Before I visited the city, I had no idea that some people like the rain. Where I’m from, pitter patter doesn’t put us to sleep, it makes the hair on our arms stand up. It makes us draw the blankets up around our heads if we’re in bed. Where I’m from, you don’t drift off to sleep to the sound of rain falling on your roof, and you don’t wake up thankful for a lazy day. Rain wakes you up in the middle of the night and leaves you praying that your friends have made it home. Because where I’m from, it doesn’t rain.
I remember my mom and grandmother arguing when I was about 5 years old. That’s my first memory of The Rain.
“He’s too young to know about something like that, Mom.”
“There’s no such thing as too young here, Melintha. How can you forgive yourself if your son doesn’t know when he starts getting adventurous?”
Mom sighed, and from the side of the wall where I was hiding, I heard her hit the counter.
“You don’t have to terrorize him, but you can’t hide this from him either,” my grandmother continued. “You’re right, there are details a little boy shouldn’t know, but danger? We can never withhold the truth about danger from a child. That’s the fastest way to disaster. Do you remember what my mother used to say?”
“Only fools take ignorance as a friend,” Mom sighed. “Fine, I guess I can tell him the basics. I-I just don’t want to smother his innocence.”
“Ah, Melintha,” my grandmother said with a sigh before pausing for several moments. When she started again, her voice was muffled. “I know that you’re trying to be a good mom. But your own husband was taken from you! Are you willing to let your indecision take your son too?”
I don’t remember much after they mentioned my dad. According to Mom, he’d disappeared when I was three, so I didn’t know much about him but I still felt strange whenever he came up in conversation.
What I do remember is that the next day, my mom and grandma sat me down for a conversation. They looked grim, and Mom looked a bit sick, but she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. Instead, she started to tell me a story.
“Cole, you love going outside, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, your grandma wants me to talk to you about our town and about being, well, outside. Do you know how I always tell you that you can’t go outside when it rains?”
I nodded again. It always seemed really unfair. If I could take a shower and a bath or swim in the creek that ran through town, playing in the rain seemed perfectly normal. But mom and grandma were always adamant. If I was outside when it started raining, they would snatch me up and run back in with their arms over my head. Grandma always told me that I’d get sick. Mom never answered when I asked if that were true. I’d never believed her, but I was five. There wasn’t much that I could do about it.
“Well baby, the rain is dangerous,” she started before trailing off and staring out the window.
I followed her gaze and saw the towering pine trees that surrounded and filled our town swaying in the wind. Mom glanced at Grandma, but Grandma nodded towards me as if to tell her to continue.
“The rain is dangerous,” Mom started again, turning her attention back to me. “I-I don’t really know how to explain,” she said, looking at Grandma for help.
Grandma sighed and leaned toward me. “What your mother is trying to say is that people get hurt when it rains. People who are outside in the town or off in the woods don’t always come back.”
“You mean they get lost?” I asked, confused.
“No,” she said. “They don’t come back. We don’t know what happens to them.” She sat back and took a deep breath. “Do you remember your father? He was in the forest when it started raining. We never saw him again.”
“Did he know that the rain was dangerous?” I asked.
“Oh yes, but he was at work in the mine. In fact, he was probably coming home when the rain started. That’s why it’s very important for you to understand that when you’re playing outside, you have to come in immediately if it starts to rain. No playing, no lollygagging. You have to come inside.”
I was a child, so I took their warning seriously. But when it started raining about an hour after our talk, I was curious. I’d been hit by a few drops of rain before and they hadn’t hurt me. So, while Mom and Grandma cooked, I snuck over to the window and watched to see if anyone else was outside. The dirt roads were deserted. Not even the neighbor’s teenage sons, who I thought were the bravest and coolest guys in the world, were outside. The only movement was the thick drops of water crashing to the ground combined with the whipping and thrashing of the trees as they danced with the wind.
“Cole what are you doing?” my mother’s panicked voice burst from the kitchen a few minutes into watching their hypnotic show. I felt her strong hands rip me away from the window and carry me into the shadowy kitchen. “Did you forget the conversation we just had?”
“You told me I couldn’t go outside!” I protested. “You didn’t say that I couldn’t look out the window!”
“No looking out the window when it rains either. They-” She stopped and looked behind her. “Just don’t look out the window when it rains. Please.” She sped back to the kitchen, but her voice stayed with me, burrowing itself through my ears and down into my stomach.
The rest of the night was quiet—just the gentle snare beats that large globs of rain make when they hit a tin roof. After dinner, Grandma took an old paperback down from a shelf in the living room and read to us while Mom cleaned. But Mom stayed tight. Every few minutes, she glanced toward the front door before snatching her eyes away and renewing her efforts to scrub through the bottom of our one soup pot. Before I knew it, I was in someone’s arms being carried far away. But I never forgot Mom’s face, and I never intentionally let a drop of rain hit me again, especially after what followed.
The town bell woke me up to a sunny, muddy morning. I was sliding off the bed with dreams of stomping around outside when my mom’s sad face appeared in the doorway, interrupting my plans. The bell meant we all had to gather in front of the courthouse.
I put on my clothes and together, the three of us walked the muddy path to the center of town, about a mile away. Grandma hated the walk, because it was hard on her knees, but this day was especially bad. The rain always left deep, gooey mud holes that were sometimes hard to see. She had to walk slowly and carefully to avoid stepping in one and twisting her knees or ankles.
Courthouse meetings weren’t common, but when they happened everyone showed up. By the time we got there, hundreds of other people were standing shoulder-to-shoulder. A few minutes later, the crowd went silent as the mayor’s voice floated over their heads. I don’t remember much of what he said, but I do remember his question.
“Aubrey Adams and Tommothy Knoll, are y’all here?”
No one answered. Eventually, I saw people start shifting from foot to foot. Near the front of the crowd, I heard muffled sobbing.
“Aubrey and Tom? If y’all are here, please come forward,” the mayor tried again. When there still wasn’t a response, he dismissed us all with a sad voice, “Alright then. Go on home, everyone.”
The crowd broke, and when I looked at my mom to ask what was going on, she was crying. My grandmother was stone-faced, staring at the ground.
Years later, I learned that Aubrey was my 16-year old cousin from the other side of the village. Her mom and my mom had been inseparable growing up, and Mom had been really fond of Aubrey. Tomothy was her boyfriend. Everyone’s best guess is that they had snuck out to meet up and gotten caught in the rain. By the time the drops started coming down, they must have been too far from home, and no one ever saw them again. Not alive anyway.