edge of the frame. That’s my bed, in my room. I close my eyes, trying to keep myself from trembling. I could’ve been found in that mess, just a body … if that.

  Dad’s wading through the debris while Tango follows at his feet. His face is hard and set as he searches the pile, until Colt cuts the engine, then he waves with a fake smile. He plunges his gloved hand into the wreckage, pulling out something triangular and shoving it into a sack hanging around his neck. Why is he pretending that this is okay? He can’t believe I expect him to be happy while sifting through our destroyed lives. He grins again, and it slices through me. Maybe that’s why I can’t be near him now, because he’s still trying.

  Trying to win my seventeenth year.

  But for what?

  This? A year without a home. Awesome.

  Colt unlocks my door, reaching up to help me down. The smell of charred wood is like a punch in the face, but oddly it makes me want to eat a marshmallow. Weird.

  “Autumn,” Dad says as he steps out of the foundation. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Sure.” There’s a sting to my tongue, and I can feel the weapon in it, fully loaded. I dig my heels into the ground, determined to not let the ammo fire. Just because it feels like he’s making me come back to play in my nightmares, doesn’t mean he is. He doesn’t know how I’m trapped in that room every time my eyelids close. Or how the window never opens, or what it feels like to suck in smoke while pressed against a carpet.

  “So.” Dad leans back on his heels. “What do you think?”

  “It’s destroyed.” There’s no point in being anything but blunt here.

  “It is. Do ya want to take a look?”

  I take a step back. “I don’t think I should be in the ashes with the breathing, ya know?” There’s no way I’m going back in that house, or the general space that used to be a house. If there was any meaning left in those walls for me, it’s gone now.

  “Right. I guess I should have thought of that. Well, how about a little walk? That’ll be good for you.”

  “A walk sounds great.” Colt says, his hand finding its place on my back.

  They move at my pace, slowly, and we survey the damage. Dad’s quit to point out where the rooms where, maybe he thinks it helps but it’s making each step harder to take. The only things remaining are the stainless steel fridge, oven, and the rocks from the hearth Dad built two summers ago. Basically, the place is decimated.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask when we return to Colt’s truck.

  “Rebuild,” Dad says. “I’m consulting on the final plans tonight. We start in a few days.”

  “But I thought with the drought, your bank account...“

  "Went dry?” Colt suggests.

  “Watch yourself, son.” Dad’s fake brightness grows dark.

  Colt throws up his hand, the other still resting on my back. “Kidding, kidding. I’m just trying to lighten the mood. Sorry.”

  “This is what it is. It doesn’t need lightening.” Dad wipes sweat from his brow. There—that’s the father I want to see, the real one. “Shit, I hate this heat,” he mumbles. He squints up at the setting sun, then turns back to me, ignoring Colt. “Autumn, we can rebuild with our house insurance.”

  Why does he still say we?

  “The process will take a little time and we can afford basic furnishings. It’s all going to work out.”

  I nod, glancing at the standing appliances and the pile of stones from his gourmet kitchen and great room. His last attempt to win me home. Clearly, this isn’t meant to be. Every effort he’s made to make this summer perfect has been destroyed. He needs to read the signs, relax his expectations, and let me go.

  But to Paris?

  Dad and Colt talk about plans for the house, but I ignore them. Focusing on the cracks running through the earth to keep myself from freaking out. I don’t know how I feel about Paris anymore and being near Colt brings more peace then I've had in years. I love how uncomplicated it is—we simply are, together. Going to Paris would be like taking off the perfect pair of running shoes and jamming my feet into four-inch stilettos, but there’s nothing like the power of walking into a room wearing a pair of those. Paris will bring that buzz for me–– people, delicate foods, museum, and, of course, the nightlife.

  And Mom. Mom’s in Paris. Well actually, right now she’s in Greece at another business meeting again. My eyes sting. I miss her, but couldn't let her come after the fire. I didn’t want her here. It’d be impossible to handle Mom and Dad together right now. I don’t want to be stuck in the middle of their secrets. She’d go crazy here anyway. It’s better for her to do her own thing. It’s not like I ever went crying to her with my issues before, so I’m not about to start now. Not when she’s got so much to do. I refuse to be someone who holds her back from her dream come true.

  “Will you help me?” Dad asks, messing up my brainwaves.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m… stunned. What do you want help with?”

  “I want you to help build the new house.”

  “Um, sure. But warning, I’ve never held a hammer.”

  “Not true. You helped build the back deck when you were six.” He doesn’t look at me, instead studying the ashes that used to be the deck.

  “It’s not like I did anything though.” I brought him lemonade, played with a small kitchen hammer, and sat on boards cheering him on.

  “Any hand helps, Autumn. Always.” Dad wanders forward into the soot. He stands there for a while, rubbing his chin. He turns, hand glued to his hips like a superhero. “Yes, you and me. We’re building this house together. I know this summer has been a disaster, but this will work out."

  “To keep me here?” I ask under my breath. Thankfully he doesn’t hear. Colt does though. His finger traces a circle on my spine. My back, neck, and scalp tingle crazy good.

  “So what do you say?” Dad asks with an odd, almost fresh look that I haven’t seen since I was little. Dare I call it hope?

  “Why not?” My heart twists pretzel style. Why am I leading him on? I’m a horrible daughter. “This is going to eat up all your time to run the ranch,” I offer.

  He shrugs, stepping out of the soot. “It’ll work out. The crew has been taking care of what needs to be done. There’s nothing we can do to make it rain.”

  “How about a rain dance?” Colt strings his thumbs through his belt loops, and wiggles his feet with a dorky smile.

  Dad furrows his brow. “Really, Autumn? Him?”

  “Looks like it, huh?”

  ***

  Grace is a genius. I rotate the wooden handle of the umbrella she bought me, watching the shadow spin while the shadow of the plastic bag I hold wavers on the ground. The shadow from the large golf umbrella is a genius idea. This begs to be sketched.

  Art has saved me since the fire. Mom had my real art supplies in the mail before I even asked for them. She sent everything-- the sketchbooks, painting pads and pallets, watercolors, acrylics, pencils, and a portable easel. I’ve already filled one sketchbook. With a little more pressure in my strokes and a new expectation that what I sketch will never look like my subject, I’m finally finding my way in art.

  Colt’s truck sputters around the corner. “Ready?” he asks as he hops out and opens my door.

  “Yeah.”

&nb
sp; “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes.” I slide in the front seat, not telling him how I have to do it and how I’ll never get the image from my mind if I don’t. The ash and the empty skyline begs me to tend to it.

  “Okay, then.”

  He drives without the radio, his hand covering mine. Millions of nerve endings stand at attention in my palm, begging for more but savoring the brush and warmth of his skin. The experience of his touch amazing me. How does he make me feel so much?

  We pull up in front of the ruined home. The sun hovers over the horizon, our timing perfect. I climb out of the truck with care, my skin tingling in the sun. I pop open the umbrella and lean against the bumper. A loud clang and grunt come from the back of the truck.

  “Sorry,” Colt says as he lifts the easel from the truck bed. “It got stuck.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s industrial grade.”

  “Where do ya want it?”

  I take a few steps to the left to place the ruins of my childhood home off-center. Figuring out the placement for the rule of thirds is key to an eye-catching work of art. “Right here would be great, thanks.”

  He fumbles with a latch on the easel. One of the bottom poles slides out and thuds to the ground while the top refuses to unfold. “Shit.” He says under his breath. He’s adorable while he struggles. “Sorry for the cuss.”

  I try to suppress my smile at the easel beating up a cowboy. That should be sketched too.

  I put down the umbrella for a moment to help him unfold it. The sun’s dipping now so my skin won’t need the shade much longer. My pencils fit neatly on the tray resting under my largest sketchbook. I wrap my fingers around my favorite pencil, then study the absence of the house before me. The sunset’s bold tonight, bleeding reds and oranges and the beams rise out of the dust, the only clue that the pile of ash used to be my home now that Dad’s moved the appliances away. The blank page is daunting. How do I capture this with a few pencil strikes?

  The ash.

  I put my pencil down.

  Yes. Ash is the answer.

  “Whoa, where you going?” Colt says as I wander away from the easel.

  “You’ll see.” I step over the edge of the wreckage and dip my fingers in the soft gray, rubbing the fine ash together. The powder blends with the natural oil from my skin. This is what the blank page needs.

  I fill my palm and bring it back, pulling out my pallet. I squat on the ground, putting my scoop of grey flakes onto it. Colt hands over my water bottle.

  He gets it.

  I drip water on the mound and squeeze some black acrylic paint on top, mixing the ash with my finger to make a thick dark substance. Perfect. I dig in the plastic bag, pulling out my watercolors. They won’t be as bold as the colors above us, but it’s what I need to make the ash work into how the sky’s bleeding right now.

  “You can sit in the truck if you want. Maybe listen to the radio or read? I won’t be too long.”

  I turn toward the easel, switching out the sketchpad to my empty painting pad. With a medium bristled brush, I begin. I put extra weight into the lines when painting the charred beams. It’s brilliant, so thick it rises out from the paper. Good. I want to be able to feel it.

  I paint, rotating between the ash sludge and my watercolors. They run together, dripping down the paper. The sky’s colors blend into the dark ash, which swirls in the water that pools against it.

  I’m lost, almost manic and I try to capture the bleeding darkness. I layer on the paste of ash in the lower right corner, skipping what my teacher would consider details but find the intricacy in the depth of application. People will need to touch this painting to understand it.

  Something’s still missing from the sky though.

  Screw it. I mix more mediums, reaching for my red acrylic paint. It doesn’t blend well with the watercolor but the thing's technically an artistic mess, so who cares? There, now the sun screams my anger about the scene before me. It’s a brutal flame compared to the swirling watery sky and ash below.

  The world––begging for water, in this ugly, drought.

  It’s a disaster and the most real, living piece of art I’ve ever created.

  I love it.

  Colt’s palm finds the center of my back. … I had no idea he’d been watching me the whole time.

  “You are incredible.” He whispers. He wipes away the wetness on my cheek. Tears I didn’t know I’d cried. “Beautiful.”

  He leans in then, his lips find mine. Everything swirls. His kiss is electric but gentle, passionate but soft. I respond with force, throwing Yes’s into my kiss.

  Yes. This is what I want.

  Yes. Colt. You.

  Yes. Finally.

  He pulls away gently. I focus on a slow, steady breath. I don’t need a coughing fit right now.

  “You kissed me.” I say as I step into his arm, resting my head against his beating heart. “Why?”

  “Because.” He reaches out to the painting. “This is you.”

  His arms embrace my lower back and we stand studying the messy, bold art.

  “What do you call it?”

  “Where the Sun Burns.”

  Grace helps me into one of the sleeveless tops she bought in town, careful to keep it from touching my skin. I grab it from below, sliding it over a bandeau strapless bra she also found at Walmart. “Thank you.”

  “So...” she sits on the bed, hands folded in her lap, “What does your father think you’ll be able to do?”

  “I don’t know. Watch?”

  “Don’t forget your sunglasses. And take my hat; it’s hanging on the front porch.” She shifts on the edge of the bed, straightening the blanket below. She’s not the lingering sort.

  “Is everything okay, Grace?”

  “I like having you here, Autumn.”

  “Thanks, I like being here.”

  She repositions a decorative pillow, her lips pressed firmly together.

  “But?” I know there’s more, Grace hates decorating. She is a kind woman-- with an opinion, and it’ll either come when I ask for it or when I don’t want it. “Does this have to do with my relationship with Colt?” She caught us kissing yesterday in the kitchen.

  “No. Your father actually.”

  “Oh,” I say, my voice flat now.

  “I’m glad you will be spending more time with him. He misses you.”

  “Misses me? Grace, it’s not like I go anywhere.” Ever.

  “You two aren’t connecting.”

  “That’s not really my fault though, is it? I mean… He’s the dad.”

  “Autumn, yes, he’s your father, but he’s also a man. You’ve got to fight to break down his wall.”

  “Fight for him? Listen, Grace, I know you mean well but you couldn’t be more off. He’s a nice guy, but he’s distant. He just sits there.”

  “Missing you.”

  “But I’m here.”

  “Okay,” she says. “I get it. How about this? Take your own wall down. Give him a chance to really communicate with you.”

  “I am. I'll be around while he builds his house.”

  “No Autumn, a real chance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he deserves it.”

  “Really? He deserves it?” My face flushes and I can feel the vein in my forehead throb. I suck in the spot on the inside of my cheek, ready to gnaw.

  Grace gets up from the bed, keeping an awkward distance but reaching out to touch my wrist. “Take a breath, Autumn. I know you’ve been through a lot.”

  “Yeah, a fire.” I snap.

  She nods. “Yes. And a divorce.”

  “Grace, I’m sorry, but you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “True. I may not know all the details, but I do know that not a day has passed in the five years I’ve known your father where he hasn’t spoken about you. Now you’re here and he’s silent.”

  Silent.

  …

  Like I’m a disappo
intment?

  “He’s lost cattle, he’s lost his barn and home, and he may lose the ranch. I’m just saying; don’t let him lose you too. Okay?” She smiles at me and gives my forearm a squeeze.

  Like I’m supposed to miraculously find him cattle, rebuild his house, and save the family business. Right now, I can’t even put on my own tank top.

  “I know you’ll do the right thing,” Grace says before she leaves the room.

  The right thing? What a horrible pep talk.

  So now if I go to Paris, I’m doing the wrong thing.

  What’s wrong is making a kid choose between their parents! There is no right choice. Dad or Mom. Oklahoma or Paris. I’m sixteen years old… it’s hard enough. What the hell were they thinking when they decided to let me choose?

  I pick up the tube of mascara off Colt’s dresser and my finger brushes the corner of his father's photo, knocking it over face up. His father gazes at me, in full baseball uniform. There’s a relaxed aura about him, reminding me so much of Colt. It’s got to kill Colt every day not having him around. At least mine’s still here, even if he is sitting alone every night on the front porch.

  The silence though? Grace is right—it’s my fault. It was easy to pass it off because of the fire, but my inability to stay put in the same room with him for more than a few minutes is telling. After all of those years, now that I’m finally here I’m much better in theory than in truth. What if he regrets every cent he spent to get me back?

  The door creeks and my hand falters, the mascara wand feathers black on my cheek.

  “Ready, Autumn?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah,” I try not to squeak. “I just need a minute.”

  The door clicks closed and I take a deep breath. Okay, a day with Dad and the Oklahoma sun, a day with a father I’ve disappointed. Is it even worth trying to impress him anymore? Not that I ever really tried before. I never thought I had to, since he’s my dad and him loving me should be a given, but right now I don’t know if I even want to. A daughter shouldn’t have to work hard to impress her father.