Worthy of Rain

by Elizaveta Fehr

  Worthy of Rain

  Worthy of Rain

  Elizaveta Fehr

  © 2020 Elizaveta Fehr

  Worthy of Rain

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Elm Hill, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Elm Hill and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Elm Hill titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Scripture quotations marked NLT are from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation. © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotations marked NIV are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.Zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.®

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020904878

  ISBN 978-1-400329403 (Paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-400329410 (eBook)

  Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook

  Please note that footnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication.

  It’s more than just a story.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  My flashlight bounced its beam back and forth against the wall. When it finally hit the bookshelf, I scanned the wood with the light. Dust danced and swirled under a single eye.

  The shelf was built into the wall, a sturdy hunk of wood etched with as many animal carvings as there were dust mites.

  But the books. Their musty aromas entered my nostrils without warning. I breathed them in, a string of seconds and minutes and hours filling the untouched corners of my memories.

  I hadn’t been up here in years. Not after the books had long been tucked away, hidden in the shadows of forgotten moments and untold promises. The attic library certainly reeked of it. Like an absence of sun had perched itself on everything inside, covering the collection of boxes and books in a layer of merciless filth.

  I stepped forward to get a closer look at the bookshelf when my foot kicked something solid. My flashlight found the box at my feet.

  It was hers. I could tell by the way her Reader’s Digest magazines peeked out from atop yellowing flowered hats, cardinal figurines, and dozens and dozens of books.

  Books I’ve never opened.

  I smiled painfully and knelt down next to the box, picking apart the contents. How had we forgotten about all of this?

  Maybe it was my fault for never asking where they took all of her things. And maybe, deep inside, I hadn’t really wanted to know. I’d let them take it all away without a question. Not even a goodbye.

  But it was all here. Everything.

  I shone the light on the piece of paper in my hand. The paper had one jagged side, torn off as if someone had reached up to the right-hand corner of the page and ripped diagonally the whole way down. One side was completely blank. I wasn’t interested in that side.

  It all came down to the opposite face of that sheet of paper. The side that I knew could change everything.

  To Jennifer,

  I hope you find these pages as truthful as I did

  I squinted and pressed the flashlight closer to the sheet. I could tell the page used to be white, but by its fraying edges and tea-stained skin, I knew it wasn’t from a new book.

  I peered at the bookshelf from my spot on the ground. I held the page up, my fingers circling over the printed text at the center, just a short way above the inscription. One title. One single clue.

  I stood up, reaching tentative fingers towards the shelf. The titles flashed by one after another. Most of their words were already beginning to fade away.

  “Where are you?” I whispered to myself.

  Then suddenly, my flashlight paused on a book shoved deep into the belly of the bottom shelf. If I hadn’t looked closer, I might’ve missed it altogether. But the gold lettering of the title against the light would be a hard one to skip over. Especially since I was looking for it.

  I reached for the binding.

  The flashlight’s beam winked out, plunging me into darkness. Ugh. I scrambled for my phone in my pockets, groaning aft
er coming up empty. I was looking for a phone that was definitely back downstairs on the kitchen table. Fantastic.

  My head brushed against a string hanging from the ceiling. Blindly, I pulled on it, and a light bulb above me flicked on. I looked around in the now brightened room. It was hardly bigger than a small closet, but it was covered floor to ceiling with all shapes, sizes, types, and colors of any book you could possibly imagine.

  I hadn’t realized there were so many.

  I turned my attention back towards the last book on the bottom shelf. Reaching for it, I finally grabbed ahold of the binding and pulled.

  The shelf above groaned dangerously. Before I could act, the shelf collapsed in a cloud of book dust, years of bound pages spilling into my lap. The majority of the second shelf had had its entire weight supported by that one book. I yelped and coughed on a mouthful of dust cloud.

  “Hey, what’s going on up there?” My dad’s voice drifted up from the kitchen below. There was a hint of humor in his voice and I could just imagine him—eyebrows cocked, soapy frying pan midair, side smile.

  “I’m fine!” I replied back, hurriedly putting back the board and shoving the books into their places. I coughed again and wiped the dust off my jeans.

  “You’re sure?” Dad called again.

  “Positive.”

  His response sounded similar to a muffled “okay” before he returned to his humming. I released a sigh.

  Some days were good. Like today. He didn’t seem as…distant…as he might be on one of the days that weren’t so good. The kind that seemed to stand still, replaying over and over the life we might have had.

  I wiped the cover of the book. A hand swipe ran through the thin layer of dust, illuminating the title even more than before. The light above me flickered in the dim space. I flipped to the title page.

  No rip. No unfinished scribble.

  I tucked the book back on the shelf, disappointment caving in on me. I was an idiot for hoping anyway.

  Yeah, some days were good. Some days. You’d think, after ten years, the both of us would have gotten over it by now.

  But that’s just it. Some days were just…good. And I guess that was enough to get by on.

  “Genesis!”

  I disappeared down the attic stairs. The dark evening sky was losing the last of its light. An April breeze snuck through the house and tickled my bare legs.

  “Yeah?” I poked my head into the kitchen. The floral curtains at the window reached out and tried to touch me.

  “I’m going down to the library to get some books on the Great Depression. You want to come?”

  It was one of the things I loved best about him. Our love for books was one of the few things we shared. As the history teacher at Stoneybrook High School, my father had a choice of literature that mostly consisted of world wars and civil rights movements. As for me, although I took pride in my varying genre selection, world history wasn’t exactly what I’d spend my Sunday mornings reading.

  I could see my dad’s reading glasses tucked into his shirt pocket. His messenger bag was halfway off his shoulder.

  “No thanks. You go ahead.” Maybe the library next time.

  “I’ll be back in half an hour,” he answered, heading out the door. At the last second, he turned. “What were you doing up there anyway?”

  I shifted my feet. Maybe bringing up the fact that I was rummaging through her stuff wasn’t the best thing to do at the moment.

  “My old toys are up there. I was thinking of giving some of them away.”

  He nodded twice and shrugged. “See you in a bit.” I heard the screen door close and the car start as he left.

  Today. Days like today were…good.

  But not always.

  Chapter Two

  It’s funny. How some memories seem to stick in your head longer than others. Smells. Images. Tastes. Voices. Feelings.

  I keep having these flashbacks. They pop up out of nowhere during the times I least expect them. I’ll be sitting in my room or running through a puddle or brushing snow off my pants or taking a test. And they would just…appear. When they do, it was all I could smell or see or taste or hear or feel.

  Those were some of the bad days.

  My room used to be gray and baby blue. The windows had white trim and the doors were solid oak painted eggshell. The curtains, thin wisps that flowed down to the base of the wall, had little iris embroideries sewn into the fabric. They used to match the small bundle of flowers growing outside my window.

  It used to be one of my favorite rooms in the house. On early Saturday mornings, the sun wouldn’t hold back, beaming in through the transparent curtains to wake me up. And she would be there. Humming softly in the 7:00 a.m. sun, picking up a four-year-old’s toys and books. I had more books than toys most of the time.

  I’d watch her sometimes, hoping she wouldn’t see my open eyes behind the covers. But she’d always notice me, dropping the toys in her arms to scoop me up and nestle herself underneath the covers. We would have stayed there all day if Dad wouldn’t have always come to find us.

  The paint was chipped now. Cracks spread like webs across the ceiling. The curtains were tainted yellow. And in my mind, her face was never quite clear. It had been distorted over the years as I began to forget. That was the part I regretted the most…and why I tried to shut out the memory every time it crossed my path.

  Chapter Three

  “Is school really tomorrow already?”

  Perched on the counter, I hugged my legs closer to my chest. My dad had his laptop out in front of him. The fan whirred noisily above us, stirring up some of the last of the April breeze.

  “Hey, you aren’t the only one who has to go back to school.” He winked at me.

  “That’s different. You’re teaching.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, but I have to spend every waking minute with one of you goons.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Can’t I just stay home?”

  He took off his glasses. “Now, why would a young teenager like yourself not want to go to school?” he teased.

  “I’m in denial. Break went by too quickly.”

  “I’d have to agree.”

  “I’m going to go to bed.” I hopped off the counter.

  Dad kissed me on the forehead. “Sleep well.”

  “I’ll try to.”

  The next day, it was darker than I was used to by the time the car pulled up next to the school. My dad had to be at the high school early to set up, so I often was one of the first entrants of the day to the middle school.

  I unlocked the door to the school library. I was here so often the librarian had given me a key so that I could come in early in the mornings. It was one of the few times I had quiet time, besides when I was home. It was always quiet at home.

  The library lights flicked on slowly. The skylight above was just beginning to shed sunlight into the center of the library. I made my way to the back of the room, settling into a bean bag in the far corner. I leaned back and closed my eyes.

  What felt like moments after, my stomach lurched as I was toppled out from the bean bag chair.

  “I swear, you need to get more sleep at night.”

  A pair of round, chocolate eyes stared down at me from above, a mischievous grin playing on her face and a stolen bean bag in her arms.

  I rubbed my eyes and looked around. The library was suddenly louder than usual. A group of students occupied several tables scattered throughout the room and another group shut the library doors as they left.

  “What time is it?” I asked groggily.

  “Classes start in five minutes. Lucky I found you.”

  “I’ve been asleep since I got here?”

  She laughed. “Wouldn’t put it past you.”

  I grunted in response.

  “It’s good to see you too.” Aven, my best friend, rolled her eyes and threw the bean bag at me. “Where’ve you been all break? I haven’t seen you in two weeks.”

  I tucked
myself underneath the bean bag and pulled it over my head, mumbling, “I’ve been busy.”

  “I can’t hear you, stupid. Oh no you don’t.” She ripped the bean bag from me. “And reading all of break doesn’t count.”

  I squinted up at her. “I missed you too.”

  “Slightly better. I guess I’ll take it,” she said.

  I smiled. I let her help me up from the floor and pat my hair down.

  “I was thinking about her last night,” I offered. My attic adventure had done nothing but unlock a few unwanted emotions last night. Aven glanced at me and nodded in understanding. I knew I didn’t need to explain. A decade of a friendship tended to be like that.

  “What’s your first hour again?”

  “Honors History.”

  “Darn it. I got switched to English.” She slung her bag over her shoulder.

  “Who? Mr. Teiler?”

  “Yeah.”

  I cringed. “Ouch. Have fun with him. I had him last semester.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Yay me.” Something caught her eye at the far corner of the library.

  “Oh look. It’s your favorite person.”

  I followed her gaze and locked my sight on the back of Jace Anthony’s head.

  For just about as long as Aven and I were friends, Jace and I were enemies. It was kind of a natural selection type of repulsion. An “I’ll avoid you if you avoid me” relationship. But of course, it could never be that simple. We always seemed to get on each other’s nerves. But was it my fault he was such an egotistical, arrogant maniac?

  I clenched my fists at the thought. Almost as if in response, Jace threw back his head and laughed at a joke one of his friends told him nearby. I scowled. He just had to be surrounded by his group of equally moronic friends twenty-four seven. Maybe if he wasn’t so popular, I could tolerate his presence. But the fact that half the school loved him did not particularly help my “Let’s Hate Jace” campaign.

  “Wait, is he going into Honors History?”

  I looked up from my angry daydream and sure enough, Jace’s backpack was disappearing into Mrs. Whitaker’s classroom.

  “You’ve got to be joking.”

  Aven took one look at my face and howled. I felt like I was about to punch something.