Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher 3)

“Mom,” I reply. “I’m here.”

“I know you’re there, son. Good God, do you think I’m an idiot?”

That’s something no one could ever call my mother. “No, ma’am,” I reply. “I just didn’t expect the call.”

“I’ve been leaving messages all week.”

“I was going to call you back.”

She makes a rude noise into the phone, one that she would have slapped me for if I’d made it in her presence. “Sure, you were.” I hear a rustling on the other end. “Here,” she says, and it sounds like she’s a few feet away from the phone. “He’s there. Say hello,” she prompts.

“Dad?” Mitchell says, his voice quiet.

“Hey,” I reply. My voice cracks, and I have to stop and clear my throat. “How’s it going?”

“Umm, okay, I guess. Nana said I could call.”

“I’m glad you did.” I sit up and cross my legs, my heart racing in my chest. “Did you have a good day?”

He holds the phone away from his mouth and asks my mother, “Did I have a good day?”

I hear her throaty chuckle. “You did. Tell him about going to the zoo with your other grandparents last weekend.”

I freeze. He went somewhere with them? When did she start letting him go with them? And why didn’t she tell me?

He begins a conversation, tells me all about the bears, the lions, the penguins, and the chocolate-covered ants he ate in the snack bar. Apparently, it was insect week at the zoo.

“Your grandmother let

you eat ants?” I ask. I can’t imagine Imogene and Derrick letting him breathe without one hand guiding how he does it, much less allowing him to eat ants.

“I had two. There was a limit.” He yawns into the phone.

“I’m really glad you called,” I say, as my heart starts to slow down to a normal rate.

“You are?” he asks, and the fact that he has to ask makes me hurt deep inside.

“You can call me anytime,” I tell him. I pay for a phone when I don’t even have a house, just so my mother can get ahold of me in case of an emergency.

“You mean that?”

“Anytime,” I repeat, and I mean it in the depths of my soul.

“Will you come and see me soon?”

“Well, I’d like to,” I say. “But—” I’m about to make an excuse about why I can’t, but he cuts me off.

“When do you want to come?”

“Umm…”

My mother’s voice rings out as she takes the phone from him. “Don’t make a promise if you’re not going to keep it,” she warns me. Then she hands the phone back to Mitchell.

“I have a baseball game next weekend. You could come and watch.” His voice is tiny and hopeful.

“I don’t know if I can do that, Mitchell,” I say. I squeeze my eyes shut. I want desperately to see him, but I’m not ready. He’s not ready. Nobody is ready. And the people in the small town where I know he’ll be playing ball are not ready to see me. They’d probably as soon spit on me as look at me.

“Why not?” he asks.