When it rains

Dad, 

She only comes out when it rains. Specifically, warm rain, the kind of gentle rain that feels like your body is running off with the water. The weather that constitutes warm rain, I have found, varies depending on the time of year, especially since living in a strange swamp/marsh combination of a climate means that it’s practically warm year-round. 

The first time I met her I was four. It barely counts as a meeting. More of a glimpse, really. I don’t remember any other details of my life from that age, which I hear is actually pretty normal. I was outside, maybe one or two weeks after we moved into the new neighborhood and the new house that had new doors and windows. Mama, who was supposed to be keeping an eye on the weather, was somewhere deep inside the house. Outside, grey skies began to tumble in like gymnasts. I was picking leaves off the ground and sorting them into different piles. I wish I could remember the classification system I used. It was maybe something about the size or the shape. Maybe the color. It had begun to rain at some point, but that was of little importance to me. 

I was trying to decide if I should run across the street to see what leaves lay on the other side. Our house was on the very edge of the neighborhood. On the other side of the street was a large, untapped forest. The further you went, I had heard you say to Mama, the more it turned into a mess of water, reeds, offshoots of streams that lead into the bay. I was thinking about your words when I saw the shape of her slipping between the trees. For a moment, I thought she was one. This large, hulking shape with branches that seemed to grow and yearn to grasp onto something. She was slow, but at the same time, she was delicate with her movements. I only found out later that she had seen me then too. I watched as she moved behind one tree, only to not reappear on the other side. With my curiosity already being piqued, this was more than enough incentive to dash across the asphalt. There was no sign of footprints in the freshly wet mud. Behind the tree where she had disappeared, there was a large yellow leaf. It looked similar to the small oak leaves I had piled up near the driveway, but this one was so much bigger. I remember holding it up and it encompassing my entire head. 

She tells me I saw her again after this, a few more times really, but those I don’t remember. I do know that the leaf remained tacked onto a corkboard in my room for years, the bright yellow color never fading. 

*

The first time I met her properly, I was twelve. 

Mama was gone, which is something I don’t want to talk about. She still called, trying to entice me to go away with her, an offer I always declined. It was after one of these calls that I ran out of the house, the door shutting soundly behind me. I didn’t care where my feet were taking me, just that they were hitting the ground harder and harder each time. I could feel the heavy raindrops hitting my skin, absorbing into my clothes. A few streets over, I saw her sitting on a branch in someone’s front yard. The branch hadn’t dipped down at all. In fact, it was like no one was sitting on it in the first place. The second my eyes found her, I was already walking up to her. 

I could see her more clearly now, but I could not see concrete details. Just this shape, though now decidedly more human-looking. The branches were still there. She didn’t say anything as I approached. As I got closer, I could tell that the darkness was moss, completely encasing whatever lay beneath it. 

I had to speak first. “You gave me a leaf,” I said. Looking back, I would have opened with something more pleasant. 

“I did,” she replied. Her voice was the sound of leaves in the wind. Quiet, wispy, but resolute. “I saw you collecting them.” 

“I still have it. It’s on my board,” I had to look up to her to talk. She sat higher up in the tree then I had realized. 

“I know. I’ve peered through the glass into your space.” This, even back then, should have scared me, but it didn’t. The way she spoke, it wasn’t invasive. She then explained that she had seen me many times, and that I had done the same. “My sunshine child, I see you more than you realize. I see you waiting for the dull, yellow vehicle that takes you away. I’ve seen you staring outside at nights looking for the stars. I’ve even seen you cry. You’ve seen me and not even realize it.”

“I don’t cry,” was all I could say in return. 

She extended a hand. It was covered in lichens and looked knobby and worn. She reached out to touch my light blonde hair, the tips of her fingers barely connecting with it. It’s faded since then, but at that time, it looked bleached instead of natural. It was also short, not even making it past the top of my ears. Her arm extended all the way from her perch in the tree down to my spot below her. 

“I don’t,” I said again.

“You have. And you will again,” she said. “What is your name?” 

I told her my name then. Her head turned and she spat it out onto the ground behind her. I looked to see a brown slug writhing in the grass. 

“That is not your name,” she said. 

I nodded as if this was a normal thing to hear. 

“You’ll tell me your name in time.” 

My stick-thin body shivered, suddenly cold in the rain. I heard the tree creak and groan, as she dropped slowly down in front of me. She was still so much taller than I was and took up so much space. 

From far off in the distance, I heard you call my name, followed by a stern-sounding, “Boy, it is four-thirty! If you don’t get back to this house in time for dinner you won’t eat!” 

She didn’t react to this call, even as I peered down the street. 

“What’s your name,” I asked. “If I see you again? That way I know what to call you.” 

For the first time, there was no movement. Her voice simply whispered out. 

. . . I wish I could remember what it was. I’ve said it since then, but i—it’s gone. Maybe that’s for the best, I don’t know, but—but I wish I did remember it. 

After that, I had to go back inside with you. The house was too empty, and that was before Brother left to be with Mama. You and I were the only ones that stayed after he was gone. I was outside more often. It was filled with so much more sounds than inside the house. You always had the TV on, but it was just white noise, endless static. Outside I could hear the birds calling, the eternal buzzing of cicadas, far-off cars. 

*

I was sixteen when it rained for two whole weeks. I had just gotten a haircut, at the behest of Mama, who said if you didn’t start controlling me better, she would take me with her. It was at this warning that you went through my room like a detective, finding and removing evidence of my subversions. The pair of heels that “my friend had left at the house,” even though one: I didn’t have any friends, and two: if I did, they would not drive all the way out to our house. You took the dresses that were hidden behind the dresser, held to the back by thumbtacks so they couldn’t be seen if one looked underneath. You took the mascara from behind a book. I know you didn’t want to. The way you picked up each item, carefully, as if not to damage it as you placed it into the trash bag that was strung on the doorknob made that clear. You asked me if there was anything else with the voice of a tide going out, retreating in on itself. I pointed to the things you had missed.

You took it to a donation center. I think I’ll always be grateful that you didn’t leave it on the curb for the garbage truck. You came back with crisp khakis, formal button-down shirts with the collars too tight, and an assortment of ties. I was meant to dress professionally, even though my school had no uniforms. 

I tried leaving that night. To go off and disappear from everyone. I should have known that she would be there at the end of the driveway the second I heard the rain hitting the roof. 

“You won’t get very far like that,” she said, though her voice lacked judgement. 

“I didn’t know it was raining,” I lied. 

“Trying to avoid me?” She tilted the uppermost part of her body sideways, a quizzical tilt of where I assumed her head was. 

“Not on purpose,” I said truthfully. 

She laughed at that. I made her laugh often. It was a talent of mine, I had decided. “We’re getting too familiar,” she said in between chuckles. 

“. . . He took everything,” I said. The laughing stopped. 

“I saw.” 

The rain didn’t feel this hard moments ago, I thought as I sat, leaning against the bumper of your truck, the cold, wet metal digging into my back. “Then you know.” 

“Know what?” She usually didn’t ask me questions. The rare times she did were to prod me to make a joke. She knew everything, usually, even when I couldn’t comprehend how. But she, for once, seemed at a loss. 

“That I—I’m not this—” I said, my hands gesturing to my now soaked body, the clothes tight against my skin, constricting my breaths, which made my voice come out shaky. “That this isn’t what I’m supposed to be.” 

The rain was hitting the pavement, pounding it into a weak submission. The yard was slowly flooding. She was quiet. I heard the rustle of branches as she came next to me and sat down. She was still larger than I was, but the distance between us had lessened. She didn’t say anything for a long time. When she did, her voice drowned out the rain. “I . . . I wish I could help you.” 

I didn’t respond. 

“The only ways I know aren’t . . . beneficial to you right now,” she continued. 

“Tell me them anyway,” I said. “Please?” 

She took a deep, wet breath. “Trees see more than they let on. Leaves can be used as eyes. The reeds that grow in the mud make nice music. Frogs like to ride on people’s shoulders, though no one ever lets them. They usually give the few who do a favor. Mosquitos take more than you know. Fish do not make for good conversationalists. Alligators remember a lot, but nothing important.”

“You’re right,” I said. “None of that is beneficial.” I wanted to laugh when I said it, but all I could do was watch the puddle grow around the mailbox. 

“It’s not a secret that I’m fond of you,” she said. “But did you ever think about why?” 

I shook my head no. My hair was now too short to get into my eyes. 

“It’s because you’re . . . you’re the only person who sees me anymore.” 

There wasn’t a single reply I could think of in response to her declaration. She seemed to recognize this, as we sat and watched the rain fall. 

“I don’t even remember your name,” I said, my voice barely audible. 

“What do you call me, then?” I could feel her eyes (wherever those were) on me. 

“Nothing, really. I’ve never told anyone about you. I just—I guess I just call you Her. Or She. ‘I want to see Her again. I wonder what She’s doing.’ That type of thing.” 

“Ah. Understandable,” she said. 

“I don’t know what to do,” I said. It was one of those thoughts that just fall out of you the moment they get made inside your head.

“About what?” 

“Anything. Nothing feels right anymore. Nothing sounds right, looks right, acts right. I mean, fuck, nothing even tastes right anymore. Everything is just this constant pinprick of—of wrong going in and out of my skin. Dad—I didn’t think he would—and Mom only texts me now; she never calls—and I think my brother is too scared to talk to me. I’m worried that if anything happens that—that the only thing that changes is I just don’t get a notification from them anymore. That all they’re reduced to is a red dot attached to an icon on my phone.” 

I go to run my fingers through my hair, an anxious tic, only to realize it’s all gone. 

“I can’t even look in a mirror without—” I try to say the next words to her, that every time I pass by a mirror, I see a stranger, but my voice cracks and I can’t continue.

“. . . I have not done this in . . . a long time,” she says, each word slow, methodical. “But I wish to make a deal with you.” 

I turn my head to look at her. Through the strands of moss and leaves and foliage, for the first time I see her eyes. Two milky-yellow orbs gaze at me. She doesn’t have pupils, I realize. The eyes seem kind. Clever. “What kind of deal?” 

“I . . . I am going to place something inside of you. Right here,” she says, bringing a hand up to the middle of her torso, where a sternum would be in a normal person. “You will always know it is there. You get four years.” 

“To do what?” 

“Whatever it is you want. All I ask is that once four years have passed, you must make a choice. You will know when the time comes.” 

I keep staring into her eyes. “What kind of choice?” 

“You will have to wait and see.” 

“What does it do? This thing you’re going to put inside me.”

She smiled, her lipless mouth stretching into a gentle smile, the dull teeth in her mouth peeking through. “Serve as a reminder.” 

I didn’t bother to think before I answered. “Yes. Whatever it is, yes.” 

“Alright. There is no reneging. You must commit.”

“I do. Completely. With everything I have.” 

“Then there is no point in waiting.” Her arms moved, one hand snaking to caress my head, the palm of her hand coming to rest at the back of my skull. The other moved to her mouth. Her jaw began descending until it touched the wet concrete, still connected by leathery skin. Her fingers moved up and down her top row of teeth until they suddenly seized one and pulled, the tooth showing no resistance. The fingers that rested on the back of my head were moving up and down, slowly stroking the remains of my hair reassuringly. “It won’t hurt.” 

The hand holding the tooth moved to my chest. It held the tooth up against the fabric of my shirt. I felt a gentle pressure, then a quick slice, just like a papercut, then nothing. I looked down to see the tooth slowly disappearing beneath my skin. There was no blood. The only difference seemed to be the slightest hole in my shirt. The tooth made its way in, and the hands retreated. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked. 

I shook my head, no. I didn’t feel any different at all. “I’ll still get to see you, right?” 

“Of course,” she said. “You’re my friend.” 

I don’t remember how long after this we sat there, or what else we discussed. I saw her every day for the rest of the two-week storm. Then, the rain left, and so did she. 

*

The four years are up, Dad. The past couple of weeks, I’ve noticed the mold, which is what I’ve come to call it, creeping further and further out, claiming more space on my body. It started right where she put the tooth. A tiny black dot. Just a freckle. It spread more and more, clusters popping up and expanding. It doesn’t hurt. No one else has noticed. I think I’m the only one who can see it, but I can’t say for sure. 

I don’t know what happens next, just that there’s a choice on the horizon. I’ve asked her for more and more details, devouring any seed of information that she gives me. She’s done this before, though she won’t say with who, or what happened to them. She gives me something every time I see her now. You’ve noticed, of course. You told me the other day that my room looks like a greenhouse. Leaves, sticks, dried out flowers, mason jars of dirt, clay, mud. 

She told me—well, more like I intuited— that I’ll probably transform into something. What this is, I don’t know. I’ve found myself eating less and less, but if that’s an effect of the deal, or just nerves . . . Who’s to say? 

“You’ll grow soon,” she said to me lately. 

I thought—or I hoped—it would be an actual choice, but that’s becoming more and more of a pipe dream. 

It’s weird to write a letter, I’ve decided. Especially when you’re sitting next to me on the couch as I scribble this down into a notebook. You just took a sip of your beer. Glanced at your phone. I’m not going to tell you what night I wrote this. Maybe you can figure it out (how often have I been writing in my notebook lately, you’ll think) but don’t worry if you can’t. It isn’t that important. 

This is going to sound strange, but my pinky toe on my left foot fell off in the shower. Not in any kind of dramatic way. I looked down, and there it was, laying on the bottom of the tub. I picked it up. The inside was black. The same color as the mold. I looked down to my foot and saw a small branch poking out. It reminded me of her, and her spoiled-milk eyes. 

The choice is probably this: take her place, or . . . blank. Still trying to figure out what the alternative is. Die? Crumble into dirt? Turn into a tree? None of these seem ideal. Not when we had just—not when we finally patched things up, you know? 

You looked at me the other day, with the spots of grey in your beard and your cracked glasses that you’re too stubborn to replace. You looked at me as I walked in the door, the hot summer sun shining on my back. It was when I wore the pink sundress, the one with the flowers that I bought back from the Goodwill four years ago. You called me beautiful. You looked at me and you— I could tell that you were looking at your daughter. Not your son. 

I’m throwing out everything in my room. If I can, I’m burning it. The sticks, the leaves, the feathers, the flowers, the moss, the small figures made of twigs bundled together, the messages written in strange symbols I don’t understand that have been carved into leaves. It’s all going into the fire. I’m just going to dump the jars of dirt out somewhere. 

I don’t go outside when it rains anymore. I looked at the forecast and it says it’ll rain tomorrow. Soft, gentle, warm rain. I’m going to see her tomorrow, and I’m going to have to make the choice, whatever it ends up being. I’m bringing the yellow leaf she gave me. The one thing safe from the flames. I’m hoping, praying that we can work out a trade of some sort. 

“You look beautiful, Anna.” 

I haven’t stopped thinking about that. 

Hopefully, I’ll come home before you get off the graveyard shift, pick up this letter from where I put it on the counter and rip it to shreds. Hopefully, the mold will be gone. Hopefully, I’ll still be here. 

But if I’m not, if the rest of my limbs fall off and I grow into a great big tree with massive branches overhead and roots that burrow into the ground, if I’m a massive tree for her to walk under, sit in the branches, leave leaves for the next child to spot her . . . If I’m going to become that, then I love you. I don’t blame you for anything. Not even for what you did. 

Anna