When It Rains: The bittersweet romance you won't want to miss

by Brooke Harris

  ‘Annie, stop it. Please.’ Sketch’s fingers tighten around my hand. ‘Just talk to me. I want to help you.’

  ‘You can’t help me. It would only make things worse.’

  ‘Can I at least see you again? Tomorrow maybe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. The day after, then?’

  ‘No. Never. I can never see you again, Sketch. I’m sorry. I have to go. Now. Please let me out.’

  Sketch pulls his hand away from mine, but he keeps his body twisted in his seat, facing me.

  I fumble with the door handle. My palms are sweaty and sticky, and my fingers are making a fool of me. I turn my head to stare out the windscreen as I continue to tug the handle unsuccessfully. My eyes scan the road ahead for any sign of my father coming to hunt for me. I’ve been gone far too long today.

  ‘Okay, Annie. Okay,’ Sketch resigns, and I feel the heat of his gaze burning into the side of my head. ‘At least let me give you something before you go.’

  Reluctantly, I drag my eyes away from the road and allow them to fall on Sketch’s beautiful face. He reaches across me, and my brown paper bag rustles as his strong arm stretches past, skimming the top. He finds the leather folder on the shelf under the dash in front of me with ease and settles back in his seat to open it.

  My heart feels as if it’s climbed into my throat and is trying to beat its way out through the back of my skull. My fingers tremble as they once again wrap around the door handle, but I’m not tugging on it anymore.

  I so desperately wish I could flitter away a lazy afternoon in the passenger seat of Sketch Talbot’s bottle green car. But lazy afternoons are luxuries for girls like Bridget. Normal girls.

  Sketch hurries. He tugs the twine open effortlessly and rummages through the papers cradled inside. His speed mirrors my anxiety, but for the first time in my life, I don’t try to gloss over my need for hurry with some lame excuse. I don’t think I need to. Sketch understands without me saying another word.

  ‘Here it is,’ Sketch beams.

  He slides out a page from the back of the pile, blows it to shake off some of the dusty chalk it’s picked up in the folder, and passes it to me. My jaw drops with an audible creak, and I can’t seem to close it as I enjoy the feel of crisp paper in my hands.

  ‘I painted this just after my ma died,’ Sketch whispers. ‘She loved my pa’s orchard. When she first got sick, she’d sit out there for hours and stare up at the sky through the branches of the apple trees.’

  ‘Oh, Sketch,’ I manage, running my hand over the stunning watercolours that capture the beauty of an orchard laden with juicy red apples on a warm summer’s day. ‘It’s stunning. I bet your ma would be so proud.’

  ‘Take it, please?’ Sketch suggests. ‘If you really won’t let me see you again, then I’d like you to have it. Think of me when you look at it.’

  ‘I … I … I couldn’t. You painted this for your mother. It’s beautiful. So beautiful. I can’t take this away from you.’

  ‘I painted this to help with my grief, Annie. My mother was beautiful inside and out. She could read me like a book, you see. She knew I’d need a distraction when she was gone. And she knew painting would be the perfect solution. But do you know who I thought of when I was out there in the orchard painting?’

  ‘Your mother.’ I smile, enjoying his special story.

  ‘Yes. Of course. I thought about her every day.’ Sketch smiles. ‘But I thought about you too, Annie. I remember what it was like to grow up with a best friend who loved apples. I thought about how much I missed my ma. And how much I missed you.’

  ‘Sketch, I’m so sorry your ma is gone,’ I say.

  ‘Me too.’ He slouches. ‘But you’re still here, Annie. Don’t deny me that. Please. Please let me see you again.’

  I shake my head. My grip on the door handle once again tightens. Sketch is a lovely person, and it’s been surprisingly easily to fall back into the comfort of friendship with him. But Sketch’s affections could get me in huge trouble. I need to leave now. I wish I didn’t have to go. I want to hear more about his mother. More about me. But I have to go.

  I offer the painting back to him, but he places his hands above his head in mock surrender, scratching his fingers against the roof. He shakes his head, and the sadness that glistens in his eyes breaks my heart.

  ‘Please, Annie. Just take it. Take it and think of me.’

  ‘Okay.’ I nod. ‘Okay. But you can’t come here again …’

  ‘Annie, please …’

  ‘Sketch. You don’t understand. You. Can’t. Come. Promise me?’

  ‘I do understand, Annie.’ Sketch shakes his head. ‘I do understand. I won’t come. Okay. I promise. I promise.’

  I open the car door and jump out before Sketch has a chance to say another word. The dark clouds overhead clatter and bang and sudden thunder startles me. Huge, cold raindrops pound from the sky. I run, and I don’t look back. But no matter how fast my feet scurry, there’s no escaping the torrential rain. I’m thoroughly saturated in seconds.

  I burst through the front door and shut it behind me. I stand with my back firmly against the door praying that Sketch won’t be stupid enough to follow me. Counting backwards from one hundred in my head, I feel my legs quiver in rhythm to each number. Silence. Sketch hasn’t followed me. And my father isn’t awake yet. I’m safe.

  And, then I realise I’ve left my parcel in Sketch’s car. My father’s bacon and eggs. Oh. My. God.

  Eight

  My grandmother tosses and turns in her sleep. They’re not major, jerky movements; they’re more like tiny spasms that pull her body from left to right as if she’s rocking gently on a boat. I think they mean she’s dreaming. Sweet dreams, I hope.

  I stand and stretch my legs. I’ve no idea how long I’ve sat on the edge of Nana’s bed. The day nurse has come and gone. She injected Nana with some potent stuff that’s knocked her out, apparently for a few hours. My mother has drifted in and out of the room often. She’s restless and unable to stay for longer than ten minutes at a time. I understand that it’s hard for her. Even harder than it is for me. Nana is my mother’s rock. It must be terrifying to watch your rock crumble.

  I walk around the confined space of my grandmother’s bedroom. Back and forth, back and forth, I’m wishing time away while simultaneously wishing time would never pass. I pause in the bay window for a while, staring out at a cloudless sky. It looks deceptively bright for a cold January day. The winter sun is shining low in the sky and kissing the pebble stone driveway until the stones sparkle like glitter. It’s the kind of crisp winter’s day Nana loved. She would head outside no matter what the weather, wrapping up in a hat and scarf if the cold demanded it and go for her daily walk. Every day, five miles a day. She said old habits die hard. Now I understand. I finally understand.

  The sleeve of my jumper brushes against the bouquet on the windowsill and delicious perfume wafts into the air. I take a deep breath and savour the scent that, for a moment, masks the stench of antiseptic and medicine. Nana’s bedroom suddenly smells the way it used to when I was a child. I close my eyes, and for a second, I pretend I’m just a kid again and my grandmother isn’t sick. My recess is short lived, and my eyes fly open at the sound of Nana struggling to drag air into her weak lungs as she sleeps. I hold my breath and watch her chest. Content to see it rise and fall, albeit shakily, I breathe again. Her eyes are still firmly closed, and aside from the terrifying gargling sound that she omits every few seconds, she seems to be sleeping soundly. I have to remind myself that the nurses said she’s not in any pain. I have to believe them or I might lose my mind.

  I flick my eyes back to the flowers, desperate for a distraction. Warm ruby roses and bright yellow carnations complement each other. I straighten one of the roses with a broken stem and find a small gold envelope hiding in the middle of the bunch. It hasn’t been opened. Whoever put the flowers in the vase must have missed it. I fish it out and open it. I read it with the intenti
on of letting Nana know who her admirer is.

  Annie,

  Thank you for your advice.

  Three simple words. I’ll tell them to Holly as soon as I can.

  Nate x

  I almost drop the note and shake my head. My ex-fiancé is sending my grandmother flowers? I can’t decide if it’s highly inappropriate or wonderfully thoughtful. Nate must have had them delivered yesterday after he read my Post-it that I stuck on his laptop screen before I dashed out of work. I said Nana was sick, but I didn’t say how sick. I’m guessing Nate’s read between the lines. With shaking fingers, I slide the note back into the envelope and place it on the windowsill next to the vase. I fish my phone out of my pocket. Every time I look at the screen, I find more missed calls from Nate. He really is desperate to get in touch. I’ve been ignoring him since his plane landed in Dublin three days ago. He didn’t come home to the apartment, and I can only guess he’s sleeping on his brother’s lumpy couch. I only see him in work when I absolutely can’t avoid it. And even then, it’s as simple as passing him in the corridor. I avoid eye contact, but I can always feel his fiery eyes burn into me. My email inbox is overflowing with stuff from him. Both my work and personal accounts are littered with his name. I move everything straight to trash without reading a word. He didn’t want to talk last week when he took off on a last-minute holiday to Ibiza with his single brothers. He didn’t even tell me he was going. I had to hear it from one of the guys in the office. Nate didn’t email that week. Or text. The most he could manage was a call, and he waited until he was drunk to make it. If he can go on a self-indulgent week without contact when it suits him, then surely he can give me some space now to be with Nana. He knows how much I love her. If he cared about me at all, he’d leave me alone right now.

  My phone vibrates in my hand, and Nate’s name, unsurprisingly, flashes on the screen. Before I have time to think, I hit the accept button and hold the phone to my ear. I open my mouth, but words won’t come out. What the hell am I doing?

  ‘Holly?’ Nate says, his voice deeper and grittier than usual.

  I shake my head. My heart is racing, and I can’t talk.

  ‘Hols, you there? Can you hear me?’

  I pull the phone away from my ear and clear my throat with a rough cough. ‘I can hear you,’ I whisper, holding the phone back.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Nate asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, sorry. Stupid question.’ Nate sighs heavily.

  A rustle in the bed behind me grabs my attention, and I spin around to check on Nana. She’s still sleeping, but she’s slipped into an uncomfortable looking half-sitting, half-lying position. The pillows piled behind her are forcing her chin to press against her chest. I tilt my head to one side, bringing my shoulder up to meet my ear so I can balance my phone and free my hands. I hurry over to the bed and take care not to wake my grandmother as I adjust the pillows and try to make her comfortable. It’s almost impossible to fix the skyscraper mound of pillows into anything workable, and I can’t pull Nana back up into a sitting position without disturbing or, worse, hurting her. I slide my hand gently between the back of Nana’s head and the top pillow. I take a moment to savour the warmth of her head in my palm, and a single tear trickles past my nose and lands on the duvet with a silent splash. I pull out some of the flattened pillows from the middle of the pile and toss them onto the nearby chair. I slowly lower Nana’s head back against the much lower mound. She hums gently as she relaxes, and I hope she’s more comfortable now. She certainly sounds content.

  ‘Holly, you still there?’ Nate’s voice scrapes against my ear like a rusty nail.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, my eyes fixed on Nana’s frail face.

  ‘I thought you’d hung up there for a second,’ Nate says.

  I exhale sharply, yielding to the pain in my chest as my heart breaks. Nate has no idea where I am or what I’m doing right now. It shouldn’t be like this. I don’t have time for messy breakup drama right now. I only have time for Nana. She deserves all my time. And I want every second I can get before it’s too late.

  ‘What do you want, Nathan?’ I growl.

  ‘I … I …’ Nate pauses, and I wonder what he’s doing. Stopping to scratch his head or wishing he’d never called. ‘Annie is sick,’ he says as if I didn’t know.

  I force a bubble of trapped air down my throat with an emotional gulp. I can’t hold tears back much longer, and I don’t want to be on the phone anymore.

  ‘You know she has cancer,’ I snap.

  ‘I know. I know. I just mean … is this …?’ Nate pauses again, and this time, I can hear him rustling with something in the background. I allow him the benefit of the doubt and assume he’s fidgeting because he needs the distraction. ‘Is this the end?’

  I’ve no control over my tears now. They sweep across my eyes like summer rain and trickle down my cheeks. ‘Yes,’ I bring myself to admit, perhaps more to myself than to Nate. ‘Yes, it is.’

  Nate sniffles, and I wonder if he’s crying too. He’s not really the emotional type, but I know he has a soft spot for my grandmother. Maybe this has all genuinely come as a shock to him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Hols,’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I choke out.

  ‘So sorry for everything.’

  I shake my head. I don’t want to discuss everything. Not now. Even if Nate’s apology is sincere.

  ‘I have to go,’ I stutter.

  ‘Okay. I understand,’ Nate whispers. ‘Please, Hols, if there is anything I can do, please let me know.’

  I grunt and roll my eyes. ‘Goodbye, Nathan.’ I slide my phone into my pocket and turn around to stare out the window.

  Nate should be here with me. He should rub my back and tell me to be strong. He should hold me in his arms and kiss my forehead the way my father does with my mother. He should tell me that everything will be all right, and he should say it even if he doesn’t believe it. And I should hear it even if I don’t believe it either. It shouldn’t be like this. Nothing should be like this.

  I stare outside for a long time. The garden seems so much smaller now than when I was a kid. The old oak trees scattered haphazardly around the lawn don’t seem as tall anymore, and the gate feels closer and just a stroll away. When I was young, Nana’s farm felt enormous, and Ben and I could flitter away happy hours running around until we were weary and ready for bed. We’d come inside, mucky and with grass in our hair, and settle at the kitchen table for some homemade brown bread. I pine for those carefree days now, and I wish with a burning intensity that I could turn back time.

  Dark clouds gather overhead and cast a shadow across the pebble stone driveway. I look up and know it’s going to rain, heavily. It seems fitting; as if the weather has taken it upon itself to wash the past away. I realise I lost myself in the memories, and I’ve been staring out the window for quite some time. I freeze, suddenly feeling alone. It’s as if Nana’s not here with me anymore. I drag my hands around my face, pulling my skin until it’s taut and stiff and stings a little as it objects to the strain. I want to turn around and check on her, but I’m scared. I’m terrified. I drop my hands and clasp them together like in a prayer as I spin on the spot.

  Nana is pale, and I can’t hear the hum of her wheezy breathing that I’ve become accustomed to. I scurry to the bed and hover close above her. She’s so still. So calm. Too calm. I place my hand on her chest, and the sound of my own blood coursing through my veins pounds inside my skull. Finally, I feel her chest rise and slowly fall. Her breathing is undeniably laboured, but she’s still here. She’s still with me. Thank God.

  My eyes scurry to find the bedroom door, and I hope for someone to come. My mother or the nurse. Someone. Anyone. Seconds tick by in painfully slow motion. No one comes. I’m too afraid to move away from Nana to seek help. As if I don’t trust her to keep breathing if I pull my hand off her chest. I crane my neck and tilt my head towards the door. I can hear my family in the kitchen. Tea
cups clatter ever so gently and I suspect my mother is washing up, yet again. She’ll wash the pattern off the crockery if she keeps it up.

  I slide my shaking hand into my pocket and pull out my phone again. Nate’s phone rings out and goes to his voicemail, but I hang up without leaving a message. I’m not sure what I would have said even if he had answered. I think I just wanted to hear his voice again. I exhale sharply and call Ben’s mobile. I hear a single ring before I pull my phone away from my ear to concentrate on the pounding of Ben’s feet as he flies out the kitchen door and up the stairs.

  He rushes through Nana’s bedroom door within seconds, and I smile with relief at just seeing him.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Holly. What’s Nana doing lying flat?’ he barks, rushing towards me. ‘She shouldn’t be flat like that.’ He pushes past between me and the edge of the bed, forcing my hand away from Nana’s chest.

  ‘She slipped down,’ I explain. ‘And then she didn’t seem comfortable.’

  Ben slides his arm behind Nana’s shoulders and lifts her gentle. She gasps at the sudden change of position, and with her eyes still closed, she drags air loudly in through her gaping mouth. Ben tosses his head over his shoulder and glares at the pillows on the chair beside us.

  ‘Put those back,’ he insists. ‘She needs to be upright. She can’t breathe properly otherwise.’

  Guilt swirls in the pit of my stomach, and I gather all the pillows in my arms in one swoop. I slide them behind Nana’s head and shoulders as Ben cradles her upper body in his strong arms.

  ‘There,’ I whimper. ‘I put them back. They’re all back.’

  Ben lowers Nana back against the refreshed mound gently, and a subtle half smile lights up her weary face.

  ‘What the hell, Holly?’ Ben scolds, turning around to stare at me. ‘The pillows aren’t piled high like that for the laugh. Why on earth did you move them? That was really dangerous. How long as she been lying flat like that?’