Tell it to the Rain

The house is dark, just like the rest of Forks.

Macaroni and cheese in microwave trays is the welcome home dinner.

The staircase is still narrow. The fourth step still creaks. There's still only one bathroom in the whole house.

Dad gives me dibs. He always does.

And here I am, under the energy-saver fluorescent bulb, staring into the mirror with a mouth full of toothbrush and toothpaste suds, and my mind is yelling at my dad. Why do you stay here? This house is so depressing! Why the f – do you stay? Maybe it's my mom's voice that I'm hearing. I can't tell. It all blends together. Mom hates it when I use the f–word. Washes my mouth out with soap if I do.

We didn't move far, at first, you know. Well, I guess it's not all that close. I keep forgetting what a big state Washington is. But we really just went off the peninsula and over the mountain. To the other side of the Cascades. The rain shadow side. A little town named White Swan. Just upriver from another little town called Sunnyside. I'm not making this up. You can look for yourself on Google Maps.

I remember my mom saying, "That old bear is comin' over the mountain. You'll see. Town's got his name on it for Chrissakes." If she ran the words together like that, it wasn't swearing. And then she'd giggle and hug me. My dad's name is Charlie Swan. He never came. And I got teased big time in first and second grade for having the same name as the town. And Bella. "Bella-COOLA," they used to call me. The boys making a sound like chimpanzees hooting. That was third grade. I'm not Bella Coola. Or any other tribe. My hair and eyes may be dark, but I am paleface all the way. Even in Phoenix, I never got tan, just a little rosy in the cheeks. But I don't want to talk bad about White Swan. Jenny Mahoney lives there. Or I think she does. Maybe she's moved, too, by now. We were bffs. I've got the friendship bracelet to prove it.

End of third grade, my mom up and says, "Screw that man!" We moved to Salt Lake. I cried all the way there.

The house is like a drum. You can hear every raindrop that hits its roof. And I can feel my dad outside the bathroom door, now. Wondering if he should knock and ask me if I'm done.

"I'm almost done, Dad," I call, in my good girl voice. I wipe my face, and the little bit that dripped on my Tinkerbell pajama shirt, and pack it up. All my girl stuff is going back to my room with me. I'm going to live here for eighteen months and never leave my stuff in the bathroom. What was I thinking?

Dad ruffles my hair as I go by. He never does that, not since I started to get what on my body passes for breasts. I don't look up. What the hell am I doing here if I'm not even going to look him in the eye? But I can't. Not yet, anyway.

"I put an extra quilt on the foot of your bed, there, Bells. Just in case."

"Thanks, Dad."

And here's my room. Just the way I left it three years ago. No, four. My middle school career ended almost before it began. We moved to this place outside Santa Cruz where they had what they called "Junior High" for grades 7, 8 and 9. Never finished that, either. By the time I got to Phoenix, it was back to regular old high school in 9th grade.

So all the stuff on the walls is kid stuff. Pictures of horses from the dude ranch in Cali where I'd wished I'd been that summer, instead of Forks. There's a little crocheted something or other that I never finished, laying on the nightstand. I hope he at least dusted in here.

I've put all my bathroom stuff back in the pouch in the side of my luggage. My white, eyelet shirt is all folded neatly, and I find I'm still holding it against my chest. Its white is almost hidden in the looseness of my pajama shirt, and under the covers where I am right now, curled up, my knees up tight. I do need that extra quilt. None of them are very thick anyway.

I turn off the light, and it's pretty much pitch black. The nearest house down the road is hidden by trees. The nightlight I had when I was a little kid doesn't work. The bulb's probably out. I'm too proud to ask my dad for a new one tonight.

And the rain is still drumming, softer now, just enough to make you sad. Just enough to call up every random, retro little scrap of poetry or song I've got swirling around in the hidey-hole inside my head.

Il pleure dans mon coeur comme il pleut sur la ville …

Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain, telling me just what a fool I've been ...

And while the future's there for anyone to change, still, you know, it seems It would be easier sometimes to change the past …

And I've got the quilt all stuffed into my mouth, 'cause that's the way to do it if you don't want anyone to hear. And I wonder if all the tears and the wet that are getting on it will somehow miraculously dry by the time I crawl back in here tomorrow night.

And I know I'm going to look like death warmed over for my first day at school in the morning.

NOTES:

Il pleur dans mon coeur comme il pleut sur la ville ... High school French class relic, beware the English translations - colon / / allpoetry dot com / It-Rains-in-My-Heart- (Il-pleure-dans-mon-coeur)

Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain ... Rhythm of the Rain, by the Cascades - colon / / en dot wikipedia dot org / wiki / Rhythm_of_the_Rain

And while the future's there ... Fountain of Sorrow, by Jackson Browne - colon / / www dot azlyrics dot com / lyrics / jacksonbrowne / fountainofsorrow dot html