THE RAIN FELT LIKE tiny knives against her skin as the wind howled and moaned on that dreary December evening. Everyone around Rayne ran in search of shelter from the wintry weather, but not her. She took her time, relishing each frigid step. The pain of the cold rain whipping against her brought her comfort. It was the only thing that reminded her she was still alive.
As time passed, she thought she would need this Thursday night ritual less and less. She had seen people come and go. Sometimes a familiar face would reappear during a holiday or particularly difficult week, but for most, the passing of time had healed their wounds.
Not Rayne.
For her, time was like a knife reopening scars that barely had a chance to heal. Most days, these meetings were the only thing that kept her going. If she could just make it to Thursday, she would be okay. She could step out of the darkness, if only for an hour.
Climbing the steps of the old stone church, she was met with warmth and light, which was at complete odds with the cold darkness that shrouded Boston. Her heels echoed on the linoleum as she walked through the bright lobby and made her way down the stairs to the basement, listening to the choir rehearse for the upcoming holiday services.
Silent night. Holy night.
All was not calm for Rayne.
Once upon a time, Christmas was her favorite time of year. Everyone always seemed to be a little bit happier, a little more forgiving. The movies, the cookies, the smell of roast turkey, the family gatherings. All year long, she looked forward to the magic and happiness in the air during the holiday season…until her life was turned upside down.
The joyful frivolity that accompanied this time of year now only reminded her of everything she lost and would never have again. It reminded her she would never see the joy in her child’s eyes when he or she realized Santa and his reindeer had magically paid a visit during the night. It reminded her she had nothing. No reason to get up in the morning. No reason to go to her entry-level job a high school dropout could do. No reason to continue living her somber existence.
The aroma of stale coffee, baked goods, and lemon cleaner greeted her as she entered one of the basement meeting rooms. About a dozen people already perused the selection of sugary snacks or sat in one of the chairs, head down, avoiding eye contact as they tried to hide their tears. Rayne recognized about half. She knew some of their stories, but others hadn’t worked up the courage to share their grief yet. She understood how difficult it was. It had taken her nearly four months to finally open up to this group of complete strangers.
Outside these walls, she barely spoke of it anymore. Her name had faded from the headlines and the requests for interviews had stopped. In the aftermath of the tragedy, the smiling, full of life woman she once was had been replaced by a withdrawn, grief-stricken stranger who simply went through the motions of what was expected of her. It was a good day if she remembered to shower. But inside these faded white walls, she could share her strife and heartache, even though this sympathetic group of people may never fully understand how broken she truly was. They were the only people who didn’t judge, who didn’t question why the events of a year ago still affected her.
Rayne poured herself a cup of obligatory coffee, then sat in her usual chair in the pre-arranged circle the facilitator said encouraged more open and honest discourse amongst the group. He must have been onto something. If Rayne had to stand up in front of a dozen people and share her struggles, she would have felt intimidated. This configuration of chairs was like a bubble. No one would judge her or anyone else while they shared the demons tormenting them.
She smiled a polite smile at a stocky, balding man a few chairs down. She hadn’t seen him before and absentmindedly wondered what his story was. What heartache did he endure at this precise moment?
Over the months, she had become rather adept at guessing people’s struggles. She was usually close, although sometimes a bit off on the details. She supposed this newcomer had just lost his wife sooner than anticipated.
Cancer, she mused to herself. It’s usually cancer.
Sensing a presence next to her, she tilted her head, looking at her unexpected friend. Mark had been coming to these Thursday night meetings for almost as long as she had. He hadn’t completely opened up about what brought him to that church basement every week, but based on hints he had dropped, Rayne surmised it had something to do with his sister. He spoke of his bereavement and how difficult it was to move on without closure. Rayne could only assume she had gone missing. Her heart went out to him living in a constant state of purgatory. She had been there…jumping up with each phone call, hoping it would be the one she waited for. During that one week, she clung to hope like a baby clings to a blanket. With each passing minute, she grew more and more despondent, struggling to come to terms with the likelihood that when the phone call did come, it wouldn’t be the news she wanted to hear.
Unfortunately for Rayne, her phone call finally came in the form of a national television broadcast.
The country mourned with her. The President even ordered the flags to be lowered to half-mast for a week. But after that week, the story was forgotten. The nation went on to talk about the next hot topic of the day, and Rayne’s loss was nothing more than a footnote in the history books.
History would repeat itself again. And again. And again. Rayne could do nothing to stop reliving that same agony day after day. Her coworkers tried to encourage her that life went on, but did it? She didn’t see it that way. She had lost everything that cold, December day. Her heart. Her career. Her life. Now, all she had was her Thursday group session…and Mark. They used each other to cope with the torment of their lives. It wasn’t healthy, but it was better than the alternative…for now.
“Earth to Rayne,” Mark’s deep voice whispered.
She snapped out of her memories, returning to the dismal present. His chocolate eyes were a cautionary mix of amusement and ire. It was the same expression he wore when he brought her to bed and they took out their rage through their distant act of intimacy.
“You okay?” he asked, eyeing her drenched frame. “You’re soaked. Did you walk here from work?”
Rayne nodded, relishing the warmth emanating from the paper cup she held in her hands.
“That’s what? Eight blocks? Why didn’t you take the T?” he asked, referencing Boston’s well-known subway system.
“Ten,” she replied curtly.