Following Rain

by Darrel Nelson

  Paul attempted to turn around again, grimacing at the pain, but one of the paramedic’s back was to him and blocked his view. He strained to pick up the conversation and did his best to ignore his nerves that were slowly twisting into a coil of painful knots. The throbbing in his head intensified and everything went blurry as though a translucent curtain was being drawn in front of his eyes.

  After what seemed an eternity, he heard the worst words of his life.

  “We lost her. She’s gone.”

  A cry rose from deep within him and, at the same instant, a bolt of pain shot through his head. A gallery of images began flashing in front of his eyes—vignettes of memories that clung to the edges of his consciousness.

  He saw Rain sitting at her desk, her large, brown eyes focused on the computer screen while she ignored his attempts to flirt with her . . . the kindness in her smile when she interacted with the guests . . . her startled expression when she made faces at little Jayden while washing windows and discovered Paul watching her.

  The images stirred as if moved by a breath of wind.

  He saw her relaxed expression the day they went sailing . . . her eyes reflecting the candlelight’s glow when he took her to the restaurant . . . her excitement when Super Saturday was able to be held indoors and turned out to be a big success . . . the beauty in her face when he kissed her at the celebratory dinner . . . her courage and compassion in caring for Charlie.

  Charlie! Paul suddenly thought. What will become of him now?

  The images began to flutter violently as though in restless anticipation of an impending storm.

  A chill crept over him, and the blood seemed to congeal in his veins. He felt lightheaded and dizzy, and in that instant he saw a final image of Rain. A Mona Lisa smile graced the corners of her mouth as he knelt beside her in the sand, pleading with her to live. Then the smile faded and the storm arrived and the images scattered like fallen leaves in the wind.

  He descended to a place he’d never been before and his thoughts became dark and chaotic. He momentarily considered flinging himself from the ambulance and being reunited with Rain in death. But that was craziness and he knew it. He shook his head in an effort to clear his brain and restore sanity. He had to live—live for his parents and for everyone at the station and for the citizens of Seattle who counted on him to bring them the latest news.

  The latest news!

  Tears filled his eyes when he thought of how professionally and yet how routinely it would be reported.

  A woman was shot to death this evening at Olympic Sculpture Park.

  The reporter’s voice wouldn’t quiver.

  Dead is Raina Leanne McKenzie, twenty-five years of age.

  The details would be explained concisely and dispassionately.

  She was attacked and shot by members of the Crings, a gang that is becoming increasingly active in the Seattle area. They are . . .

  From there, the news would branch off into a report on gang violence, and how Rain’s murder was the fourteenth related death this year. Then it would discuss what measures the police were taking to restore public confidence. Statistics would be bandied about, and the report would end on a note of optimism to reassure the good citizens of Seattle that their tax dollars were being well spent to keep their city safe and secure.

  At least that’s how Paul would have reported it . . . before he met Rain.

  Now things had changed. His world had changed. But that’s not what would come across on the evening news. The report of Rain’s death would be a stepping-stone to the larger story. A springboard to catapult the issue of gang violence into the public eye and raise awareness across America.

  For the first time in his life, he understood what it felt like to be the news rather than the voice of the news. Suddenly his veneer of slick professionalism peeled away, and the reality of his loss pierced his exposed heart. Slumping forward, he buried his face in his hands and wept.

  CHAPTER 39

  Paul returned to work a week later.

  A few bruises were still visible on his face, but the swelling was gone from around his eyes. His ribs hurt now only when he coughed or sneezed, and the headaches were manageable. The doctor’s diagnosis indicated a concussion, and he recommended Paul take three weeks off work. But Paul found it impossible to sit around his apartment. He needed to keep busy so he didn’t go stir crazy.

  His parents had invited him to come and stay with them. Rosalie, the housekeeper, could help wait on him, they said, and he wouldn’t have to lift a finger. But Paul politely declined because he had been independent for too long now.

  “The world keeps turning, Mom,” he had said to her when his parents visited him in his apartment, “and that means there’s still news in the making. My job is to investigate and report it. That’s what I do.”

  Only now, he was going to do it differently. More empathetically.

  He had just experienced the news on the deepest personal level possible and discovered how it transcended mere facts and figures. Statistics floated on the surface, bobbing along in the tide, waiting to be snagged and used to garnish information. But he had descended below its depths and experienced firsthand how statistics could never adequately portray the humanity behind the story. Facts couldn’t capture people’s thoughts and feelings, their goals and dreams, their hopes and aspirations. Nor could figures capture how people impacted the lives of others with their unique talents and gifts. And no amount of details could reconcile personal loss.

  Yes, he was going to do things differently and be a better investigative reporter.

  When he walked into the station his first day back, Grunge was there to meet him. Grunge led the way to Paul’s cubicle and made sure Paul was comfortable. “Can I get you a coffee or anything?” he asked.

  Paul nodded appreciatively. “Sure. Thanks.”

  Grunge brought him the coffee and then fussed over him for a while before leaving on an assignment. Others dropped by to welcome him back, and he appreciated their thoughtfulness. He was surprised by the visits of a few staff members whom he didn’t think liked him. The realization that petty differences and grievances could be set aside was comforting, almost healing.

  When everyone returned to their duties, Paul sat back in his chair and glanced around the cubicle. His eyes fell on his framed award and he frowned. If it represented his biggest accomplishment, why had it now lost some of its luster?

  The breaking news had always been the thing, and he had spent his entire career pursuing it. He followed leads no matter the time of day or night in a desperate bid to beat the other stations to the story. He reveled in his successes and brooded over his failures, but he always had his ticket ready and waiting for the next train to Newsville.

  He scowled as he considered that in his bid to catch that train, he had done his fair share of elbowing his way to the front of the line. He had even stepped on others when necessity required it in order to board. At the time it had seemed worth it. But now . . .

  Susan Townsend stepped into his cubicle just then, interrupting his thoughts. Her expression was solemn and she said, “Paul, I’m really sorry about everything. If you need to take a few more days, it’s okay.”

  Paul looked at her in surprise. There was genuine concern in her voice and it touched him.

  “No, I’m fine. I just needed to get back to work. To try and get on with things . . .”

  “I understand completely.” She looked at him for a moment. “There is an assignment that I was going to give Jennifer Wheelan, but now that you’re back, I think you should handle it, if you’re up for it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Welcoming Hands is holding an open house on Saturday. They want to show the public their newly renovated facility. We’ve been invited to attend. Interested?”

  Paul shifted gingerly in his chair and smiled. “I’d like that.”

  “You’ll have come full circle. You did the original promo and were instrumental in seeing the fundra
iser through to a successful conclusion. It’s only fitting that you be there for the open house.”

  “Do I get Grunge?”

  “Yes, you get . . . Grunge.”

  Susan didn’t do nicknames but she made an exception this time, Paul noted.

  “It’s only right that he be there, too,” she added.

  After she left, Paul considered what she said about his visit to the open house bringing him full circle. It was going to be difficult to go back, knowing that Rain wasn’t there. But he wanted—no, needed—to do it. Rain had worked too hard and sacrificed too much for him to decline the chance to honor her efforts. Her name would forever be linked to Welcoming Hands. As long as its doors remained open to the homeless, it would stand as a testament to her courage and conviction. And he was going to do all within his power to see that they stayed open for a long, long time.

  * * * * *

  Welcoming Hands practically glistened. The staff and the guests had spent all week, dusting and polishing. By Saturday the facility was ready for the open house.

  As he and Grunge arrived to set up, Paul experienced a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He almost couldn’t bring himself to look at the secretary’s desk in the outer office, knowing that Rain would not be seated behind it. Memories of her were evident everywhere. But he steeled himself and waved Grunge off when his friend looked at him in concern and asked, “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Let’s do this,” Paul replied determinedly.

  Maria greeted both men and embraced them in turn. She peered up into Paul’s face, empathy and deep concern evident in her expression. “It’s so good to see you again. How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay,” Paul replied, smiling at her reassuringly. “Thanks to good friends like you.”

  He wished he could be more articulate in expressing his feelings, but they were too complicated to explain. Although he was used to plumbing the depths and scaling the heights of issues and exposing them for what they were, some things were simply beyond his power of expression.

  Maria was taking care of Charlie for the moment, since no living relatives could be located. She took him to and from work with her each day and assumed responsibility for him. Paul had offered to let Charlie stay with him in his apartment, but Maria said that Charlie was already like a member of the family and her children loved him. Her example touched Paul deeply and made him all the more determined that the homeless shelter would never again want for financial support.

  “You’ve been through so much,” Maria said sympathetically. “It’s just so nice to have you here again.” She looked longingly at the empty secretarial desk and then put on a brave smile. “Do you need anything before the tours begin?”

  Paul motioned toward Grunge. “Stan the Cameraman will get set up and we’ll be good to go.”

  Grunge grumbled good-naturedly in response.

  “Wonderful,” Maria said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got one or two things left to do.” She hugged Paul again and then hurried away.

  While Grunge got ready, Paul ambled over to the new couches that faced the large flat screen TV. He had intended to bring a bag of candy for the children but was informed that no one would be sitting around idly watching TV programs today. The children had been taken on a fieldtrip, and the guests who remained were busy with purpose.

  He smiled wistfully as he remembered Rain giving him the bag of candy to hand out during his first visit to the shelter. His smile widened as he thought of Jayden asking for an extra piece of candy for his wooden horse—the same figure that now sat on the corner of Paul’s desk. How he wished he could see the little boy again and know that everything was going to be okay.

  Sighing, he turned to leave when a cough drew his attention. He’d been so caught up in the moment that he’d failed to notice Harold sitting in his accustomed place in the opposite corner of the room. Only now his accustomed place looked different. Instead of a single chair like he’d had before, a workbench had been built in the shape of an L, forming a mini workshop. A variety of gleaming tools sat on the counter. Three rows of shelves were mounted on the wall behind and featured his carvings. A nearby door opened into a closet, which contained a generous supply of quality wood. The entire setup was a woodcarver’s delight and was the result of the money Stan had contributed to match the funds raised in Harold’s behalf.

  Despite the heartwarming feature on Harold the Woodcarver that Paul had presented, there were no calls from people claiming they knew him and no invitations offering him a home. But that was just the way Harold wanted it. He had his mission in life—making wooden figures for homeless children—and he was content.

  “Looks like you’ve been busy,” Paul said, smiling as he approached him.

  “I have been.” Harold beamed and gestured toward the figures on the shelves. “These are for sale today, but let me give you one. As a gift.”

  Paul considered the offer. “May I request a custom order?”

  “What would you like?”

  Scanning the figures on the shelf once more, Paul replied, “A sailboat.”

  Harold looked at him in surprise. “A sailboat? I usually make . . . animals.”

  “I know, but it’s for someone special.”

  Screwing up his face as though weighing a matter of great consequence, Harold finally nodded. “Sure. I can do it.”

  “Great.” Paul pulled a pen and piece of paper from his pocket and drew a quick sketch. “Can you make it look something like this?”

  Harold studied the paper and nodded again.

  “And here’s the name I’d like you to carve on it.”

  Scratching his chin, Harold said, “When would you need the sailboat done by?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Then I better get cracking.” Harold went to the closet and rummaged around for a moment, returning with a reddish-colored block of wood. “I’ll use cedar for the body. You haven’t given me much time so it won’t be very fancy.”

  “It’ll be great because you made it.”

  Harold grinned in response.

  A group of well-dressed people entered the building just then. Paul recognized several civic dignitaries and public officials. He left Harold busily at work and went back to the office. Grunge indicated that everything was ready, and they joined the VIP tour that Maria was organizing.

  As it got underway, Paul listened to the presentation and thought of the private tour Rain had taken him on. He could hear her voice all over again, and he mourned her absence. He remembered the quiet conviction in her eyes as she explained the shelter’s needs. Her intensity and commitment had intrigued him. So had her compassion. He was impressed by the way she interacted with the guests—there was no condescension in her manner. She was knowledgeable, and yet it was what she didn’t say that impressed him the most. She didn’t divulge personal details about the guests. She was respectful and considerate, and although he had subtly tried to wrest more information from her, she saw right through him. And as he got to know her better in the weeks that followed, he grew to respect her . . . and then to love her. She was beautiful, both inside and out.

  He struggled with the memories, but by the time they reached the kitchen—the last leg of the tour—Paul had things under control. He smiled when he saw Charlie among the kitchen staff who were there to show off the new appliances. Charlie waved to Grunge and to him but otherwise remained focused. Maria had carefully prepared Charlie for this part of the tour and he appeared ready. He wore a pair of black pants and a short-sleeved cotton shirt that Paul had purchased for him, and Charlie was well-groomed for the occasion. When it was his turn to address the group, Charlie aptly explained the dishwashing system and demonstrated the powerful new sprayer and dishwasher. He waved to Paul and Grunge as the tour members filed out of the kitchen, and Paul gave him a thumbs-up.

  Maria led the group into the dining area for coffee and donuts. Now fully back to form, Paul cornered several civic lead
ers and tried to pin them down regarding a pledge of support for future funding. But they weren’t willing to commit, causing him to shake his head. Politics would always remain . . . politics.

  He and Grunge got the footage they wanted and prepared to leave.

  Maria approached them and said, “I just want to thank you both again for coming. We owe you such a big debt of gratitude.” She gestured toward the interior of the shelter. “Look what you helped accomplish. It’s a modern-day miracle. Lives have been changed and conditions improved, and how can we ever measure the results of that? There’s no scientific equipment on earth that can calculate the good that’s been done here.”

  Paul embraced her warmly. “A miracle has occurred,” he acknowledged.

  He wasn’t thinking of the homeless shelter or the part he had played in the fundraiser, however. Miracles came in various shapes and sizes. The big ones tended to grab the headlines. The smaller ones were just as significant but were usually hidden in the fine print of a person’s life story. As a result, they were often taken for granted or overlooked altogether, lost in the details. But each detail was precious; each one was part of the miracle. And for him, the greatest miracle of all was meeting Rain McKenzie and forever being changed by the grace of her life.

  CHAPTER 40

  Clutching the gift-wrapped box under his arm, Paul made his way down the long hallway. People were busy coming and going and only a few glanced at him. A woman suddenly emerged from one of the rooms and Paul had to sidestep her. “Sorry,” she replied mechanically as she made her way in the opposite direction. A voice came over the intercom just then and echoed down the hallway, paging someone to the front desk. Moments later a man in a white coat appeared out of nowhere and rushed past Paul.

  People were clustered in a waiting area nearby, and as Paul walked by he noticed several people with their heads bowed. Some appeared weary as though they’d put in an all-nighter, and others were casually reading magazines. A woman glanced at him and a look of recognition crossed her face. But before Paul could smile at her, she dropped her gaze as if she had been caught staring.