Rain

Rain


Dreams are places in the universe of the mind; places ruled neither by time nor natural laws. In dreams, you can look down from a great height, and see yourself moving, ghostlike; you, but not you. You move among strangers and friends, people of the present, and people of the past. In dreams, nothing and everything is real.

One psychologist, whose name I can no longer recall, says that dreams are for helping you cope with your reality.

I, Ireland O'Reilly, am a woman moving in a dream.

This year spring is late. Even now, in May, the days are still cold. The house is warm, but she still shivers. She steps closer to the window and looks out. It is raining. She usually feels indifferent about rain, but today it comforts her, the gentle sound of it against the window. and the pattern of narrow, crossing paths made by drops that slide down the glass. She puts her arms on the sill, and rests her forehead against the window pane.

She marks the passage of time since Tomas died. More than four months have gone by since then, she realizes. Sometimes, she doesn't believe he's gone. She thinks of things she wants to tell him and often gets halfway through dialling his telephone number before she remembers. She will hang up the phone, and turn slowly, feeling a dull ache inside her. She feels alone now.

There's her husband of course, but Sebastian can't reach her where she is. He can speak to her, and be kind to her, but he cannot comfort her. He is confused and troubled by the openness of her grief. If he ever has pain of his own, she knows that he carefully conceals it, trying to hide it, even from himself. It's always been this way for him, she understands. A great builder of walls, Sebastian.

Sebastian, behind your walls, I can't reach you, either

She remembers how it had been when their son, John, died.

How long ago was that? Thirteen years.

Sebastian hadn't cried.

At John's funeral, Tomas had cried. It was the only time she had ever seen him cry.

I remember you crying for my baby, Tomas. You cried for him when his own father couldn't.

She is not certain that she completely understands this, even now. She only knows that she has been profoundly affected by it.

Tomas had helped her move forward after John. She had relied on his steadfastness, his compassion. Their already close friendship had grown.

He told her things, he'd confessed once, that he did not tell his wife. Certainly, she told him things that she would never tell Sebastian. Sometimes it would be a trivial thing, and sometimes a serious one; the nature of a secret made no difference. They carefully guarded each other's confidences, sharing them with no one. Like children, she thinks, whispering confessions in secret hiding-places.

Don't tell anyone, but I took the two biggest apples from the basket. See? Here's one for you.

She lifts her head and looks outside again. She remembers a day in May, nearly fifteen years ago, now. Like today, it was raining, but the air had been warm. That year spring had come early.

The day, she recalls, was a Saturday. It was afternoon when Tomas had arrived at her front door insisting it was a perfect day for a walk through the park.

Spring was his favourite season. He told her after long, cold Scandinavian winters when he'd been a child and now, after long Canadian winters, he liked to see everything turning green and coming back to life. In the park, he knelt to look at plants. He would touch the new, wet leaves, and tell her the name, if he knew.

Most of all, he said, he loved the spring rain. He would put his head back and let the raindrops fall onto his face.

"Try it, Ireland," he said.

She felt silly at first, standing there staring up at the wool-grey sky. It felt good.

"I wish my baby was born, so he could feel this, too," she said.

"You know it's going to be a boy, then?"

"No, but I hope so."

"Will you name your baby after me?" he asked, teasing.

She told him that her baby boy would be named John.

"John Tomas, then?"

She laughed and linked arms with him, and they walked slowly on through the rain. "John Sebastian," she said.

"Like Bach?"

"Something like."

A comfortable quietness settled in between them then. Often, they didn't need words. Sometimes it was easier to speak through looks, and smiles, and linked arms.

He led her across the grass, toward a large tree. "What's this tree?" she said.

He touched it. "It's an oak," he said. "A very old one, but perfect for leaning on. I thought you'd want to rest for a minute, before we go up the hill."

It was remarkable, she thought, that he always seemed to know what she needed, often before she knew it herself. She leaned against the tree's straight, broad trunk.

"The baby's moving," she said, speaking half to herself.

Tomas turned his curious gaze toward her. "Will you let me feel him move, Ireland?"

She remembers that she'd been taken aback by the request. "What? You've felt a baby move before. Your own children."

"Yes."

"Then why—“

He gave her his innocent smile. "Don't you know?" he said. "I like touching miracles."

Yes, she decided, that must be true. She had never known anyone like him, who found so much joy in simple things. It seemed he could let the world be constantly miraculous and new to him; a grown man seeing through the eager eyes of a child.

She took the hand of her friend, and gently placed it on her belly. They both smiled, Tomas and she. They stood together in the spring rain, and she felt an indelible closeness to this man who gazed at her in wonder, as if he'd never before felt the motion of an unborn child.

She cannot picture Sebastian looking at her this way. She supposes Sebastian has always been grave. She imagines him as a serious child, with old aunts constantly exclaiming, "How grown up he is!" Sebastian's father would look solemnly on his son, allowing only the tiniest bit of pride to show in his eyes. His mother would kiss the top of his head, and tell him he was a good boy. Hugs would be rare. Life and love...all of it governed by formality.

The thought troubles her, and she feels a sudden pity for the child she has imagined. She must remind herself that the child is a man, now. He admits no personal weakness. He will not acknowledge her pity. In deference to the man, she tries to push thoughts of the child away.

She turns from the window and looks around the room. She's always liked this room, Sebastian's study, with its ivory-coloured walls, and tall bookshelves, and Sebastian's degrees on the wall behind the desk. She’s even become fond of the eagle; the sculpture, a gift from Sebastian's father. Perched there on the desk, wearing its stern expression, it reminds her of Sebastian.

There are many pictures. Sebastian lets her keep them here, in the room with her Tennyson, Yeats, and Frost, and his dusty law books, and her potted fern, and his big oak desk. There is a picture on the desk, another on the wall, and still others on a shelf.

She likes the ones on the shelf the best. These are photographs in frames, many of them given to her by family and friends. Her favourite is one that Tomas' wife, Emily, has given her. Their daughter had taken the picture, she recalls. In the foreground, Ireland, Tomas, Emily, and even Sebastian are all smiling. In the background, there's a Christmas tree.

She lets her gaze move from photograph to photograph. Tiny images of kin and friends look back at her. A cousin and his wife hold hands on their wedding day. A young, shy Sebastian holds his infant son, John. An uncle, now departed, laughs at the jesting of some unseen photographer. Tomas, his arms around Emily and Ireland, flashes his characteristic grin.

People of the present, and people of the past...

Many mythologies say death is a river everyone must cross. It is never revealed to us at what time we must cross, only that, inevitably, everyone must make the crossing.

You were too young, Tomas. The river took you away too soon.

At the end, Tomas asked for her.

His wife, Emily, looked tired and old in the strange light of the hospital corridor. "He wants to see you."

Ireland said, "I won't stay long."

Emily touched her. "Stay as long as you need to."

"Thank you.”

Ireland felt awkward as she walked into the room and sat in the chair next to his bed. She lifted his hand, and held it.

"Tomas?"

He opened his eyes. He gave her a slight smile. "Ireland," he said. He murmured words to her that she could not understand.

Had he been dreaming when she awakened him? Dreaming perhaps of his home country, or of his family. She tried to smile. She felt certain that anything she said could not possibly be right, but she asked, "How are you?"

He murmured, “Very tired."

"I shouldn't have wakened you."

"It's all right," he said. "I wanted to see you. I'm glad you came."

"You knew I would come.”

"Yes, I know," he said. "You're a good friend to me."

She spoke with honesty. "So are you."

Again, he gave her that brief smile. He tightened his hand around hers. "Wherever I go, I want to remember this," he said.

"Holding my hand?"

"Yes, and having your friendship. I just wanted to tell you..." He closed his eyes, and let his voice trail off, as if even speaking tired him.

She was quiet, waiting for him to finish.

He opened his eyes again.

"I just wanted to tell you," he whispered. "I love you."

She squeezed his hand. "Me too."

"Would you stay with me for a while?"

"Yes," she said. "I'll stay."

They said nothing more. Hands joined, they were surrounded by their comfortable silence. Soon, his breathing became even and slow, and his grip on her fingers relaxed, and she knew he was asleep. She eased her hand gently out of his grasp.

She left the room. Emily was still in the corridor.

"He's sleeping," she said.

Emily didn't speak. She raised her tired eyes to meet Ireland's, and then slowly moved past her, into the shadowy room.

Tomas. I miss you, friend.

She goes outside and stands in the rain. If Sebastian, or anyone, should see her, she does not care. She walks to the middle of the yard, looks into the sky, and lets the spring raindrops fall onto her face.