Things to Do When It's Raining

by Marissa Stapley

  Gabe is sitting at his laptop positioned at a small desk in front of his new apartment’s only window—which is at least a large one—watching two men on the street below argue over a parking space. One of them has a kid in his car and he’s swearing so loudly Gabe can hear him through the window.

  He can’t focus. He’s been home for almost two weeks, and finally last night he went out with a few of his buddies, finally announced to everyone that he was back. He didn’t drink—he’s not going to, ever again—but he stayed out late. His friends offered their condolences about his father when he used that as an explanation for why he’d been out of town for so long, and they all sat in silent reflection for a moment. Gabe had never told any of them about his relationship with Jonah, aside from the fact that they didn’t talk much. This was a relief, not having to get into it. A few minutes passed, and then they moved on to discussing the Knicks.

  Maybe therapy would help. He did try it, once. Natasha insisted on it. “You’re like a . . . like a cake,” the therapist had said. “A cake that had the oven opened on it at a critical moment, when it was just starting to rise. So, you know, it slumped.” He’d never gone back after that. No more therapy, ever. He’ll go for a walk instead.

  He ends up in front of the American Museum of Natural History, a place he used to visit often when he first arrived in New York City years ago. Of all the aphorisms on the walls, Gabe at eighteen was most struck by the words about manhood: “It is hard to fail, but it is worse never to have tried to succeed. All daring and courage, all iron endurance of misfortune make for a finer, nobler type of manhood.”

  Now his eyes land on the last words: “Only those are fit to live who do not fear to die, and none are fit to die who have shrunk from the joy of life and the duty of life.” The duty of life. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets. He did do his duty, by leaving Alexandria Bay. So why does he feel like such a shit?

  He turns away from the rotunda and looks at an Allosaurus skeleton towering over its baby, defending it against a predator. It’s naïveté that prompted the paleontologists to display the bones in this fashion. It’s not always like this, he knows. His own mother probably died on the streets, an addict, a prostitute. That down-on-her-luck diner waitress with the heart of gold—she never existed.

  He closes his eyes against this, but every time he closes them, Mae’s face is there.

  She’s going to be a great mother. A perfect one. She’ll never let the heartache of life, the pain of existing, take away her hope. She’ll be the type to do anything for her child, no matter how hard things get. And things will get easier for her. It’s just a matter of time. She’s not going to be alone for long. She’ll find someone. Someone better. Mae is the type of woman people fall in love with.

  God, how he misses her. He wants to hide from the world, wants never to have to see another face that isn’t hers.

  He walks back through the pillars and out onto the street. His phone starts to ring. It’s the phone number of the inn. His heart flies high above the city skyscrapers. He fumbles with the phone and says, “Hello?” in a voice he didn’t know could still be his.

  It’s not her, though. It’s George. And he sounds upset. “Gabe, you need to come back.”

  If you can’t round up some other guests for a round of bridge, euchre or crazy eights, play solitaire.

  What drew Mae away from the river? She was so close she could feel the freedom of it, no despair, no fear; she was so close she could almost taste the release—and then it wasn’t raining anymore. The sun edged its way out from behind a cloud that had, moments before, seemed so dense there was the possibility the sun would never be seen again, at least not by Mae, whose intentions had been so clear. Until everything had changed. She had gasped and stumbled backward, and the water that would have taken hold of her had rushed past without her.

  It was her parents’ island, she supposes—when she allows herself to think of the moment at all, which is less and less with each day that passes—that brought her back. She saw not its shape but the idea of it, the tips of the pine trees she knew skirted the little bay beyond which the ruined foundation of the fishing camp sat. She knew she wasn’t alone, understood suddenly that it didn’t matter if she couldn’t remember very much about her mother. Her mother had loved her. She had loved her so much. And part of the reason she had loved her so much was because Mae, simply by existing, had made it so that Virginia had never been alone, even in her most difficult moments.

  Mae had placed her hand on her stomach. I’m sorry. And she had known that, just as she forgave her parents for their mistakes, just as Gabe, in his way, had forgiven his father for his mistakes over and over, had crossed the river so many times in the hopes that things would be different, her child would forgive her for this.

  What was important now was for Mae to make sure there weren’t too many things to forgive.

  She had stretched her hand out toward the islands she could now see in the clearing mist. “There,” she had said to the child in her future. “There are the islands.” She pointed at Island 51 and her hand shook but she kept it held high. “Gabe lived there. He was my best friend. And I miss him.” She would tell the story of Gabe to the baby one day. She would talk about her friend, the lost boy. She would not let the hurt of it color the memory. Because if she didn’t talk about Gabe, she wouldn’t be able to talk about her own childhood. She wouldn’t be able to tie a new rope to the old oak tree on the shore and say to her child that once, a long time ago, she swung on this rope with a friend and she was happy.

  It was her parents’ island that had brought her back, but it was also herself. She was the one who stepped away from the water. There was no one there to save her, and so she saved herself. She turned away from the river, walked down the road, splashed through the puddles, and went home. She knew, finally, why her mother had loved the rain so much. It wasn’t perfect; it didn’t have to be. When it rained, everything else was washed away. Everything you did that day became a gift, sometimes even an act of bravery that no one else would know about, ever, because everyone else was hiding inside.

  It wasn’t easy. Even if she wasn’t really alone, even if the child was there with her, silently waiting, even if she had Viv, and the bridge ladies, it wasn’t easy to keep her loneliness at bay. At night, in her bed without Gabe, that was the worst time. She tried sleeping in other rooms but he was in all of them. She gave up and decided to wait. Time would heal this, wouldn’t it?

  She went for a walk every day in the opposite direction from the path she had followed that dark afternoon. And every day, as she returned home to the empty inn, she felt a little better. But she also felt surprised, with every passing day, that Gabe hadn’t returned.

  Then, late one afternoon, as she rounded the corner on the road that led her to the inn’s driveway, she heard a barking dog. Not Gabe, no. But hope.

  * * *

  George’s Buick is there, and Bud is running around the yard. He’s covered in mud, he’s digging holes happily, he’s peeing against the birdbath once again. Mae starts to run, through the mud, through the rain that has started up again, but more softly. She runs through the imperfect world she lives in, the one her child will soon live in. It’s the only world she has to offer. She’ll have to try to find a way to explain that one day, without making happiness seem impossible.

  “I’m sorry,” George begins. He’s about to say, “And there are things you need to know,” but she interrupts him, points down at her stomach. “You’re going to be a great-grandfather.”

  There are some interesting monuments around town. Grab an umbrella and go check them out.

  We should go to the cemetery,” George says to Mae. “Will we walk, or drive? How do you feel?” A child. It’s given him one more thing to fear. Will he lose both her and this child once he tells her the truth?

  “Let’s walk, I need the exercise,” she says. “Now that the morning sickness has stopped all I do is eat.”


  When he stops in front of Everett’s grave, she’s confused, but before she can ask, he begins to explain, speaks quickly so he won’t lose his courage. “You’re not my blood, Mae. I’m so sorry.” He’s crying and ashamed. The words do not flow. He sounds halting, and old. But there had been fear in Mae’s eyes when he began his story—and he sees that it’s gone now.

  “I thought it was something horrible,” she says. “I thought maybe you were going to tell me you were sick, that you were . . . It doesn’t matter. This changes nothing about the way I feel about you. You can’t think this changes anything.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “Of course not. There’s more than one way to be a family with someone.” In the silence, George knows she’s thinking of Gabe. She told him he was gone, after she told him about the baby. He hadn’t known what to say, and he still doesn’t. He reaches for her hand. When she forces a smile, she reminds him of Lilly and Virginia. Durable strength, like precious metal. Precious, this person. His girl, no matter what.

  “Everett was your brother. He wasn’t blood, but he was still your brother. I understand that. I do.”

  But there’s more. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness yet. He has to tell her about Lilly. He lets go of her hand and points down at the ground before them. “We don’t have your grandmother’s ashes anymore. They’re gone. I dumped them here, out of spite, I guess. I’m sorry. I’ve hidden things from you and taken liberties that weren’t mine to take.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Her ashes, they weren’t her. I feel her here. Is that crazy?”

  He thinks about Lilly, with him in the car.

  “No, that’s not crazy,” is all he says.

  * * *

  Back at the inn, he unpacks the car, carries his small suitcase inside, a bag of food for the poor dog who has remained unchanged in his loyalty to George no matter what he’s put him through, and Lilly’s cedar box. He presents it to Mae. “This was hers. There are things in here that are difficult to talk about, but if you want to talk about them, I will.”

  “Oh,” Mae breathes. “Are some of my mother’s things in here? You can’t imagine what a gift this is.”

  That night, they build a fire. Mae sifts through the box, and he watches the news with the dog at his feet. There’s not peace in the world, there never seems to be, but there’s peace here, in this room. There’s Mae, there’s the fire, there’s the time that has passed, there’s what’s still to come. He’ll have to be brave because growing old isn’t for the faint of heart. Lilly always used to say that. He finds himself smiling. “You got out while you still could,” he whispers, because he hasn’t gotten used to not talking to her.

  One final thing, though. He remembers one last thing he took that wasn’t his, and he’s happy to have it. Once Mae goes to bed he reaches into his breast pocket, draws out the paper he keeps there. Someone needs to set Gabe straight. Someone needs to be a father to him, to lay down the law, to bring him into their family once and for all.

  * * *

  Once George has finished speaking with Gabe, once he’s satisfied that he has been heard and will be obeyed—and once he has been reassured, also, that this boy loves Mae as much as George has always hoped he did—he hangs up and goes to stand by the window in the kitchen. The moon is shining on the river. Mae said it was quite the rain they had, that the river was wild for a while, but there’s hardly any trace of that now, save some debris still dotted along the shore. Everything will go back to the way it was. Spring is here, and he’s lived to see another one. He’ll likely live to see another summer, too, and the birth of his great-grandson or granddaughter in the fall. What a brave girl that Mae is. Just like her mother. Just like Lilly.

  “It’s been a very good day,” he says to Lilly. He waits for a moment, can’t help but be hopeful because he’s alone now, but she doesn’t materialize. That’s all right. He’ll see Lilly again someday. And meanwhile, he’s had a good day. That’s quite a thing for a person who was certain he had none of those left.

  Eventually, the rain is going to stop. It always does. Just wait, if that’s all you feel like doing. Just watch, and wait.

  In the afternoon, as Mae passes the front window, she sees Gabe on the driveway and she’s not surprised. It didn’t get easier. She didn’t stop believing he was going to come back. And here he is. She didn’t need him to return, she knew she would have survived without him—but she also knew him well enough to hope he would return and not allow that hope to stop. She stands and watches him until he disappears up the stairs, until he knocks.

  She opens the door. She says, first, “I’ve been taking your boat out. I’m not afraid anymore. I learned to drive it.”

  “That’s great. Mae, I—”

  “Don’t say you’re sorry and don’t make me any promises. Let’s just take things one day at a time.”

  They don’t touch each other, not right away. They face each other, waiting to not be afraid. That moment never comes, so they reach beyond it.

  “Forever,” he says, holding her close. “One day at a time, forever.”

  Epilogue.

  Life goes on.

  Tonight, when Mae was watching the news, a report came on about a volcano that had suddenly erupted in Japan while there were hikers on the mountain. People perished. Mae has to turn the sound up so loud to hear it now that Gabe had to put a door on the den, but he says he doesn’t mind, he likes to do things around the place to feel relevant.

  Her boys laugh at her loud nights in front of the television when they come to visit, because apparently almost no one watches television anymore—but they do come to visit, a lot. And her boys have children, boys of their own, and now those boys have their own little boys. So many boys. How does that happen in families? You don’t always get what you think you want, but sometimes you get more than you ever could have imagined.

  “GG!” (That’s what they call her, short for “Great-grandma.”) “The volume’s too loud!” the little boys will shout when she’s watching TV. They’re very loud themselves, so that’s something, to be called loud by these boys. Mae will cup her ear and shout, “What’s that? I can’t hear you. Come closer!” When they do, she grabs one or the other and tickles them until they roll on the floor in fits of laughter. She’ll look at their tiny bodies, hear them laughing and watch them rolling on the floor, and she’ll think, Well, there you have it. Life goes on. And on and on. This is something you learn when you’re as old as she is now.

  A friend dies, but for Mae and Gabe, life goes on. Another friend dies, and it’s the same. Other things in the bay go on, deaths and births and changes—but mostly deaths these days. She’s past 90 years old now and can imagine her end, but she doesn’t fear it. Bravery is in the living. Her grandfather George told her this before he died—at 102.

  She doesn’t know if she’ll live that long, but it would seem there’s longevity in the family if she’s gone on this far. It doesn’t matter, though. She doesn’t count the days. She just tries to feel grateful for every one, for every moment, for all the small things. Every time she sees a shooting star, for example, she’ll say, “Well, another one didn’t hit us,” and Gabe, he’ll laugh, that familiar chuckle she loves so much. And he’ll give her a kiss, and they’ll remember their first one.

  It’s been a good life. It has. Sure, there have been troubles, mostly at the beginning, and some around the middle, too. One day at a time, forever. Forever has come and gone, and they’re still here, she and Gabe, making the same promise day after day, without any words.

  Has her relationship with Gabe always been perfect? No. Like her life, it hasn’t. Has she always done the right thing? Most of the time, but definitely not always. For example, she never told Lawrence, her firstborn son, who his father really was. She kept thinking she would, but, like her grandmother before her, she ended up getting lost in the thing that felt the most true. Gabe acted as Lawrence’s father—they had named him together, after the river; his eyes were t
he same color, they agreed, as the river in spring—and there never seemed to be a right moment to tell him his biological father was a man in prison. Then George Jr. was born. After that, Mae feared the revelation might tear the two of them apart when they were so close—so what would be the point? The secret grew large for a while, in Mae’s mind. It kept her up at night, the idea that there were people in the world who would judge her choice if they knew what she was concealing.

  But no one did know. Only Gabe. It kept them close. Conspirators. Every marriage harbors secrets, secrets about why it works or why it doesn’t work, secrets between two people that the rest of the world can never be privy to. These are theirs: that blood isn’t everything; that families can be chosen; that love doesn’t come naturally, that it’s not supposed to; that choosing love is sometimes better than giving it out of obligation.

  She’s kept tabs on Peter over the years, mostly to make sure there weren’t any health concerns she needed to know about, nothing that could have been passed along to Lawrence. As far as she knows, he’s still alive, out of jail and living a no-account existence back in Novi. Had he ever dared to come and find her in the bay, he never would have found a single clue by looking into Lawrence’s river-green eyes. “Everyone has done at least one thing they’re not proud of that they need to forgive themselves for,” she might have said, had he come around. She might even have said she forgave him for what he’d done, might have told him it didn’t matter anymore, might have suggested he try to forgive himself. This simple truth about forgiveness, she keeps it to herself. And she shares it with Gabe, whenever it seems he might need to be reminded.

  Tonight, she and Gabe are going out for their customary walk along the river. It starts to snow, but Mae doesn’t pull the hood of her parka up over her white hair. Her mother loved the rain, but she has grown to love the snow. “Shall we go check on the river?” she asks her husband. They make their way toward the stairs and carefully descend. They look out at the dark islands. Her parents’ island was sold, and so was Island 51. That money kept them afloat over the years, kept the inn running and shaped their lives. There are families on those islands now who make memories every summer. Mae doesn’t know who they are, but she’s sure they have stories of their own, happy, sad, somewhere in between. And they have those islands, to keep their stories safe. Sometimes she feels jealous of this, feels those islands should contain only her stories, and Gabe’s stories. But islands don’t really belong to anyone. Letting them go was the right thing to do.