After Life

When It Rains

MICHAEL-JOHNSON NEWMAN (CONT'D)

The drive home was a blur. Detective Douglas had muttered something about wanting to meet again soon to ask me a few questions. That too was a blur. I can only recall the unusual, almost tearful breaks in the detective's voice when he wished us a safe journey home, and the brisk and piercing wind that howled against my face when I failed to resist a panic attack while mom's car crept along the country road.

I'm not sure how much time has passed since then but it's dark outside and I can hear mom and Francie's muffled exclamations coming from the direction of the living room. Even though my door's closed, Francie's occasional shrieks suggest she is being regaled with the events she missed because of work today. Given mom's penchant for storytelling, refined over the years through tales she'd tell me about the father I never knew, she likely has Francie's rapt attention. Here in my room with just a green, wall light on, Officer Kate has mine.

I didn't even get her full name. I don't even know who she was. Perhaps that's irrelevant though. If the impact she left – in our rather brief meeting – was one that left me convinced she had descended from the warmest of angels, then perhaps that's who she was. Perhaps that's all that matters.

My reverie is broken by raindrops cascading along the burgundy window blades directly above my bed. As the droplets land on the concrete, even tinier ones scatter to fall lightly on my face and I remain still amidst the gentle, watery caress. I've always loved night rain – it is uncomplicated and calming, but tonight's rain brings with it confounding emotions. I'm suddenly reminded of something my grandmother once told me: "If someone you know dies and it begins to rain, it means they weren't ready to go."

It would be a stretch to say I knew the bright-eyed officer, but at 25, I refuse to believe she was "ready to go". My grandmother's words echo again and I'm tempted to dismiss them as baseless fiction in an attempt to escape this unexplainable sadness, but how can I when I literally knew that today would have been a stranger's last day alive? How do I say tonight's rain is just rain when I'm seemingly cursed to keep my sanity in exchange for the secret of the burden I now carry alone? How do I dismiss my mother's tale that my father seemed to have known when he would've been killed when I specifically know when others will die? How the fuck did I survive being shot in the head twice? Why did I?

My head – it turns and I realize my pillow is damp. I'm uncertain if the blame rests on Kate's rain this time or on my own tears. Somehow, amidst my existential crisis, I had been crying. I suppose this makes me a pus–

"Mikey? Hello? Can I come in?" Francie's voice pierces through my door and startles me. She knocks for the third time, calling my name in between knocks. I quickly dry my tears, shut the window above my bed and sat up before answering.

"Francie, mi a beg yuh, please don't tell your brother dat!" Mom pleads with Francie. What mustn't I know?

"Yeah, come," I tell her.

My door slowly creaks open as though Francie is suddenly uncertain as to whether or not she should enter. Though she is hesitant, she shuffles through and flicks on the switch to her left. The green glow in my room is quickly replaced by a flood of white light from a ceiling-high fluorescent bulb, which exposes the mess I haven't found the motivation to clean for the past three weeks. As Francie wades through the makeshift obstacle course of basketballs, cones, dumbbells, books, an almost empty bottle of aspirin and an overturned laundry basket, mom shows up at the entrance of my room and stays there. She wears a look of distress as Francie settles on the edge of my bed.

"Is everything okay?" I ask, but neither mom nor Francie responds. My eyes dart between the two of them as tension seeps through the room. Here, amidst anxiously drawn breaths, only the sound of raindrops pounding against my zinc roof fills the room for a while, until Francie spoke. She shuffles closer to hold my hand as she does.