The Rain

 

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is “when the snow melts.”

Along with several short story collections, books of poetry, and two novels, Cathy has published three anthologies under her imprint, MacKenzie Publishing. The latest one is titled NO ONE SHOULD KISS A FROG, available on Amazon and other retailers—300 pages of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry by 75 authors around the world.  She also has a call out for submissions for another anthology to be published in 2024, to be titled SUCH A LOSS. Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further information.

 

Soon, Cathy will lay Melvin to rest—didn’t happen in the last post, but it might now!

 

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The Rain

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

“Can’t believe the rain today, Marie. And tomorrow we’re getting more.”

“I know. What’s up with that? It’s still March.” She glanced at her phone. “March twenty-second, to be exact. When in the world do we get rain in March?”

“I know. Unreal.” He giggled. “Want to go for a walk in the rain, Marie?”

“Not now, Melvin. I’m busy.”

Melvin smiled, secretly happy she said no. Not that she’d ever want to walk in the rain. The scenario reminded him of a couple of weeks ago when he’d asked if she wanted to go for a trek in the snow. And, man, the snow was unbelievable. Today, he had no intention of going out. Not in the rain. He wasn’t Fred Astaire (at least, not today) and Marie would never be Ginger. No dancing in the rain today!

He plopped back into his LazyBoy. Marie traipsed off to wherever it was she traipsed to. He was glad of the quiet. Jimmy was at Adam’s. Seemed he lived at that kid’s house. But Melvin would never complain about that. Was nice to have his son out of the house, even for a few hours.

He didn’t know he dozed until he awoke. And the dream wafted over him.

What the heck?

He closed his eyes. Let the dream waft over him again. How he’d gone down to the lake and found Penny—or was it Sophie?—whatever, whichever, whoever it had been: it was the one who liked pink. He’d found the pink snowsuit. Penny! It was his daughter Penny who favoured pink; Sophie preferred purple. Had they been gone that long that he couldn’t remember their favourite colours? What the hell was wrong with him?

A sudden urgent urge to view the lake came over him. Had to be Kailani, right? She was calling him. Yearning for him...

He lowered the footrest and jumped from the recliner. Duty called! The lake called.

Must not let on to Marie, he thought. No, just go. Don your raincoat and galoshes and go! Perhaps an umbrella? No, he hated umbrellas. They always reminded him of Mary Poppins thrust high into the sky. Dratted umbrellas...

He looked out the window. The rain had lessened. A mere drizzle.

He trudged down the path, slogging through the mush, reached the clearing, and carefully went down the slippery rough-hewn steps. The lake stretched before him. Appeared frozen but, as he was quite aware, the lake’s looks were deceiving, and he had no intention of walking that far out.

He was here in the hopes of finding Kailani.

He might look for Penny in her pink snowsuit, too. She wouldn’t be wearing a pink bikini this soon, that’s for sure. Had he really—REALLY?—found his daughter? At least two feet of snow still remained on the shore. Did he want to tromp through that?

“The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost entered his head, just as it had a couple of weeks earlier when he’d gone to the lake. When Marie declined the invite. She should’ve been with him then. Even now. He shouldn’t be here alone. He’d never shared that he’d found Penny. Should he look for her, haul her back to the house as if he were a cat with a mouse, and drop her at Marie’s feet?

He wanted to bash his head in with a hammer. What the heck was he thinking?

Kailani would help his disposition.

“Kailani, where are you?” He shouldn’t be marring the pristine stillness. But where was she?

Only two paths: one toward the lake, one back to the house.

He took the path most travelled...

And then he woke. Again. He rubbed his eyes and massaged his head. His entire body ached as if he’d been in a car crash. What the heck? He felt his clothing. His jeans: wet. Drenched! And he wasn’t in his recliner any longer either; he was prone on the floor. On the cold tile. In the foyer. Had he fallen? Bumped his head and passed out? But he was soaked...

I give up, he thought. “Goodbye, Kailani,” he mumbled. “Goodbye. For the last time, goodbye!” He was sick of dreaming and hoping for the what-ifs. Sick of Kailani and the hold she had on him. He was confident when he woke—truly awoke—he’d be clean and dry and he’d hear his daughters’ laughter. And the world would be a better place.

 

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The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/