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

by Brooke Harris

  ‘That’s it, Nana,’ I encourage, sounding a million times calmer than I feel. ‘Big deep breaths, nice and slow.’

  Within seconds, Nana is asleep again. Raspy snores punctuate her slumber and remind us all that her breathing is growing increasingly more laboured. I wonder if I should call one of the nurses or her doctor, but I’m not sure what more they can do.

  Ben, Nate, and I stand over her for a few minutes. None of us are speaking, but I suspect we’re all thinking similar thoughts. Nana is almost eighty years old, but her beautiful full lips and shoulder-length silver hair defy her age. Her face is weather beaten, and the toll of time is evident, but you can tell at a glance how beautiful Nana once was. How beautiful she still is. I run my eyes over every detail of her face and try to take a photograph in my mind. I close my eyes and test the image. I repeat over and over, committing every detail I possibly can to memory; terrified that once she’s gone, I might forget a line or a wrinkle.

  Later, I find myself alone with Nana. Nate and Ben have gone to get something to eat. I’m not hungry, but Nate says he’s not taking no for an answer, and he’s bringing me back something. I agree to some takeaway soup, knowing I’ll most likely throw it back up later.

  I sit in an armchair under the tiny, high window. One leg is shorter than all the rest, and the chair wobbles as I rock back and forth on the spot. It’s surprisingly soothing, and I drift in and out of fitful sleep. My eyes fly open to the sound of the door creaking, and my mother’s head appears in the gap.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ Mom asks, looking over at Nana lying in bed with sad eyes.

  ‘She’s sleeping now, but she woke earlier and had some water,’ I explain.

  ‘Good. That’s good,’ Mom says.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, knowing the answer my mother will give is very different to the answer she feels.

  ‘Yes. Fine. It was good to get home for a little while. I grabbed a shower, and your father made us a bite to eat.’

  I smile.

  ‘Where’s your brother?’ My mother’s voice wobbles as she steps into the room and lets go of the door behind her.

  It closes with a gentle bang, and we both jump.

  ‘Canteen.’ I nod. ‘Nate’s with him.’

  ‘How long have you been on your own?’ Mom asks, slowly making her way to the edge of the bed, her voice cracking more with each step forward.

  ‘Not long.’ I scrunch my nose. ‘Half an hour maybe. Any news on the ambulance?’ I ask. ‘It was supposed to be here an hour ago.’

  My mother shakes her head and flops into the chair next to Nana’s bed. ‘These things always run late, don’t they?’

  I shrug, disappointed. I’m still holding out hope that my mother will change her mind and agree to the detour by the orchard. But I know the later it gets, the colder it becomes and the less likely it is to happen.

  ‘Time for another chapter?’ Mom says, picking up Nana’s manuscript from the bedside table.

  ‘Sure.’ I nod. ‘You read,’ I suggest. ‘I think Nana would love to hear your voice.’

  My mother clears her throat with a gentle cough and moves over to one side of her chair. She pats the open space she’s created at the other side with her hand and looks at me longingly.

  I stand and make my way across the room. My legs are wobbly and a little numb from sitting awkwardly for so long. I squeeze into the gap beside my mother. There isn’t room for two grown women to fit comfortably in the single chair, but we huddle together nonetheless, just as we did when I was a little girl, and my mother begins.

  ‘Chapter Ten. The Dance ...’

  Thirty – Four

  I’ve heard the expression butterflies in your tummy many times. I’ve even experienced it on occasion. But these are no butterflies flapping about inside me today. These are cattle, stomping their hooves as a whole herd charges from one side of my body all the way across to the other and back again.

  Moments ago, my fingers actually trembled as I buttoned the white petal collar on the beautiful blue dress Sketch bought me, and even now, standing and waiting by the front door, my hands still shake, and I don’t quite believe this is happening. I’m going to a dance. A real dance. Not just one I read about in books and close my eyes and try to pretend I’m there. This is real. This is happening. And it’s all because of Sketch. There will be music and people and happiness. So much happiness I feel as if I might burst.

  I practiced my dance steps all week. Bridget looked as though she wanted to strangle me when I stepped on her toes, but she played it icy cool each time we started over. It was obvious initially that we were uncomfortable in each other’s company. Especially when Sketch had to leave us alone as he attended to some farm work. But once I got over my initial lack of confidence, I found myself really learning to dance. And within a couple of days, we actually found ourselves laughing.

  Bridget and I would never be friends, I knew that. We didn’t have much in common. I loved to read, and she loved to tease people who did. I was soft spoken and feminine. She was loud and tomboyish. I had long, straight chestnut hair. Her short, blond curls bounced around her face like a haystack on the back of a trailer. The only thing we had in common was Sketch. And we both seemed prepared to put our love for him before our dislike of each other.

  ‘You’re not wearing those, are you?’ Bridget said yesterday as she pointed at my shoes and snorted back a loud gargle of disapproval.

  ‘I don’t have any others,’ I retaliated, standing tall but feeling tiny inside.

  Bridget rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, you can’t wear those old things. You’ll embarrass us all.’

  Bridget glared at my feet, and I could feel my face heat with embarrassment, but I held my head high. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing how much her mocking hurt me. I hate that Bridget is right. The hole in my shoe is worse than ever. The pebble stones all around the Talbot farmhouse have been hard on the soles.

  ‘You look about the same size as I am.’ She sighs. ‘You can borrow a pair of mine. I have brown ones with a heel. They’ll do.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, swallowing my pride. ‘I’ll take good care of your shoes and return them straight after the dance.’

  Bridget shrugged. ‘Right, back to it. One ... two ... three ... step ... two ... three.’

  We danced until our feet hurt, and by the time Sketch dropped me home last evening, the steps were drilled into my head.

  I look down at Bridget’s shoes on my feet now. They’re soft and warm, and I’ve never worn anything so comfortable and pretty before. I close my eyes and practice my steps one last time, counting silently in my head as my feet tap out the rhythm on the spot.

  ‘You look lovely, Annie,’ my mother says, appearing at my shoulder.

  She’s wearing the same worn-out cardigan and long pleated skirt as always, but she looks younger and more beautiful than usual. I think she’s as excited about the dance as I am.

  ‘I hope that boy didn’t expect anything in return for that lovely dress, Annie.’ My mother tries to sound concerned, but her bright smile contradicts her tone, and I suspect she’s growing to like Sketch very much. She’s not blind or stupid; she can see how happy Sketch makes me.

  ‘Actually’—I nod—‘he did.’

  My mother’s smile wipes.

  ‘He asked me to bake his favourite dessert. And so I did.’

  ‘Oh, Annie.’ My mother relaxes. ‘Look at you, all grown up. Just yesterday, you were my bonnie baby bouncing on my knee and now here you are, pretty as a picture all dressed up and ready to dance.’

  My father appears at the door of the kitchen. He’s leaning with one shoulder against the wall and one leg crossed over the other. There’s a whiskey bottle tucked under his other arm, and he looks like he might topple over at any minute.

  ‘What’s this I hear about a dance?’ he slurs, unscrewing the cap of the bottle.

  ‘You remember,’ my mother says, trying hard to st
ay calm, but I notice the twitch in her hands. ‘Mr Talbot spoke to you about it.’

  ‘That stinking old farmer said he wanted you to go to the dance.’ He points a long, shaking finger at my mother. ‘He didn’t say nothing about our Annie going,’ my father barks, suddenly sounding convincingly sober.

  A dry cough scrapes up my mother’s throat. ‘Well, Mr Talbot might have worded it badly, but I’m pretty sure he meant he wanted both of us to go. Annie and me.’

  ‘You’re pretty sure?’ My father growls, pulling himself upright. ‘You’re pretty sure of nothing.’

  He raises the bottle to his mouth, and I can hear him guzzle from across the hall. The cap slips out of his fingers and rolls along the tiles, coming to a stop just before my feet. He strides across the hall, taking giant steps. The familiar redness creeps across his forehead and cheeks and comes to a meeting point on the bridge of his nose. His temper is rattled, I know that for certain. His eyes are on the bottle top, and I wonder if he’s furious that I didn’t bend down to pick it up straight away.

  ‘Where did you get those?’ he bellows, pointing at my feet. His hot, foggy breath laced with spicy alcohol blasts into my face.

  ‘I ... I ...’ I can’t gather my words.

  ‘You, you what?’ he mimics, the redness of his face edges close to maroon. ‘Did you spend my hard-earned money on them?’

  I want to scream. I want to shout in his face and tell him that it’s my money. Money I genuinely work hard to earn by cooking and cleaning, but of course, I don’t. He’d take his temper out on me. Or worse still, my mother. And she’s so looking forward to this dance. I can’t do anything to spoil her evening.

  ‘A friend loaned them to be,’ I explain, my breath hot and heavy with fear.

  ‘You don’t have friends,’ he snaps.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, backing away slowly. ‘We’re not really friends. Her name is Bridget. We were in school together. I don’t know her anymore. Not really. But she said I need to look respectable.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with the shoes I paid for? The shoes I used my hard-earned money to put on your feet? Are those shoes not good enough for your friends?’

  I hold my breath. I rack my brain for something to say. Any answer I can think of will be wrong.

  ‘These are dancing shoes,’ my mother interjects. ‘Annie can’t dance in her good workin’ shoes. She’d ruin them with all that waltzing and quick stepping.’

  My father’s stiff neck relaxes a fraction, and I allow myself to breathe out.

  ‘Take them off,’ he orders.

  ‘But Pa.’

  ‘Now, Annie. Take that girl’s shoes off your feet right now or I will.’

  I look at my mother. The excited sparkle I’d noticed in her eyes is gone, and instead, I see the usual cloud of sadness.

  ‘Do as your father says. That’s a good girl.’ My mother keeps her voice steady, but I can sense her heartbreak. ‘Hurry now.’

  I bend down and unbuckle one shoe at a time. I slip them off, and my father snatches them out of my hand before I stand straight. He swings them over his head and throws them across the room. They crash against the far wall with a loud bang, and when I look down at them on the ground, I can see the heel on the left one has smashed clean off. Bridget’s beautiful shoes lie battered and broken on the ground, just like my soul.

  ‘Johnny, please,’ my mother begs, reaching out to stroke my father’s arm. ‘Take a moment to calm down.’

  My father’s eyes darken even more as he shrugs my mother’s hand off him as if her touch is dirty and he can’t bear to be contaminated.

  ‘This,’ he hisses through clenched teeth. ‘Where did you get this?’ He grabs a handful of my skirt and scrunches the pleats between his fingers until his knuckles turn white and shake.

  ‘Sketch Talbot bought it for me,’ I stammer. ‘He invited me to the dance. I couldn’t refuse. He’s my boss. I didn’t want to lose my job.’

  ‘Are you a good worker?’ My father tugs my skirt roughly. I stand straight and roll my shoulders back. I force my bare feet firmly onto the ground. It’s almost impossible to stay standing as he tugs over and over, but I’m determined not to let him drag me to the ground.

  ‘Yes. I work hard,’ I say. ‘You can be proud.’

  ‘Proud?’ My father snorts, letting go. ‘How could I ever be proud of something like you?’

  I swallow hard. His words roll off me as if my skin is made of wax. His vicious words have no effect. I don’t want his pride. Or his love. I don’t want anything from him except my freedom.

  ‘I work hard every day.’ I stiffen. ‘And I bring home good money. Money I give to you. Do you really want to lose that income?’

  ‘I want a daughter who knows her place. You belong to me. I am your father. I am your boss. Not that silly boy, you hear me?’

  I nod. ‘But we need the money,’ I say, my eyes dropping to the whiskey bottle that he still clutches.

  ‘We don’t need anything unless I say so.’ He raises the bottle and slugs large mouthfuls, draining the bottle completely. Amber alcohol dribbles down his chin, and he throws the empty bottle onto the ground. It bounces, but surprisingly, it doesn’t crack. He drags his arm across his lips, wiping away the dribbling whiskey with his sleeve. ‘The only thing I need right now is my supper.’

  My father has just finished a large meal. The aroma of delicious stew still wafts around the house. I know he’s not hungry; he’s just asserting himself the only way he knows how. By attempting to put a woman in her place.

  ‘Let me fix you something,’ my mother says. ‘I think there’s some stew left. I’ll heat it on the stove.’

  ‘I don’t want leftovers,’ my father growls, his eyes burning into my dress so intensely I almost believe they’ll leave scorch marks. ‘Annie says she’s a good worker. Cooking and cleaning over there on that big farm; well, let’s see her prove it. Let’s see you cook a decent meal for your real boss.’

  ‘Annie made the stew, Johnny,’ my mother lies. ‘Wasn’t it delicious? Isn’t she a good cook?’

  Pa raises his open hand into the air, and my mother ducks and closes her eyes. He can tell she’s lying. He leaves his hand in the air, hovering over her head. He smiles in satisfaction. I can see just scaring her gives him his kicks. He doesn’t need to hit her anymore to feel powerful. He will hit her again, of course. Probably later when he’s had even more to drink. But the smell of her fear is enough to pacify him for now. My father is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. He won’t lay a hand on her before the dance. The print of my father’s hand across my mother’s face would have the whole town talking, and my father won’t give the gossiping biddies the satisfaction.

  The sound of the wheels of Sketch’s car rolling in the driveway finally encourages my father to lower his hand. I breathe a sigh of relief and slip my feet into my old, tattered black shoes next to the door, wincing as the cold leather reminds me of their age. Bridget will no doubt notice I’m not wearing her brown shoes, and I’ve no idea how I’m going to explain, but right now, my only concern is getting out the door.

  I hear the door of Sketch’s car shut, and I know he’s out and walking up to the door.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Pa says as I reach for the door handle ready to open it as soon as Sketch knocks.

  ‘Sketch Talbot has kindly offered us a lift,’ my mother explains, keeping a healthy distance between her face and the span of my father’s arms. ‘It’s too long to walk.’

  Pa thinks for a moment and surprises both Ma and me when he says, ‘You’re right. And it looks like it might rain.’

  ‘It does,’ my mother trembles, visibly shocked by his answer.

  Sketch knocks on the door, and I look at my mother for approval before I open it. She smiles brightly, and my heart flutters with excitement. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I want to commit this moment to memory forever. When I open the door, the man I love will be waiting on t
he other side ready to escort me to my first dance. It’s the stuff of fairy tales.

  My father waits until Sketch knocks once and my fingers curl around the handle before he grabs the back of my hair and drags me away. My feet scarper beneath me, unable to keep up with the speed he tugs me with, and I fall backwards onto my coccyx bone. Blunt pain shoots up my spine, and I cry out.

  ‘I said I was hungry.’ My father towers over me.

  Sketch knocks again. Louder this time.

  ‘Get out.’ My father glares at my mother. ‘Get out and get that boy the hell out of here with you.’

  But Johnny,’ my mother says, tears glistening in her tired eyes. ‘It’s Annie he’s really here for.’

  ‘Are you calling me stupid?’ Pa growls, his belly rounding as it grows full of air and frustration. ‘Don’t you think I know that?’

  ‘Hello?’ Sketch shouts, knocking again.

  ‘Get. Out!’ My father’s jaw locks, and his words barely make it out between his gritted teeth.

  My mother looks at me, helpless. I try to silently let her know it’s okay. That I’ll be okay. But she needs to go. Now. The longer she waits and the more Sketch knocks, the angrier Pa will become.

  ‘But look at her, Johnny,’ my mother continues, her voice shaking as much as her body. ‘She’s all dressed up. She’s ready to dance.’

  ‘You’re right again, my love.’ Pa chuckles, and I cover my head with my hands recognising the familiar, sadistic laugh.

  He crouches on his hunkers. I try to back away, but the corner of the hall table digs into the back of my neck like a spear preventing me from backing away any farther. He stuffs his hands inside the collar of my dress and tears. I don’t put up a fight for fear he might divert his anger from ripping my dress to ripping my skin clean off my bones. The beautiful blue cotton creaks, and I hear it stretch. The comfortable dress suddenly chafes against my shoulders as my father tries desperately to rip it clean off me. But the stubborn material refuses to give in. My beautiful blue dress is standing up to my father, and I’m so ready to do the same.

  ‘Annie, are you there?’ Sketch shouts, his voice muffled as it carries through the door.