“Please, Rain. Try. Okay? Give this a chance.” Her mother’s voice had morphed from tight impatience to that pleading, weak note that Rain hated. She reached over and rested her hand on Rain’s arm. Rain remained completely still—frozen—and finally her mother withdrew her hand.
“Yeah. Okay,” she said, her tone sullen. She unlatched the door and escaped before her mother could kiss her or give her one of her pep talks. Or worse, cry. Her mother meant well. In her most generous mood, Rain allowed her that, but she was missing some essential gene in the mothering department. I’ve tried with her, Rain once heard her say to her friend Joyce. It isn’t as if I haven’t tried. As if mothering were like baking a cake using the recipe in some old grease-stained cookbook, but in spite of following all directions, Rain had still come out of the oven lumpy and half-cooked because there was some essential ingredient that was missing from the mix. So Rain’s fault, not her mother’s. When she was younger, Rain used to study the other mothers she saw around town and try to imagine each of them as her own mother, as if they were auditioning for the part. A mother who wouldn’t criticize and who always thought to bring extra boxes of juice to the playground. A mother who would get the recipe right.
A narrow brick walk rimmed by forsythias past bloom curved to the side door. She could feel her mother’s eyes on her back as she headed toward the house. Like what? She was going to run off and the ditch the appointment? Not that the idea hadn’t occurred to her. It would serve her mother right if she did run away, take off for some city and live on the streets. It drove her bug-fuck nuts the way her mother was always lecturing her. As long as you live in this house, young lady, you will do as you’re told. In spite of the antiperspirant she’d applied that morning, a trickle of sweat dampened her underarms. Just as she reached the door, it swung open. A child stood there. A child with gray hair.
“You must be Rain. I’m Dr. Mallory.”
This was a huge mistake. Colossal.
“Please, come in.” Dr. Mallory beckoned her into a narrow hall. Rain glimpsed a padded bench along one wall and a carpet on the floor that she bet was one of those cheap knockoff Orientals. A single door in the center of the wall to her left was open, revealing an office. The place smelled weird. Doggy. Her stomach began to ache. The trickle of sweat had turned into a river. She pressed her palm hard against her thigh and followed, her gaze now fastened on the shrink’s shoes, black with flat, squished heels like someone’s great-aunt from the last century. Or one of the old Italian grandmothers at Mass.
Dr. Mallory stepped aside and motioned for her to enter the office. The dog smell was stronger here. There were two upholstered chairs, a moss-green crocheted throw folded over the back of one. A table placed between the chairs held a square glass vase filled with white tulips and a copper bowl filled with cellophane-wrapped butterscotch candies, the kind her granddad always brought when he used to visit. On the opposite wall there was a bookcase with four shelves, each one crammed with books. An old analog clock and a framed photo of a full moon rising over the Port Fortune harbor rested on the top. A small desk was placed at an angle in one corner. And in another corner, she saw a pile of cushions and a wicker basket containing children’s toys. Rain’s skin tightened.
“Where would you like to sit?”
Anywhere but in this stupid room. She plopped down on the chair without the crocheted throw. She expected Dr. Mallory to claim the chair at the desk, but instead she took the other chair, slipping off her ugly shoes and tucking her legs beneath her, like a child would. A bubble of laughter caught in Rain’s throat. This was a shrink who had shrunk.
Dr. Mallory picked up the copper bowl and held it toward Rain. “Would you like a candy?”
“No.” The cut on Rain’s thigh began to sting, and she pressed her fingers against it. She looked around, avoiding the shrink’s gaze.
“Maybe later.” Dr. Mallory placed the bowl back on the table.
“Do you have a dog?”
Dr. Mallory smiled. “I do. Are you allergic?”
“No. It just smells really doggy in here.”
“Does it bother you? If it does, I can put him in another room.”
“It’s in here?”
“Yes.” As if called, a small dog crawled out from behind the desk and regarded Rain with huge brown eyes.
“His name’s Walker.” At the sound of his name, the dog padded across the room, bounced really, long ears swinging with each step. “Short for his AKC name. Golden Prince Johnny Walker.”
“Like the booze?” Back before he switched to beer, her father swilled the stuff.
“Yes.”
“That’s lame.”
“Do you think so?”
“Who names their dog after booze?”
“What do you think would be a good name for him?”
“I dunno.” Really? Really? Were they going to spend the whole session talking about this ratty animal? Not that Rain gave a shit if they did, but her mother would go into orbit if she learned this was what she was spending money for. Good money, as she had reminded her about every two minutes. Not that Rain had any intention of sharing anything that went on here with anyone, especially not her parents.
“Tell me about your name. I’ve never met anyone named Rain before.”
“Whatev.” The dog stared at her, creeping her out. The whole place was creepy. She hated it. Hated everything about the room and everything about being here. This totally blew.
“Is this a name your parents gave you when you were born, or is it one you chose for yourself?”
As if her parents would allow her to change her name. She could just imagine the freak-out if she even suggested it. “My parents gave it to me.” Rain knew the whole pathetically stupid story about how she was named, about how on one anniversary her parents had taken a trip to Nantucket and how it had stormed the entire weekend and how they’d spent almost every minute in their room at the inn (a very romantic inn, her mother always said when she told the story in case Rain missed the point), and how that was where she had been conceived and so they’d named her Rain. As if she wanted to know that kind of creepy detail about her parents. She hated that story. Hated imagining her parents in the inn on Nantucket. The whole thing was too gross for words. Major gross-out. Colossal.
“How old are you, Rain?”
“Fifteen.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“One brother.”
“And how old is he?”
“Seventeen.”
“Is his name Thunder?”
“What?”
“I meant it to be funny. Rain. Thunder.”
“Oh. Yeah. I get it.” A joke. Epically stupid and not the least bit funny. The spiky hand inched along the face of the clock atop the bookcase. Rain pressed harder against her thigh.
“What is his name?”
“My brother?”
“Yes.”
“Duane.” Duane the Lame.
Dr. Mallory observed her for a moment. “I know it’s your parents’ idea for you to see me.”
Not her parents. Her mother.