Page 4 of We Redeemed the Rain

Because the trouble in my life didn’t start with that tropical storm. It was just the reason I looked down and realized I was soaked and alone. It’s painful to be honest with myself—to admit the trouble was there long before, starting with and stemming from my mother.

A kid wants to believe his mama does right. Wants to believe she has his best interests at heart. And I did—through hell and high water—I fooled myself into thinking she cared.

I suppose kids are born with innate loyalty running through their veins.

The truth was, my mama didn’t give a rat’s ass about her boys. I was well into adulthood before I made peace with that reality.

The rollingfht, fht, fht,of her lighter is forever seared into my memory. The anxious tremble as she clenched a cigarette between her lips, the inhale of relief, the following sigh. Mama’s face was perpetually worn, exhausted. She wore the oppression and martyrdom of motherhood on her sleeve like a badge. When baby Cooper would cry, she’d angrily flick his chubby leg then thrust his squirming body into my arms, hollering, “Get him quiet.”

I always did.

Cooper and I were raised like free range cattle. Mama didn’t care where we went or what we were up to. As long as we weren’t underfoot, asking for anything, or causing any kind of inconvenience whatsoever. Pretty sure her favorite part of being a parent was the dole—Medicaid, food stamps, housing vouchers.

I could never figure out where our food stamps went. As a kid, I didn’t recognize the difference between drunk and high. But looking back, I can see her buzzes tipped—one right into the other. My gut says she traded the stamps for drugs.

Between her part-time waitressing job, her boyfriends, and alcohol—she didn’t have time for kids. Sometimes, she’d thrust a handful of rumpled dollar bills into my hand and slur. “Take Coop to the store to—get some—bread and milk and stuff. Alright?”

Mama must've thought we were made of bread and milk and stuff, because that’s the only thing she ever really provided. She’d take an occasional bare minimum grocery trip and would sometimes grab food from the community pantry or off a willing boyfriend. But overall, Coop and I were on our own.

Wherever I walked, I walked with my head down, looking for coins and pocketing pennies. Every night before bed, I emptied my pockets into an old coffee can like it was a religious rite. I didn’t have high hopes for that money, no big goals. I just wanted to be able to visit the corner market and buy bread. Because more often than not, there were no wadded bills from Mama’s job. No stamps. No boyfriends.

My school hosted a food drive for the needy every fall. We’d have a barrel in the hallway where kids dumped cans of green beans, creamed corn, and cranberry sauce for the holidays. It took me days to drum up the courage, but eventually it was as natural as breathing. I’d stop at the barrel, unzip my backpack and lean as if I was donating. But I packed cans in, not out.

That barrel saved us many times. And I owe all the generous families at Shelby Cartwright Elementary for making sure Coop and I didn’t starve through the winter. Crazy thing was Mama never asked where the Campbell's alphabet soup came from.

This neglect is where the rain in my life started. Desperatepeople do desperate shit. And I was desperate on every level a kid could be. The gnawing hunger was so much deeper than physiological. Relationally, I was starving to death. Craving affection like my next heartbeat depended on it. I wanted someone—anyone—to value me.

And maybe that’s why I was so easily bought.

Cooper and I were rough-housing on the living room floor. We would’ve been outside, but it was September and about ninety-five degrees. When the back door swung open and Mama’s laugh, high-pitched and flirtatious, filled the air, we froze with Cooper’s head smooshed into the dirty carpet beneath my thigh.

Mama wore a rare smile. A man, stocky with a whisper of beer belly, escorted her through our back door. He had blonde hair, MacGyver-like. He was ruggedly handsome with a winning smile. At the time, I noticed none of that. My eyes snapped to the grocery bags hanging over his free elbow—Walmart plastic.

Cooper scrambled out of my pin and raced over to Mama. Offered his usual greeting for her, a hug. Sometimes his enthusiasm was matched, typically it wasn’t. He ran to her because he was only seven at the time and didn’t know how to hold a grudge yet.

I hung back.

“Hi, buddy.” She grabbed Cooper up into a hug then gently pushed him back in order to show the man where to drop the bags.

“Come here, Sam.” Even though she smiled and waved me into the kitchen, I saw the frantic strain in her eyes. The silent plead,be polite or pay.

“Boys, I want you to meet someone.” She stroked the man’s arm, chest puffing with pride over her catch. “This is Sloan Henry.” She beamed up at him. “We met at the café a few nights ago.”

Sloan stooped down next to Cooper, fist-bumping him. “Hey, man.”

“I’m Cooper.”

“Good to meet you, Cooper. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Hestraightened and his eyes flicked to me. He extended his hand. “And you must be the man of the house.”

The man of the house? I’d never been called such a thing. Certainly didn’t see myself that way. But something about being called a man drummed up a sense of responsibility for Mama and Cooper, on top of the invisible burden I already quivered beneath.

I hesitated, then lifted my hand.

“Yes, sir. Name’s Sam.”

“Great to meet you, Sam.” He glanced around the room pointedly. “It’s clear you take good care of this place.”

It took two seconds for me to internalize that. Because I did. I put all I had into making sure we were all going to be alright. Felt good to be recognized.

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