Rain Song Read Online Free PDF Page B

join Grable in the hall. She checks the bathroom and spare bedroom. She opens closets and cabinets, but there is no threeyear-old in any of them.
    There’s a light shining from under my closed bedroom door. I push the door open as Grable stands beside me. The door swings open to show us a small figure standing by my antique dresser, looking at her reflection in the mirror. In her arms is my cloth doll, Sazae, snuggled against her chest.
    Grable sweeps into the room. “Monet!” Her voice holds relief.
    Monet smiles at herself and turns from the mirror to say in a slow, yet loud tone, “Heellooo Maamm.”
    “Come on. We need to get home.”
    She squeezes the doll. “Okaaaa, Maaamm.”
    Grable attempts to put her daughter’s jacket on as Monet grasps tightly to Sazae. “Put the doll down.”
    “No!” Her teeth are clenched and her eyes narrow slits. Her hands clutch Sazae’s torso, and I am ready to grab my doll from her. She’s going to rip Sazae.
    Grable tries again. Her voice is calmer this time. “Monet, put the doll down.”
    “No!” Monet sinks her face into Sazae’s stomach. “My, my, my!” She lets out a monotone moan that evaporates into Sazae’s body.
    Slowly, it dawns on me that this wild child thinks the doll belongs to her, or wants it to be hers. It’s a doll and she’s a three-year-old girl. The two go together. It doesn’t take a team of Duke doctors to figure this out. I hear myself thinking above my fear for the doll’s safety: Give the doll to Monet. Any other adult would let the child take the doll. Keep it. After all, why would a thirty-one-year-old woman need a doll in her room?
    My throat clamps as I try to swallow the urge to rush over and snatch the doll from Monet’s little hands. Instead, I shoot a look at Grable. She’s the mom; she’ll handle this. She’d better.
    Grable crouches down to her daughter’s level. Her polished nails rest against Sazae’s black hair. “We must leave the doll here.” She looks at her daughter, although Monet’s face is still covered by Sazae’s body.
    There’s a muffled voice, and then tears. Screams follow, each one piercing. There’s movement—a kick and a stomp. And then Sazae is flung across the bedroom floor, her arm hitting the wall. She lands at the foot of my double bed.
    I gasp. Twice.
    In a heap in her mother’s arms, Monet sobs. Her face is now buried in Grable’s coat collar. Grable embraces Monet and stokes the child’s curls.
    I step back, using the wall to support my body. Aware of my rapid breathing, I suddenly pretend I’m not here, not in this scenario. Instead, I wonder how Claude Monet would paint this scene and what he would title the portrait. Peace After the Storm ? Terror Child Breaks Down ? Perhaps just a one-word title— Surrender.
    Monet’s wails subside and change into words, words I have to stretch my ears to comprehend. “Ma . . . Mammm.” She wipes her red nose against Grable’s hair. “Homm. Pleeeze. Go go homm.”
    Grable’s hands are steady as they ease her daughter’s arms into the sleeves of her jacket. “We will go home, Monet.” She zips the jacket and plants a kiss on Monet’s flushed, wet cheek. Taking the child by the hand, she glances my way and says with sincerity, “I’m sorry, Nicole.”
    Words won’t form, so I just nod.
    As they leave my house, I hear Monet calling for her doll. I watch from the living room window as Grable puts Monet in her car seat.
    I lean against the wall and hope it will hold me. “Oh, Mama. Oh, Mama.”
    If Mama were alive, I’d be normal. Instead, she’s gone and all I have from her is an old Japanese kimono doll. Mama gave Sazae to me way before I can remember. I have no idea why she chose this doll or why one of the silky kimono sleeves is shorter than the other. Most likely, I took scissors to it as a child. In the one photo I own of my mother and me—a black-and-white, wrinkled from the hands of time—only Sazae’s face shows. The doll’s