Underwater(27)

“Let’s go find some puddles,” he said. I knew I was in for a good time.

We walked around the neighborhood, splashing through the water. I jumped from a curb to make the biggest splat I could. He clapped for me when I leapt off a picnic table in the park and landed in a muddy puddle that bounced up and left dirty remnants on my sweatpants and his jacket. He showed me how to make bigger splashes by hitting the heel of my boot just right. We laughed and splashed and held hands through the puddles in the park as my braids dripped over my shoulders. We walked down the street, past the cars driving by with their headlights on in the middle of the day.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

Whip, whip, whip.

“Fun can be free,” my dad told me, squeezing my soggy hand. “And water is water no matter where you find it.”

When we came home, drenched and laughing, my mom stuck me right into a warm bath while my dad made hot chocolate with more mini marshmallows than my mom would ever allow in one sitting. Once I was dry and bundled up, my dad and I sat on the couch, listened to the rain, and drank hot chocolate in our slippers. My legs weren’t even long enough for my toes to hit the floor.

“I love the rain,” I announced, swinging my feet back and forth.

“Me too,” he said through a sip of hot chocolate, his words echoing in the almost empty mug. “We are people who love the rain.”

It was official. That would be our thing. We would be rain people. My dad and I.

But now I hate the rain.

Because it is too loud with memories of October fifteenth.

Which is why I pace the floors of my apartment today.

I wonder if I need an emergency pill.

I stand in front of my list.

I do the things it says.

I breathe.

I think of good things.

I tell myself I’m okay. You are not dying.

I count down the minutes until Brenda gets here.

*

By the time Brenda knocks on the door, the rain has stopped. I open up right away. She stands on my welcome mat in rubber motorcycle boots and a matching biker jacket. Only she would have rain gear like that. Outside, the ground is still damp. There are a few puddles in the courtyard. But the sun is out and it’s trying really hard to make things bright and cheerful.

Brenda steps back from the door. She gestures to the stairs. “Shall we?”

She takes the first step. I know I have to go farther than before. I made it to the top of the stairs on Tuesday. I nod my head. I take a step.

The first step down feels like I’m jumping out of an airplane. It’s a descent that makes my heart pound. I want my parachute to open with that jerky motion that’ll pull me back up for a second. Only a tiny tug and I could be by my front door again.

Brenda’s boots smack the fourth step and then the fifth one. She doesn’t turn around. She just expects me to be right behind her.

She has faith in me.

I try really hard, but I only make it a few more steps. Everything is spinning. My toes tingle. My fingertips prickle. I have to hold on to the railing to steady myself. I grip it, actually. I grip it so tightly that my fingernails dig into the rotting wood of its underside.

I make it halfway down.

I stop.

I sit.

Brenda turns to me and I shake my head. That’s it. That’s all I can do. She walks back up a few steps and settles down next to me. She pats my knee. She’s letting me know I did okay.

The stairs are still damp, and the wetness slowly seeps into the back of my jeans. I don’t care. It reminds me I’m outside. It reminds me I did this.

“It was raining the day that everything happened.” I start talking because I want to say something even though Brenda didn’t ask me to.

“You’ve mentioned that before. Does it bother you?”

“Maybe things would’ve been different if it hadn’t been raining.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have.” That’s half the story. It’s the part that’s a lie. I shake my head to clear it. “It’s silly.”

“Nothing is silly if you think it matters.”

I nod my head, but I know I won’t tell her anything more than that today. I started. But I had to stop.

We sit on the stairs.

We do the visualization stuff we talked about. In my mind, I’ve watched Ben’s entire play, given a standing ovation, and returned home again. In reality, I’m still sitting on the stairs in front of my apartment.

When we’re done pretending I’ve gone to Ben’s play, we talk about letters and to whom I could write them.

“How about your dad?” Brenda asks.

I think of my grandma calling my mom last night and how tired it made her. “What’s the point?”

“As I’ve told you before, it might be a useful exercise.”

“I’d rather not try it.”

She nods. “I understand how you might feel that way. But you should.”

“Why? What makes you such an expert?”

She looks at me. I look at her. Her mouth quirks. She holds her hand out to shake my hand.

“I’m Dr. Brenda Gwynn. Have we met?”

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I forgot you were an expert.”

“It’s okay.” She tosses her dreadlocks over her shoulder and they thump against her back. “And I might be an expert in more ways than you realize when it comes to this particular thing, so will you listen to what I have to say?”