The Girl in the Rain Read online

  “I know that was scary as hell.” Thalia pauses. “You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

  “If only I believed that.”

  “Seriously, Paige. I don’t think I would’ve been able to do what you do for Ryan. He’s not only paralyzed, but he drinks and disrespects you every chance he gets. He takes you for granted.”

  An ache spreads through my chest. “He’s going through a hard time. I don’t know what kind of person I would be if I were in his shoes.” I push out of my chair. “So,” I say, changing the subject, “what are you doing this evening?”

  “Some of us will be meeting up later to hit the Simmering Grill for juicy steaks.” Thalia’s eyes brighten. “I wish you would come. It’s your birthday. Take an evening off, for goodness’ sake.”

  “You know how he gets when I don’t make it home on time.”

  “It shouldn’t be like that. Don’t you see? It’s completely unfair.” Thalia purses her lips. “You have the right to your freedom. Instead, he treats you like his prisoner.”

  “He doesn’t make me do anything. I make my own choices.”

  “Out of obligation.”

  “That’s beside the point. It only matters that I’m there for him. That’s not about to change anytime soon—”

  “Or ever,” Thalia adds.

  Pain grips my chest as her word sink in. What if Ryan never recovers? The doctors said at the start that with an incomplete spinal cord injury, there might be a possibility for him to walk again, but the chances would become slimmer as more time passes. I refuse to give up hoping for a miracle. But he needs to want it, too.

  What if ten years from now, I’m still in this place, still stuck in this same moment? Can I really do it for that long or longer? Whatever the case may be, I’ll be there for Ryan for as long as he needs me.

  “Maybe next time,” I say. “Have fun at the Grill.” I lift my floral fabric tote from the back of my chair and heave it onto my shoulder. “Thanks for the gift.”

  “Thank me when you actually use it.” She pauses. “I mean it, Paige. Don’t just push it in some place and forget about it.” She glances at my desk drawer.

  “You know what?” I jam a hand into my bag and dig out the key to the drawers. “You should take it back. Why don’t you spoil yourself instead?” I wink. “On me.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “I might never use it. I don’t want it to go to waste.”

  “Like all the other presents I gave you before?” Thalia lifts a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

  I run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry.” I open the drawer and pull out the envelope. When I hand it to her, she takes a step back.

  “I won’t take it back. It’s a gift. Whether you decide to use it or not, is up to you. But I want you to try and take advantage of it sometime within the next six months.”

  “I promise to try.” I no longer return it to the drawer together with all the other gift cards she’s given me, but push it into my bag.

  “I guess that’s more than I can ask for.” She gives me a tight hug. “Happy birthday, sweetheart. If you need anything, you know I’m here always.” She pulls back and gives me a bright smile. “At least take a break from worrying tonight.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Oh, I know.” She steps toward the door and blows me an air kiss before walking out. The door clicks shut behind her.

  After she leaves, I spend the next hours preparing for tomorrow’s lessons and killing time. At six p.m. I count to a hundred, then leave the classroom to face the consequences of my past decisions.

  Chapter 2

  I ring the doorbell of our apartment and wait for Ryan to come to the door.

  After the shooting, we had to sell the townhouse because I couldn’t live in the house again knowing what happened on its doorstep.

  I was lucky to find a wheelchair accessible apartment with two bathrooms. The bathroom Ryan uses has a slide-in bathtub, a wall-mounted sink with no cabinet underneath, and grab bars. I prefer to use the tiny shower in my bedroom.

  Despite the high monthly rent, which I’m still struggling to pay, it brings me peace to know Ryan is able to live in a safe environment.

  The reason I ring the bell has nothing to do with the fact that I forgot my key, but because I want Ryan to move. He spends most of the day in the living room, stuffing his mouth with junk food, watching violent movies or playing equally violent video games.

  I like for him to change his environment even for a few seconds every now and then. I’m well aware he hates it, but I do it anyway. I count to sixty but Ryan still doesn’t come to the door.

  I press my finger on the little white button again, keeping it there. Hopefully he’ll get annoyed to the point he opens the door just to get rid of the noise.

  Sometimes it doesn’t work. He either increases the volume on the television or plugs in his earbuds.

  But this time, the door is flung open within three minutes. Suddenly, my brother is in his wheelchair in front of me, several pounds larger than he had been before he was shot.

  “Are you mad?” A thunderstorm rages in his gray eyes. The whites of his eyes as usual are bloodshot from too much alcohol.

  “Good evening to you, too.” I give him a smile with nothing behind it but teeth. “You okay?” It’s a question I ask every day to show I care.

  “What’s it to do with you?” He starts to wheel himself away.

  As I watch the back of his head, a wave of loneliness sweeps through me.

  We live side-by-side like strangers sharing an apartment. It kills me to watch him slip away one day at a time. I live in constant fear that one day he could end up dying the way my mother did, that I’ll walk into the apartment to find him choked on his own vomit or worse.

  That’s one horror scene I’ll never be able to get out of my head no matter how many years pass between my mother’s death and the present. If history ever repeats itself, I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it a second time.

  When I enter the kitchen, dropping my bag on the counter, I hear the squeaking sound of his wheelchair at the door.

  I turn with a small smile. “Did you have something to eat?”

  “I was waiting for you.” His voice is flat. “I sent you a text to bring me pizza. Didn’t you read it?” The ever-present slur in his voice distorts his words.

  “I did read your text.” I pull a pan from a cabinet. “But I wanted to make spaghetti with pesto sauce.”

  “Stop treating me like a freaking child. I said I want pizza.”

  The bite in his voice makes me turn, fire burning in my eyes. “No, Ryan. You are a twenty-four-year-old grown man, who has chosen to let his life rot. You stay here all day doing nothing but playing games and eating unhealthy food that messes with your health. Don’t you care about your life at all?”

  A sneer stretches across his face. “What’s the point?”

  “You’re my brother. I love you.” I lean against the counter. “If you don’t want to do it for yourself, do it for me.”

  “What have you done for me lately?”

  I reel inwardly as though slapped hard across the face.

  “That’s right, Paige. All you do is whine about this and that. ‘Ryan, you eat too much junk food.’ ‘Ryan, you watch too much TV.’ ‘Ryan, stop playing games all day and get some sleep.’ All you do is whine in my face. Frankly, I don’t get why you even care.”

  “I’m not in the mood to go through this with you tonight.” I ignore the lump blocking my throat. “I’ll cook dinner and you will eat it.”

  He watches me for a moment, then swivels himself around, returning to the living room without another word to me.

  Seconds later I hear the sounds of gunshots as he plays one of his favorite games. For someone who’s been shot, it surprises me that he chooses to surround himself with violence.

  Once the food is ready, the aroma of herbs and spices swirl in the air.
I fill his plate with food and take it to him in the living room, the steam curling upward to warm my face. I wish he could join me at the kitchen table, but we never eat together.

  I pull the coffee table close to his wheelchair and lower the food on top of it. Ryan glances at the meal and looks up at me with disgust.

  “Take it away,” he demands.

  “I’ll not do that. I made an effort to cook for you. At least taste it.” I straighten up, a hand pressed on my aching lower back.

  “Fine. If you won’t get rid of your damn food, I will.” He swings back his hand and then brings it forward. It collides with the plate and sends it crashing to the wooden floor next to my feet. The ceramic plate snaps in half and the sauce flies through the air. Some of it lands on my bare legs. The strands of spaghetti crawl across the floor like worms.

  I jump back, but rage courses through my veins as I glare at him. “You can’t always have everything you want. I work hard to look after you, but the only thing you do is throw it all in my face. It’s time you start showing some appreciation.”

  “Are you actually surprised about the way I’m acting?” He tightens his grip around the armrests of his chair. “I don’t see why you should be. Isn’t it your fault that I’m in this damn chair?”

  He wheels himself from the living room. Moments later, his bedroom door slams against the doorframe.

  I won’t see him again for the rest of the evening. He’ll stay in there until I go to bed. Then he’ll return to the living room to continue drinking until he passes out.

  Tomorrow, it’ll start all over again—the insults, the pain, the regrets.

  With tears sliding down my cheeks, I clean up the mess he made. The mess I made.

  Chapter 3

  My eyes are sore and heavy when I force them open to face a day I’d rather not be a part of.

  I sink deeper into the pillows. If only I could stay buried under the warm, comforting duvet. The cold fingers of fear wrap themselves around my heart, clawing, tearing, digging into my already tender flesh.

  Ryan doesn’t have to be in the room for me to feel his presence. I’m completely surrounded by him, consumed by his anger and pain, the hatred in his eyes.

  As hard as today will be, I have no choice but to get through it one labored breath at a time. No choice but to live the life I am given.

  I pull myself up in bed and lean against the headboard. Eyes squeezed shut, I send up a little prayer that ends with me whispering words of encouragement to myself.

  “You’ve got this, Paige Wilson. You don’t have to feel strength to be strong. What’s one more day?”

  I open my eyes and watch the slivers of sunlight slice through the place where my heavy drapes meet in the middle.

  Maybe today will be different. It could be one of Ryan’s good days, even if those are few and far between.

  I can’t remember the last time I saw him smile. The sound of his happy laughter is a distant memory.

  I drag myself out of bed, placing first one foot onto the worn-out carpeted floor and then the other, holding onto the edge of the bed for support as I continue to force air into my lungs. Then I push myself to a standing position and launch into the life I’ve been handed.

  One thing that gets me through every single day is doing without thinking too much about it. Today will be no different.

  I take a long shower, longer than I’d planned. I have two hours to spare before I leave for work. Getting up early helps me feel more in control of my life.

  After the hot shower, I brush my teeth, and rinse out the sour taste of bile lingering at the back of my throat.

  Back inside the bedroom, I throw open the window and stick my head out into the clean, early June air. The air is thinner outside, scented with freshly-mowed grass, damp earth, and traces of sea air. It flows into my lungs without hindrance, diluting the stagnant air inside me.

  Ned Porter, the landlord’s teenage son, is out in the garden, mowing the lawn for the third time this week.

  As usual, he’s wearing his black knitted hat, pulled low over his big forehead. His upper body is shirtless; his skin scorched by the sun as he spends so much time gardening.

  I smile at him. No harm in pretending to be happy. In fact, my mind might actually be fooled into believing it.

  I step away from the window, still determined to remain positive, choosing happiness instead of misery.

  As I slip into one of my black dresses, I scramble inside my head for happy memories to hang on to. Nothing comes to mind.

  With my bag on my shoulder, I head to the kitchen to make breakfast. I’ll make Ryan’s favorite—Eggs Benedict. It’s been a while since I did that for him. Hopefully a little treat will make the day go by smoother.

  Just as I’m done preparing the meal, Ryan wheels himself into the kitchen. My stomach recoils from the stink of alcohol that detaches itself from his body and mingles with the warm aroma of eggs and bacon hanging in the air around me.

  “Morning, Ryan.” I pretend last night didn’t happen.

  He glares at me, but no words leave his lips.

  My stomach clenches at his non-response, my earlier confidence and hope crashing at my feet, splintering into a thousand broken moments.

  I turn back to the stove—fake smile still frozen on my face—and silently count to ten, steel myself, and turn to him again.

  He’s now pushed himself closer to the oak kitchen table. Like my heart, it has also been the object of his abuse over the past two years. On his worst days, he had slammed his fist against the wood, driven knives into it, or scratched the surface with forks to let out his frustrations.

  He’s still glaring at me, but his eyes are flat, as though he doesn’t see me at all.

  “I made your favorite breakfast today.” My voice sounds unnatural to my ears. I’m pretty sure Ryan can see right through me.

  He knows me better than anyone else. He knows my fears and which buttons to press.

  I lower his plate of food in front of him and pour him a glass of fresh orange juice. Then I switch on the small radio by the window. Pop music floods the kitchen, but it fails to flush the tension out of the room.

  When I look back at Ryan, I find his plate empty, the food I’d served him on the table next to it.

  Something inside me snaps. There’s a pounding in my ears as I cross the room in a flash and slam my fist on the table. The plate and glass rattle on the wood in reaction to my rage. “Why are you doing this?”

  A sneer curls a corner of his lips as I meet his gaze. His eyes remind me of those of a snake. In them I don’t see my brother at all—just an angry, bitter stranger.

  Gritting my teeth, I start to clean the table, but then I stop, throw my hands in the air, and let them drop again. “No,” I say. “I won’t do this again. I’m not your maid. Clean up your own mess.” My hands clench and unclench at my sides. “All I do is try to make you happy and comfortable. And what do you do? You do the exact opposite for me. It’s so unfair, Ryan.”

  “You think that’s unfair?” His laughter makes the air between us vibrate. “You brought this upon yourself. Don’t forget it was you who put me in this damn chair.” His nostrils flare with each word. “I’m chained to you, Sis. Whether you like it or not, I’m the noose around your neck. If I’m miserable, I’ll make damn sure you’re miserable, too. Want to know what’s fair? When you hurt as much as I do.”

  His words are chilled around the edge, cold as ice, sharp as knives. He means every one of them. He’s determined to inflict more pain. I’m not sure how long I can handle it before I break.

  “Enough!” I point a shaking finger at him. “That’s enough. I’ve had it with being blamed for what happened to you.” I yank his wheelchair away from the table, spin it around to face me, my hand planted on the armrest, my head so close that his warm, booze-tainted breath hits my face. “You are responsible for this. It was you who made friends with the wrong people, you who took money from them to buy God knows wh
at. It was you who messed up your own life.” I catch my breath. “Yes, I refused to give you money that night and it was well within my rights. All you did was take and you flushed all the money I worked so hard for down the toilet every single time. That night was the last straw.” My teeth are clenched so tight my jaw aches. “I’m done tiptoeing around you. You got to this place because of your own bad decisions. It’s time for you to face the consequences. I’m no longer carrying them for you. Being in a wheelchair is not an excuse for you to throw away your life or to be disrespectful. I—”

  Before I can say the next word, Ryan rounds his mouth, and spits into my face. “Go to hell where you belong.”

  The palm of my hand itches to meet the skin of his cheek, but I count to five and stumble away from him as if burned, my hand wiping away the slimy saliva now making its way down the side of my face, catching it before it drips off.

  Fear and regret harden in the center of my chest. I can’t take this. I need to get away from him before I forget myself.

  Removing myself from the toxic environment, I stomp out of the kitchen and burst into the living room. For a moment I stand there, catching my breath, pulling myself together.

  I hear the squeak of his wheelchair entering the room. Our eyes lock. He gives me that smile again—the one that eats away at my soul.

  Still not ready to be in the same room as him, I push past him toward the door. Before I exit the room, I make the mistake of glancing back.

  His smile is wider, more spine-chilling.

  “You can’t get rid of me,” he says. “You’ll pay for what you did. I’ll make your life a living hell.”

  I slam the front door shut, but his words and toxic laughter grip my entire body as I escape from the apartment to my car. Since I’m in no position to drive, I sit in my personal space, eyes closed, until I’m calm enough.

  Breathe, Paige. All you have to do is breathe.

  When I open my eyes again, still rattled, I glance up at the living room window on the fourth floor, and there he is, watching me.