The Shape of Rain

After the questionable Google Maps estimate, it felt about right for Mira for the journey to Bellweather to be as long as it was. She'd run on 4 hours of sleep and gas station coffee, and numbed herself after crying on the Indiana border. This kind of numbing was special. A storm in the quiet of the night. Of course, it doesn't mean the storm was over. It was just waiting for its time to be done. The rental's air freshener was artificial pine. She had the windows down despite the coming rain. Looking at the sky reminded her of the lead fog covering the trees in the distance, and she knew the rain was coming. The low fog made it look like the trees had somewhere to be. The town is always slow to appear. First is the water tower with Bellweather in faded blue. Follow that with a diner advertising soup with a hand-lettered sign next to a gas station. Then the old houses finally came. Deep porches and bare November trees in the yards. Behind the buildings, a dark, fast river finally came. Recognition, not comfort, hit her chest and let her know she was finally somewhere real. Her aunt's bookstore was on Carver Street, just two blocks from the river, illegally placed between a laundromat and what used to be a pharmacy, and sold only candles now. The sign above the door was hand-painted and nearly unreadable, nothing remaining in the letters but FINCH & FERN BOOKS. The lights were shining, and Mira could see through the glass. The shelves were crammed and organized from floor to ceiling, and probably made sense to only the person who had put them there. For a moment, she didn't move from the car. She had actually been doing that a lot more recently. She had been putting things off after arriving and getting stuck in a location not ready to step into whatever was next. She used to pay a therapist, and when the payments stopped, she cut her off. She would gladly pay to have that therapist back and have her approach expanded. She was self-aware and had given it all a long thought; she had issues with the whole gungho of existing and being a living, breathing organism amongst and in society. Her Aunt Ruth had stepped out of the bookstore after the door opened. Ruth Bennett had clearly made peace and had long since accepted that she had better things to think about after sixty-three years. She had reading glasses, but she did not care enough about them that they were perched atop her head like a second pair. She was definitely not waving. Her face said it all through the window. I can see you. You have ten seconds before I come out. Mira stepped out of the car. They were close enough that Ruth could see Mira better. "You look terrible." "Thanks." "I mean it. You look like you drove seventeen hours." "Fourteen." "You didn't sleep at all?" "Some." Ruth always did this when they were younger. She put her hands on Mira's face in her old classic pose. Ruth must have heard some old story in her face. Whatever it was, it must have been interesting. After reading whatever story there was, she pulled Mira in for a hug. This hug lasted a long time, much longer than Mira expected. Mira couldn't bring herself to end the hug. "Come inside," Ruth said after the long, tight hug. "I made soup." Six weeks ago, Ruth lost her husband, David, to a heart attack. The doctors tried to comfort Ruth after the heart attack. David was healthy at sixty-seven. "He was healthy at sixty-seven." David should have blown out sixty-eight birthday candles. Ruth made the phone call at nine on a Tuesday morning. David is dead. It sounded like a call she always played. David is dead. David co-owned the bookstore with them. David managed the books and organized them all while Ruth managed the book selections. The bookstore was a thirty-one-year labor of love from them; the book café that Ruth created was unreported and a minor health code violation. Without David, for six weeks, Ruth was able to manage by simply trying not to think about it. There is such a thing as an effective strategy—until it is not effective anymore. ff Mira came because she was, by far, the closest thing Ruth had to family. And, because—she had not said this to anyone (for good reason)—she had nowhere else to go. Mira left her publishing job in April. At least, that was what her LinkedIn profile said. In a sense, that was the truth. No one caused her to leave. The reality of the situation was that she had been disappearing from that job so slowly that, one day, the meeting she had sat in about Q3 catalog projections was when she realized she could not even recall the last time someone or something had ever piqued her interest. That included the books, the people, and even her own opinions. She was in a two-year relationship with a man named Marcus, but when she tried to describe their relationship, the words that came out were always variations on fine, it’s good, and he’s nice. These words definitely lacked passion and were a sign not of a woman in love, but of a woman trying to keep the relationship going. Ruth had also simplified the furnishing of her apartment. Ruth had moved forward with the changes. But she had no idea what was ahead. At least, it felt so to her. So, here she was. In Bellweather, population nine thousand, there was a river, a bookstore, and a soup that Ruth had made from scratch because that was her way of showing love, specifically, her way of showing love by means of hot food and quiet, but extremely thoughtful, not to say curt, silence. Mira and someone else were sitting at a table in the back of a*****e. It had started raining while Mira was taking things out of her car. The rain was falling softly and steadily, making a clicking sound against the window above the shelves. The sound was really calm and peaceful, and it made the store feel cozy. They just sat there, listening to the rain and looking out the window. Mira spoke up, "I'm not sure how much longer I'll be staying." Ruth didn't even look up as she tore a piece of bread, her voice simple: "I know." I'm here to support you until you get everything sorted out. "Mira." "What." "I know," Ruth said. Patient. Entirely unconvinced. That first night, Mira slept in the apartment above the store. Two rooms, a slanted ceiling, a radiator that knocked like someone working on a boat inside the walls. She lay in the dark listening to the town existing around her and felt not happy, not yet, but located. Like she was somewhere instead of between places. She planned to stay with Ruth until she was back on her feet, which would probably take a few weeks, or maybe even a month. This is the thing about plans. She met Elliot Vale on her fourth day. Mira had to go all the way to Saint Agnes Hospital, thanks to Ruth sending her there to reschedule an appointment she had forgotten about. It wasn't anything too serious, just a sprained wrist she got back in October. So, Mira walked six blocks in the rain, which was pretty miserable. She had an umbrella with her, but it didn't exactly do its job; it turned inside out not once, but twice. She was standing at the reception desk, going over some details, when she heard a faint noise behind her. It wasn't loud or dramatic, just the soft sound of a paper cup hitting the floor. Then, she saw the coffee spreading slowly across the linoleum, forming a small brown puddle. What really caught her attention, though, was the tired sigh that followed the kind of sound someone makes when they're just too exhausted to be properly annoyed or frustrated. It was a relatable moment, one that seemed to say, "Really, is this happening now?" She turned. He was hunched down beside the vending machine, his eyes fixed on the cup in his hand with a look of quiet confirmation, as if he'd finally stumbled upon something he'd been suspecting for a long time. His dark hair was messy and pushed back, revealing a face that wasn't particularly striking at first glance, but somehow drew you in, making you want to take a second look. He wore a pair of scrubs under an open white coat, which added to his unassuming demeanor, yet there was something about him that made you curious, something that made you wonder what his story was. She crossed the lobby without deciding to and held out a small stack of gas station napkins. He glanced up at them, then his gaze shifted to her, his eyes locking onto hers, which were a deep grey, reminiscent of the river flowing outside, its calm surface reflecting the same serene hue. "He spoke in a low tone, his voice a little rough around the edges, as he said, 'Thank you.'" She always had a bunch of napkins on her; it was just something she did. And normally, it wasn't something she felt like she had to explain, but for some reason, she brought it up anyway. He stood. " I'm Elliot." "Mira." As she waited, the receptionist finally called out her name, so she turned around to face the desk, but then her gaze shifted back to him, her attention drawn in two different directions at once. "I've just arrived," she said with a casual tone. "It's not permanent, just a temporary thing. But for now, I'm here to stay." She had no idea why she said that. "I've been here for four years now," he said with a shrug. "It's okay, I guess," a decent spot to hang out for a while, but I wouldn't want to stay forever." She didn't know what that meant. She walked over to the desk, but when she turned around, he had vanished into thin air, swept away to some other place, just like hospital staff always seem to be - one minute they're there, the next they're gone. She walked home in the rain, thinking about the word temporarily and how he'd said it like someone with opinions on the subject. The bookstore's windows glowed with a warm, golden light from the inside. Mira paused for a moment outside, gazing up at the sign above the door, and felt a tiny spark of something she couldn't quite put her finger on, a feeling that would linger for months before she could finally give it a name. As she stood there, the soft glow of the windows seemed to beckon her inside, drawing her in with a sense of promise and possibility. Not hope exactly. More like: oh. The small, unprepared feeling of something beginning.