Chapter 3: Memories of Rain and Separation

If I didn't bring an umbrella and it rained hard,

I'd have to race the clouds, sneakers slapping through puddles, soaked to the bone by the time I reached my porch. My backpack would drip a river onto the worn floorboards.

Other kids had parents to pick them up, but I had to run home in the rain.

I'd watch the line of SUVs and minivans at the school curb, parents waving, windows down, music playing, arms outstretched with dry towels and snacks. I ran past them, invisible, my teeth chattering by the time I got inside.

The firewood would get soaked and wouldn't light, so I'd have to soak Top Ramen from the dollar store in cold water, eat some pickles, and get by like that for days.

The house would be cold, the power sometimes flickering. I'd huddle in my jacket, slurping soggy noodles, pretending the brine from the pickles was soup.

At night, white lightning would split the darkness outside the window.

Thunder rolled down from the hills, making the windows rattle. I hugged my knees, counting the seconds between flash and boom.

Other kids could hide in their parents' arms.

I imagined what it would be like to be held, to have someone stroke my hair and whisper that it was just a storm, nothing more.

But I could only wrap myself in the old quilt, layer after layer.

Sometimes I'd build a pillow fort, stacking every blanket I owned, tucking my feet under and wishing for morning.

The worst were winter nights.

The cold crept in through the thin walls, biting at my toes, freezing my fingers. I'd blow into my hands, trying to warm them, but the heat never lasted.

My feet were cold all night.

The quilt was stiff and heavy.

It pressed on my chest like a brick, giving me endless nightmares.

Sometimes I'd wake up gasping, my heart racing, sweat freezing on my skin. I dreamed of monsters and parents who never came home.

Every time I smelled wood smoke, I remembered that first night alone.

I dreamed of the day my parents divorced. It was pouring rain.

The sky was gunmetal gray, the kind of rain that turns dirt roads to rivers. I watched through the fogged window, my backpack in hand, as the world changed for good.

Uncle Mike drove his old pickup to pick up Mom.

The truck rattled into the driveway, exhaust pipe sputtering. Uncle Mike's beard was thick and untrimmed, his eyes tired.

I clung to the side of the truck, crying hard.

Rain soaked my shirt, clung to my skin. I begged her not to go, my hands white-knuckled on the door handle.

Mom was crying, too.

Her makeup streaked down her face, hair matted to her cheeks. She wouldn't look at me, her voice cracking.

Uncle Mike rubbed his temples. "Come on, Jen, don’t make this harder than it already is."

He looked uncomfortable, glancing back at the house, his boots squelching in the mud.

"If your mom takes you, you'll be a burden. It will be hard for her to get remarried."

I was stunned for just two seconds. Mom pried my hands off and pushed me to the ground.

I landed in the mud, knees stinging. I stared up at her, eyes wide, searching for something—remorse, love, anything.

She cried and said, "Jenny, don't blame Mom. Blame your dad for being useless."

Her words were bitter, aimed at him, but the arrow hit me. The rain washed her tears away, but I would remember them forever.

I also dreamed of the day Dad carried a big duffel and left for work down south.

The bag was patched with duct tape. He hoisted it on one shoulder, face set, not meeting my eyes.

I ran after him, fell several times, and kept getting up.

The gravel scraped my knees and palms, blood mixing with dirt. I chased his boots down the cracked driveway.

My hands were scraped, gravel and dirt mixed with blood, covering my palms.

I asked, "Dad, what will I do when you're gone?"

He was impatient: "I've left bread, canned beans, and peanut butter at home. Can you still starve?"

His words were sharp, meant to sting. He barely looked back at me, his voice echoing off the mailbox.

"If I don't make money, what will you eat and drink?"

"Blame your mom. She's colder than ice—she doesn't even want her own daughter."

I kept crying behind him.

He slapped me across the face.

The sound rang out, hot and humiliating. I tasted blood, my cheeks burning with shame.

"Stop crying! I'm going far away and you keep bawling—do you want me to die out there?"

The words haunted me for years. Sometimes I believed them, like my sorrow could bring disaster.

When I woke up, my pillow was wet.

I shouldn't cry.

The weather had been gloomy lately, so the pillow wouldn't dry.

It was damp, making it even harder to sleep.

Kids adapt quickly.

They say children are resilient, but sometimes that just means you learn to hurt quietly, without showing it.

Gradually, I got used to it.

I stopped burning the food, stopped catching colds from bathing in cold water, stopped crying when I got hurt, and could sleep in a cold bed.

I went to school alone every day, went home alone, ate alone, slept alone.

I stood alone on the high hilltop, watching every house bustling with life.

Sometimes I’d imagine the glow from each window was a little sun, keeping someone else warm. I’d press my forehead to the glass, pretending I was inside with them.

I thought, I had learned to endure hardship and loneliness.

Just like Dad said, I wouldn't die.

Time quickly reached late December.

Mom called Brady's house to find me.

She sounded very happy: "Jenny, Mom is getting married on the 22nd. Your uncle will bring you over then."

Her voice was light, almost giddy, like she’d won the lottery. I tried to match her excitement, my heart pounding with hope.

She instructed, "If guests ask, just say you're your uncle's daughter."

I hurriedly asked, "Then can I live with you in the future?"