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Authors: Lizzy Charles

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Bring the Rain (15 page)

BOOK: Bring the Rain
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He shrugs, stepping out of the soot. “It’ll work out. The crew has been taking care of what needs to be done. There’s nothing we can do to make it rain.”

“How about a rain dance?” Colt strings his thumbs through his belt loops, and wiggles his feet with a dorky smile.

Dad furrows his brow. “Really, Autumn? Him?”

“Looks like it, huh?”

 

***

 

 

Grace is a genius. I rotate the wooden handle of the umbrella she bought me, watching the shadow spin while the shadow of the plastic bag I hold wavers on the ground. The shadow from the large golf umbrella is a genius idea. This begs to be sketched.

Art has saved me since the fire. Mom had my real art supplies in the mail before I even asked for them. She sent everything-- the sketchbooks, painting pads and pallets, watercolors, acrylics, pencils, and a portable easel. I’ve already filled one sketchbook. With a little more pressure in my strokes and a new expectation that what I sketch will never look like my subject, I’m finally finding my way in art.

Colt’s truck sputters around the corner. “Ready?” he asks as he hops out and opens my door.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.” I slide in the front seat, not telling him how I have to do it and how I’ll never get the image from my mind if I don’t. The ash and the empty skyline begs me to tend to it.

“Okay, then.”

He drives without the radio, his hand covering mine. Millions of nerve endings stand at attention in my palm, begging for more but savoring the brush and warmth of his skin. The experience of his touch amazing me. How does he make me feel so much?

We pull up in front of the ruined home. The sun hovers over the horizon, our timing perfect. I climb out of the truck with care, my skin tingling in the sun. I pop open the umbrella and lean against the bumper. A loud clang and grunt come from the back of the truck.

“Sorry,” Colt says as he lifts the easel from the truck bed. “It got stuck.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s industrial grade.”

“Where do ya want it?”

I take a few steps to the left to place the ruins of my childhood home off-center. Figuring out the placement for the rule of thirds is key to an eye-catching work of art. “Right here would be great, thanks.”

He fumbles with a latch on the easel. One of the bottom poles slides out and thuds to the ground while the top refuses to unfold. “Shit.” He says under his breath. He’s adorable while he struggles. “Sorry for the cuss.”

I try to suppress my smile at the easel beating up a cowboy. That should be sketched too.

I put down the umbrella for a moment to help him unfold it. The sun’s dipping now so my skin won’t need the shade much longer. My pencils fit neatly on the tray resting under my largest sketchbook. I wrap my fingers around my favorite pencil, then study the absence of the house before me. The sunset’s bold tonight, bleeding reds and oranges and the beams rise out of the dust, the only clue that the pile of ash used to be my home now that Dad’s moved the appliances away. The blank page is daunting. How do I capture this with a few pencil strikes?

The ash.

I put my pencil down.

Yes. Ash is the answer.

“Whoa, where you going?” Colt says as I wander away from the easel.

“You’ll see.” I step over the edge of the wreckage and dip my fingers in the soft gray, rubbing the fine ash together. The powder blends with the natural oil from my skin. This is what the blank page needs.

I fill my palm and bring it back, pulling out my pallet. I squat on the ground, putting my scoop of grey flakes onto it. Colt hands over my water bottle.

He gets it.

I drip water on the mound and squeeze some black acrylic paint on top, mixing the ash with my finger to make a thick dark substance. Perfect. I dig in the plastic bag, pulling out my watercolors. They won’t be as bold as the colors above us, but it’s what I need to make the ash work into how the sky’s bleeding right now.

“You can sit in the truck if you want. Maybe listen to the radio or read? I won’t be too long.”

I turn toward the easel, switching out the sketchpad to my empty painting pad. With a medium bristled brush, I begin. I put extra weight into the lines when painting the charred beams. It’s brilliant, so thick it rises out from the paper. Good. I want to be able to feel it.

I paint, rotating between the ash sludge and my watercolors. They run together, dripping down the paper. The sky’s colors blend into the dark ash, which swirls in the water that pools against it. 

I’m lost, almost manic and I try to capture the bleeding darkness. I layer on the paste of ash in the lower right corner, skipping what my teacher would consider details but find the intricacy in the depth of application. People will need to touch this painting to understand it.

Something’s still missing from the sky though.

Screw it. I mix more mediums, reaching for my red acrylic paint. It doesn’t blend well with the watercolor but the thing's technically an artistic mess, so who cares? There, now the sun screams my anger about the scene before me. It’s a brutal flame compared to the swirling watery sky and ash below.

The world––begging for water, in this ugly, drought.

It’s a disaster and the most real, living piece of art I’ve ever created.

I love it.

Colt’s palm finds the center of my back. … I had no idea he’d been watching me the whole time.

“You are incredible.” He whispers. He wipes away the wetness on my cheek. Tears I didn’t know I’d cried. “Beautiful.”

He leans in then, his lips find mine. Everything swirls. His kiss is electric but gentle, passionate but soft. I respond with force, throwing Yes’s into my kiss.

Yes. This is what I want.

Yes. Colt. You.

Yes. Finally.

He pulls away gently. I focus on a slow, steady breath. I don’t need a coughing fit right now.

“You kissed me.” I say as I step into his arm, resting my head against his beating heart. “Why?”

“Because.” He reaches out to the painting. “This is you.”

His arms embrace my lower back and we stand studying the messy, bold art.

“What do you call it?”

“Where the Sun Burns.”

 

Grace helps
me into one of the sleeveless tops she bought in town, careful to keep it from touching my skin. I grab it from below, sliding it over a bandeau strapless bra she also found at Walmart. “Thank you.”

“So...” she sits on the bed, hands folded in her lap, “What does your father think you’ll be able to do?”

“I don’t know. Watch?”

“Don’t forget your sunglasses. And take my hat; it’s hanging on the front porch.” She shifts on the edge of the bed, straightening the blanket below. She’s not the lingering sort.

“Is everything okay, Grace?”

“I like having you here, Autumn.”

“Thanks, I like being here.”

She repositions a decorative pillow, her lips pressed firmly together.

“But?” I know there’s more, Grace hates decorating. She is a kind woman-- with an opinion, and it’ll either come when I ask for it or when I don’t want it. “Does this have to do with my relationship with Colt?” She caught us kissing yesterday in the kitchen.

“No. Your father actually.”

“Oh,” I say, my voice flat now.

“I’m glad you will be spending more time with him. He misses you.”

“Misses me? Grace, it’s not like I go anywhere.” Ever.

“You two aren’t connecting.”

“That’s not really my fault though, is it? I mean… He’s the dad.”

“Autumn, yes, he’s your father, but he’s also a man. You’ve got to fight to break down his wall.”

“Fight for him? Listen, Grace, I know you mean well but you couldn’t be more off. He’s a nice guy, but he’s distant. He just sits there.”

“Missing you.”

“But I’m here.”

“Okay,” she says. “I get it. How about this? Take your own wall down. Give him a chance to really communicate with you.”

“I am. I'll be around while he builds his house.”

“No Autumn, a real chance.”

“Why?”

“Because he deserves it.”

“Really? He deserves it?” My face flushes and I can feel the vein in my forehead throb. I suck in the spot on the inside of my cheek, ready to gnaw.

Grace gets up from the bed, keeping an awkward distance but reaching out to touch my wrist. “Take a breath, Autumn. I know you’ve been through a lot.”

“Yeah, a fire.” I snap.

She nods. “Yes. And a divorce.”

“Grace, I’m sorry, but you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“True. I may not know all the details, but I do know that not a day has passed in the five years I’ve known your father where he hasn’t spoken about you. Now you’re here and he’s silent.”

Silent.


Like I’m a disappointment?

“He’s lost cattle, he’s lost his barn and home, and he may lose the ranch. I’m just saying; don’t let him lose you too. Okay?” She smiles at me and gives my forearm a squeeze.

Like I’m supposed to miraculously find him cattle, rebuild his house, and save the family business. Right now, I can’t even put on my own tank top.

“I know you’ll do the right thing,” Grace says before she leaves the room.

The right thing? What a horrible pep talk.

So now if I go to Paris, I’m doing the wrong thing.

What’s wrong is making a kid choose between their parents! There is no right choice. Dad or Mom. Oklahoma or Paris. I’m sixteen years old… it’s hard enough. What the hell were they thinking when they decided to let me choose?

I pick up the tube of mascara off Colt’s dresser and my finger brushes the corner of his father's photo, knocking it over face up. His father gazes at me, in full baseball uniform. There’s a relaxed aura about him, reminding me so much of Colt. It’s got to kill Colt every day not having him around. At least mine’s still here, even if he is sitting alone every night on the front porch. 

The silence though? Grace is right—it’s my fault. It was easy to pass it off because of the fire, but my inability to stay put in the same room with him for more than a few minutes is telling. After all of those years, now that I’m finally here I’m much better in theory than in truth. What if he regrets every cent he spent to get me back?

The door creeks and my hand falters, the mascara wand feathers black on my cheek.

“Ready, Autumn?” Dad asks.

“Yeah,” I try not to squeak. “I just need a minute.”

The door clicks closed and I take a deep breath. Okay, a day with Dad and the Oklahoma sun, a day with a father I’ve disappointed. Is it even worth trying to impress him anymore? Not that I ever really tried before. I never thought I had to, since he’s my dad and him loving me should be a given, but right now I don’t know if I even want to. A daughter shouldn’t have to work hard to impress her father.

The world isn’t supposed to work like that.

But maybe it does.

When we pull up the old driveway, a group of men in yellow hats wave to us. “Who’re they?”

“The construction crew.” His words lift a thousand pounds off my shoulders. With a quick chuckle, he drives off-road, toward the back of the house. “You didn’t think I’d literally make you build a house with me alone, did you?”

I shift in my seat, the skin on my back brushing against the leather and I cringe as a lightning bolt of pain sears my flesh. I suck in a quick breath, counting as the pain fades.

“You okay?”

Ten … Eleven … Twelve. I let the air out slowly. Only twelve seconds this time. “Yeah, they’re getting shorter.”

“All right then. You ready?”

I nod, grabbing the handle to ease myself out of the truck. All the debris is gone now. Other than the few pieces of remaining cinderblock foundation and the stone hearth, you’d never know there’d been a house here. Huge piles of new boards, blocks, and a cement mixer stand where our front living room used to.

“Chris,” A man hollers from across the yard. “Plan A or B? The board bent to give us both permits, but we need the decision today.”

Dad looks down at me. “A or B?”

“Umm, B?” “B!” Dad shouts back.

“What’s the difference?” I ask while he unloads his tools from the truck.

“You’ll see.”

“Wait, is it like a bad versus good difference?" Because, I can’t handle an epic decision resting on me right now. What if plan A is the original floor plan and plan B includes a larger bedroom for me? My breathing quickens and air can’t enter easily. The coughing begins and I’m forced to bend over and grab my knees, desperate to get more air through. Dad dives into my bag, fumbling to get the spacer attached. It falls to the ground but I don’t care. I grab the med and poof it into my mouth in a slow deep breath. I cough a bit more before I do another. A few breaths later, and it’s like my lungs throw their doors open.

There. Air and my inhaler— my new best friends, especially since Gina’s gone AWOL since dating Josh.

“Feeling better?” Dad asks.

My heart races but this time my breathing stays steady. I don’t know what to think. Why would he leave this choice to me? He must value my opinion, but if he did, wouldn’t he tell me the components of the plan. “Dad, please. Choose the one you want.” He has to know that I’m not planning on staying here. It’s got to be his decision.

“B is my favorite. We’re sticking with that.” He yanks out a large canvas bag from the truck bed, tossing it over his shoulder. It clanks as he shifts to hull his tool box out. It’s weird watching him lift so effortlessly, sometimes I forget that he’s a strong cowboy. I follow him into the area I imagine was once our bathroom. Dad flips the bag over and large metal poles crash to the ground. He reaches in, pulling out a large bit of green canvas.

“A tent?”

“Yup. You can’t work and hold an umbrella, and I can’t have the sun getting you. Doctor’s orders.”

I don’t know whether to be thankful or embarrassed so I nod. All these younger construction guys will think I’m a wuss if I have to stay under the tent all day. But, the sun beating down on my back sounds way too excruciating. I know this tent’ll become my saving grace. I’ll just have to deal with the sickly girl persona and let the guys judge.

…Not that I need to impress them anyway. Still, it’d be nice to not need anything.

Dad hands me some poles and tells me where to put what. In a matter of minutes, we’ve assembled an open-air tent.

“So what next?”

“We dig.”

“What?”

“A hole.”

He returns to the truck, bringing back a shovel and a can of spray paint. I shield my eyes as he sprays small, purple circles on the ground, all equidistant apart. Shovels lie at our feet, and I can’t help but glance at the guys with a claw truck a few feet away. I suppress a groan. Of course we’ll be shoveling. 

“Here you go.” He hands me a bottle of water before he jams the shovel into the ground. With a quick grunt, his foot levers the dust and dirt from the earth.

“So when you mean ‘we dig’?”

“I mean,” he digs the shovel in again. “I dig and you drink.”

“Right.” Awesome, my entire day will be spent watching my father dig a hole.

“So,” he says. “How’s your art coming along?”

“Fine,” I shrug, but my heart picks up its beat. There’s no denying that painting this heap of beams and ash changed something in me—I can’t stop creating.

Colt’s tree in charcoal.

Grace’s hair blowing in the breeze.

The wrinkles around my Dad’s eyes.

My pieces have come alive.

I eye Dad, his wrinkles now in the shade of his cowboy hat. He’s clueless I sketch him. He was such an easy subject, now a permanent stoic fixture on Grace’s front porch, I couldn’t let those story-telling wrinkles go untold.

“Do you mind sharing your sketchbook with me someday?”

“Oh, sure. I assumed you’d already looked.” I leave the sketchbook everywhere. The paintings are in my room, but I want access to the sketchbook at all times now I’ve found the secret to making things pop. It’s always available. Colt’s little brother, Chase, looks through it all the time.

“No. I haven’t opened it, but I’d like to.” He wipes his forehead before jumping on the shovel to get a little deeper. “Last scoop,” he grunts while he jumps and lifts, dirt flicking up in the air. “There. Now the boards. I’ll need your help here.”

“Sure,” I follow him out from under the tent to the truck bed. Eight large square-ended boards lie at the bottom.

“Can you handle the end of this six by six?” he asks as he guides the board into my arms. It’s not too heavy. “Another?” I nod yes and another slips in. He grabs a handsaw while carrying the other ends back under the tent.

“Dad, what are we building?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

I draw a circle through the dust with my toe. For real? I’m so sick of these secrets.

“Hold here,” he hands me the end to hold while he measures and saws them clean apart. The saw work vibrates the bones in my wrist. “Hang on a sec.” He returns to his truck, this time coming back with a wheel barrel full of bags and jugs of water. “Cement,” he explains. He tips the supplies on the ground before ripping open a bag and pouring it back into the wheel barrel. Water follows, then he uses the shovel to mix it together.

“Why aren’t we using the cement mixer the construction dudes have?”

“That thing? Naw. I like it this way. I can feel when the cement is right. Ya know? I prefer the hands on approach.”

"Oh," I say. I’ve never gotten that mentality. It’s like saying you’d prefer to make your own bread when you live above a fresh bakery.

"It's more fun." He digs his shovel into the mix. 

I sit, drawing a rose in the dust while Dad turns the mixture over and over with his shovel. I can’t believe I left my sketchpad on the kitchen counter, I thought I’d be doing more than watching. Not that I can complain, it’s not like I wanted to do any building anyway.

“All right,” Dad holds out his hand. It’d be too rude for me to refuse it so I let him pull me up. “Can you hold this?” He slides one of the boards into the hole. The plank, as high as my chin, provides the perfect head rest while I hold it in place. Dad looks at me with an eye roll, “Sure, that works. Just keep the board still and straight.”

BOOK: Bring the Rain
2.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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