House of Rain

by Greg F. Gifune

  Hiding…

  Still breathing heavily, Gordon looks back over his shoulder at the section of corridor from which he came. More shadows…moving…gliding…spiraling like dark tendrils of smoke. His knees tremble. Is there something there, just beyond the edges of dull light at the far end of the hallway?

  “Gordon…”

  He wipes rain from his face and squints, but his eyes aren’t what they used to be, and he can’t make out much of anything. Because there’s nothing there, he assures himself, nothing there to see.

  But he’s not so sure.

  Gordon hears someone talking on the other side of the door. It distracts him just enough to draw him back. He does his best to focus on that instead. Still, he checks over his shoulder one last time, unable to shake the feeling that something is coming, creeping down that corridor, slithering closer each time he looks away. A chill tickles his neck, sending a shiver through his entire body.

  Trading one fear for another, he pushes open the door and steps into the meeting room.

  Laughter…horrible mocking laughter…

  What have I done?

  And the blood, as if in answer, the horrible sound of a lifeless body collapsing and slapping against the floor with sickening force…

  You lied to me you lied to me you lied to me you—

  “Of course…”

  This isn’t real!

  “Is the blood real? Is your pain?”

  You. Are. Not. Real. I didn’t do this. Thoughts—they were only thoughts I—

  “But I can hear your thoughts. Even now, I can hear your pathetic, whimpering little thoughts, your attempts to explain it even to yourself in the hopes that maybe—just maybe—you can set yourself free. But there is no freedom for you. There is only slavery. Your slavery…”

  “Gordon?”

  Nightmares recede, give way to a large open area with a circle of old metal folding chairs in the center. A converted teachers’ lounge, along the left-hand wall are some cabinets, a sink, a counter outfitted with a coffee machine, a stack of Styrofoam cups, plastic spoons, a sugar dispenser and some napkins, and a refrigerator, while the back wall consists almost entirely of large rectangular windows of wire-encased glass. Amaya Adams rises from her chair and starts across the room toward him, the heels of her pumps clicking along the tile floor. Her short dark hair, exotic beauty and petite figure harness Gordon’s attention immediately. In a blue, pinstripe skirt-suit, at first glance she looks more like a corporate executive than the psychologist he knows her to be.

  “Gordon,” she says again, her voice smooth and pleasant, “I’m so glad you could join us today. As you can see we have a smaller turnout than usual, likely due to the storm, but please, come and join us.” When she is closer, she speaks to him again, this time more quietly. “Are you all right? The way you came into the room, you seem a little…troubled.”

  “I’m fine,” he tells her, forcing a quick smile.

  She smiles back. Hers is wider, brighter. “Come in then, join us.”

  As he follows her across the room, Gordon realizes only three of the chairs are occupied, rather than the usual ten. He recognizes the three group members from his previous times here, but can only recall one of their names—Wayne—the youngest of the group, a red-haired man in his thirties. Gordon only remembers this because Wayne often refers to himself in the third person and because Gordon finds him relentlessly annoying.

  “You all remember Gordon,” Amaya says cheerily, motioning to the others. “And Gordon, you remember Wayne, Jerry and Robert.”

  Jerry and Robert. Right.

  “What’s up?” Wayne says. Tall, in relatively good shape and dressed in his usual sweat suit and sneakers combo, he reminds Gordon of a gym teacher or a coach of some kind. “Believe that rain?”

  “Hi Gordon,” Jerry says. An overweight man in his sixties, he has a penchant for flowered shirts and sandals with socks. His wavy salt-and-pepper hair is quite disheveled, he could use a shave, and his smile reveals crooked, unkempt teeth.

  Robert, an African-American man a bit older than Gordon, gives a less-than-enthusiastic wave but says nothing. Bald, with a neatly trimmed mustache and thick glasses, he is dressed casually but impeccably, and seems somewhat dismayed by the interruption.

  Gordon nods to each in turn, then removes his hat and coat and drops into the chair farthest from everyone. He looks back at the door. It remains closed.

  “Robert was just sharing a story,” Amaya explains, returning to her seat. “Why don’t you go ahead, Robert?”

  “I was talking about the evening hours,” he says, looking at Gordon, “and how difficult they are for me. The evenings are so empty without her. It’s when I feel the most alone.”

  Gordon nods but offers no reply.

  “Are your evenings generally quiet, Robert?” Amaya asks.

  “My entire life is quiet,” he answers. “So quiet it’s deafening sometimes.”

  “That doesn’t even make any sense,” Wayne says, but he laughs lightly when he says it. “How can it—”

  “I didn’t mean it literally,” Robert tells him crossly. “For God’s sake.”

  “Saw-ree.” Wayne looks at the others and jerks a thumb at Robert. “Mr. Poetry Man over here. What-evs!”

  “Let’s do our best not to be critical,” Amaya interjects.

  Jerry leans closer and gives Robert a pat on the shoulder. “I know what you mean, Robert. It gets so quiet in my apartment sometimes I don’t even know what to do with myself.”

  “Sometimes I put the television on,” Robert says, “but there’s never anything I want to see. I don’t care for that reality foolishness.”

  “I don’t watch TV,” Jerry says, “haven’t owned one in years.”

  “No TV?” Wayne shakes his head in disbelief. “That’s crazy, dude.”

  “Mira and I always preferred board games, listening to our records or curling up with a good book.”

  “Do you still do those things?” Amaya asks.

  “No.” He sighs heavily. “These days I go down to the deli instead, get a sandwich and a nice pickle on the side, maybe some soup.”

  “And do you find that helps?”

  “Nothing helps.” His eyes fill with tears. “Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat.

  Amaya retrieves a box of tissues from the floor and offers them to him. “It’s perfectly fine for you to feel these emotions right now, so go ahead and give yourself permission to experience them.”

  Wayne suddenly pipes in. “For Wayne, it’s mornings that suck the worst.”

  Amaya turns to him. “Why are mornings in particular so difficult, Wayne?”

  “There’s always a couple seconds where I’m all like—maybe it was a dream or some shit—but then I know it’s not, and she’s still gone and she’s never coming back.” He shrugs, looking almost bored. “Hate that.”

  Rain sprays the windows.

  Robert begins talking about the walks he and his wife used to take every night after dinner. He relays the story with an expressionless face, recites it in monotone.

  “What about you?” Wayne asks once the story is over, but his question is directed at Gordon. “How come you never say anything?”

  “Let’s remember now,” Amaya says, “we’ve all agreed to respect the rules. One of those rules is that no one has to speak unless they choose to. When and if Gordon wishes to contribute or share, he will. But until then, he has every right to respectfully and quietly listen and observe.”

  “It’s cool,” Wayne says, sliding down in his chair like a reprimanded teenager. “I’m just saying everybody else talks and he never does, so sometimes it comes off like all judgmental and shit.”

  Amaya smiles patiently, and gives Gordon a wink. “I’m sure Gordon neither is nor means to be either of those things. Let’s move on and talk about—”

  “How old are you, son?” Gordon asks Wayne. His hands have finally stopped shaking, he’s warming up again and his head i
s clearer.

  It takes Wayne a moment to answer. He seems genuinely surprised Gordon has actually spoken to him. “Thirty-two,” he finally says.

  “You were two years old when Katy and I were married.”

  “Okay.” Wayne shrugs. “So?”

  “So I was married almost as long as you’ve been alive. I’ve forgotten more about pain and grief and loss than you’ll ever know.”

  “Let’s remember that everyone’s experience is valid and their own,” Amaya says. “This isn’t a competition.”

  “Yeah, it’s not a competition,” Wayne tells him. “So don’t go getting all pissed at me. I’m just saying—”

  “How did your wife die?” Gordon asks.

  Wayne looks to the others before answering, as if to be certain he’s not the only one hearing the questions. “This an interview or something?”

  “You wanted me to talk, didn’t you?”

  Robert continues to remain quiet, but a slight smile just barely cracks his otherwise stoic expression.

  “Well,” Amaya says quickly, “maybe Wayne isn’t entirely comfortable being questioned like that, Gordon. Maybe you could try—”

  “How did she die, Wayne?” Gordon presses.

  “A car accident, motherfucker.” Wayne sits up then forward in a manner that is almost threatening. Almost, but not quite. “How’d your wife die?”

  “All right,” Amaya says, “let’s all just take it easy. This group is not about being confrontational. Gordon, we all appreciate that you’ve decided to take part today, but clearly your questions, or the manner in which you’re asking them, are upsetting to Wayne. Why don’t we talk about that for a moment? Wayne, without acting out, can you tell us how these questions from Gordon make you feel?”

  “They make me feel like he’s messing with me and disrespecting me when I didn’t do anything to him—shit—I don’t even know you, man.”

  “Talk about feeling disrespected. What does that mean to you? How does that make you feel, this notion that you’re being disrespected?”

  “Makes me feel like I want to break my foot off in his old ass. That’s how it makes Wayne feel.”

  Amaya holds a slender finger up. “Look at me, please, Wayne, not Gordon.”

  He does.

  “We don’t threaten here. Not ever. And we don’t ridicule here. You know the rules, Wayne, and you seem intent on disregarding them today.”

  “It’s not a threat,” Wayne says, sitting back again. “You asked me how it made me feel. I answered you. Never said I’d do it for real.”

  “Why don’t you try?” Gordon stands. “Go ahead. Try.”

  Wayne laughs. “Sit your bony ass down, Old Man River.”

  “Gordon,” Amaya says, standing as well, “let’s calm down, all right?”

  Gordon gathers his coat and hat. “I’m sorry for the disruption,” he says, turning toward the door. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “Gordon, you don’t have to leave,” Amaya tells him. “These are intense issues we’re discussing, and you all have raw nerves exposed, there’s bound to be a certain degree of—”

  “I think he should answer my question,” Wayne says. “You asked me how my old lady died and I told you. How’d yours go?”

  Gordon stares at him.

  Blood flashes—sprays—spatters—flows like water, rapids crashing over rocks, dragging everything in its path along with it. Drowning…they’re all drowning in it...tasting it as it coats their mouths and rushes down their throats, so sticky and sour and metallic…filling their nostrils as they try to breath…their eyes, their ears…their bodies soaked in it, filling with it…drowning…suffocating in blood—

  “Why don’t you leave him alone, Wayne?” Robert says suddenly.

  Wayne turns to him. “Why don’t you stay out of it?”

  Jerry nervously scratches at the stubble on his chin, his face twisted into a grimace. “This aggression is making me very uncomfortable.”

  “Me too, Jerry.” Amaya laughs lightly in an obvious attempt to cool things down. Very subtly, she positions herself between Gordon and Wayne. “Things are obviously quite heated today—and that’s okay, as long as we stay within the rules—but I think we should stop for now. Let’s go home and think about the feelings we’ve had here today. Everyone please be careful, it’s nasty out there. Thank you all for coming, and I hope to see you all next week, all right?”

  Another burst of rain hits the windows. Gordon looks to them.

  Just beyond the blurred and wire-encased panes, stands a dark figure watching them from the street. The figure wears black, loose-fitting clothing and a hood pulled up tight over its head, effectively hiding any detail or features. Gordon can’t even be certain if it’s a man or woman, though from the size alone, he guesses female.

  “And Gordon,” Amaya says, gently touching his elbow, “could you stay for a moment, please? I’d like to discuss a few things with you privately.”

  Her touch causes him to turn away from the window and look at her. She is smiling that usual, infuriatingly warm smile, her eyes bright and beautiful. “Yes,” he says softly, “okay.”

  “He’s in trouble now, dog,” Wayne laughs and gives Jerry a playful elbow.

  Robert shakes his head in disgust, formally shakes everyone’s hand good-bye, then turns and walks out. Wayne and Jerry follow behind him, but Wayne makes sure to hold Gordon’s gaze as he walks out, a wiseass smirk on his face. When he reaches the door, he gives him a theatrical wave good-bye.

  Once the door closes behind them, Gordon looks back to the windows.

  The figure is gone. No…not gone…just farther away. There, barely discernible across the street, standing on the sidewalk. Motionless…watching…

  “Is something wrong?” Amaya asks, following his gaze. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Slowly, the figure moves away, vanishing into the rain.

  “I thought I saw someone watching us,” he tells her.

  She takes a few steps closer to the windows. “The man across the street in the hooded sweatshirt?”

  You saw him too?

  “Yes.”

  “He’s moved on now.” Amaya closes the blinds on the window, then turns back to Gordon. “There are many lost souls here, Gordon. Some closer than others.”

  He nods, though he can’t be entirely sure what she means. “Dr. Adams, I want to apologize for my behavior, I…”

  “There’s no need to apologize. Wayne can be rather, well let’s just say difficult at times.” She walks across the room to the counter. “I just wanted to talk with you for a few minutes, privately and without interruption. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “I hope you won’t mind if I have one.”

  “Not at all.”

  Amaya pours herself a cup, adds some sugar. “When you first came to group, it was in your paperwork that you’d been to see Dr. Spires previously. I know Carl, he’s very good.” She stirs her coffee with a plastic spoon. “I hope you don’t find this intrusive, but can you tell me why you chose to stop seeing him and decided to try group therapy instead?”

  Gordon stands there, trying to think of a response.

  “Were you comfortable with Dr. Spires?” she asks.

  “I’m not comfortable with anyone.”

  Amaya gives him a look equal parts compassion and concern. She puts her spoon aside, takes a sip of coffee, then moves closer to him. “And why is that, do you suppose?”

  Gordon wants to leave but he’s afraid of what’s waiting for him out in the rain. “I’m alone a lot,” he finally manages. “I have a lot of things on my mind.”

  “Maybe things you haven’t dealt with as yet?” she asks. When he offers no response, she adds, “Some things you don’t know how to deal with or sort out and process effectively on your own?”

  “We don’t have to do this, I...”

  “Would you say you have issues with trust?”
/>   He doesn’t answer.

  “Do you sometimes feel as if you’re all alone, and the rest of the world is out to get you?” She sips more coffee. “Do you ever worry you may be struggling with some issues of paranoia?”

  Again, Gordon gives no answer.

  “Why weren’t you able to answer Wayne’s question earlier? How did your wife die, Gordon? I know it’s not pleasant, but does that question make you uncomfortable?”

  “She died in the hospital,” he says. “She’d been there for several weeks.”

  “Why was she in the hospital?”

  “Why are you asking me questions you already know the answers to?”

  Amaya smiles coyly. “Would you consider returning to Dr. Spires’s care?”

  Gordon wants to sit down. His knees are sore and his back aches. But he remains standing. “Why?”

  “Group therapy isn’t for everyone.”

  “It’s all right.” Gordon wrestles himself into his raincoat. “I won’t be back.”

  “Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not asking you to stop coming.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not coming back.”

  She frowns. “If you’ve already made that decision and are committed to it, then I strongly suggest that returning to Dr. Spires is in your best interest.”

  Gordon holds his hat in his hands, trying to think of something more to say, some way he can get out of there once and for all. He accomplishes neither.

  “You didn’t have to seek professional help,” she explains. “But you chose to do so, which means you felt it was necessary on some level. I believe it still is. Do you believe it still is, Gordon?”

  He takes a quick look at the windows. The figure has not returned. There is only the rain. Next he looks to the door. It remains closed. “I don’t know.”

  Amaya takes another sip of coffee, smearing some lipstick on the edge of her cup. “Did something happen today, Gordon?”

  How the hell does she know that?

  “A man was attacked this morning,” he hears himself say, “out in front of my apartment. A homeless man that lives in the park, some punks beat him up.”