Page 11 of The Grief We Hold

I’m with a black-haired girl.

And Raven is the name I mutter as I come.

4

RAVEN

“Remind me why we didn’t move somewhere sunny all year round,” I complain to myself as I dash into kindergarten to collect Fen.

Water pours along the gutters and down the storm drains. It bounces off the sidewalk and stings my skin. The news this morning said it was the wettest April on record, and I can seriously believe it.

The rush does little to help my unsettled stomach. I hope I don’t have the bug Sue, one of the other women at the diner, has. She called in sick—literally, according to Margie. Said Sue threw up right in the middle of the call and Margie heard everything.

I swallow as the weird flavor of too much saliva fills my mouth.

“Not now,” I mutter and continue my speed-walking ascent up the hill.

My waterproof coat does its thing, but water drips down my face. The umbrella in my hand is utterly useless after being blown inside out within minutes of leaving the diner.

My sneakers squelch, and I wish I’d had the space to bring my lovely waterproof boots with me.

When I finally get there, Pauline, the administrator, stands beneath to porch of the school with Fen in his yellow raincoat.

“Hey. The diner was a mad rush. Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.” I look to Fen, who appears as miserable as I feel. “You doing okay, buddy?”

“I’m cold.” He runs his hand beneath his nose, and I wish I had a tissue to help him out.

“Yeah, this rain is something else. But it’s nearly spring, and it’s going to get warmer soon.”

“Do you have a minute, Raven?” Pauline asks.

“Sure. Is there a problem?”

Pauline glances at her watch. “Because we’re only a small school with a limited number of children in the programs, it helps all of us if parents are on time.”

My stomach churns. I hate confrontation, especially when I know I’m in the wrong. I’ve spent the last seven years being made to feel stupid. “I’m sorry. One of the other servers didn’t show up for her shift because she has the stomach flu.”

“And yesterday it was the bus.”

I went to the next town over to shop at a larger store for better discounts, and when I ran for the bus, bags in hand, the bus pulled out, leaving me behind. “Public transport and I have issues.”

Pauline nods, but there isn’t understanding on her face. In fact, she looks like she sucked on a lemon. “I understand, but think of the example you are setting for your son.”

As I always did in front of my husband, I shrink myself. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better tomorrow.”

Her raised eyebrow suggests she doesn’t believe me. Maybe I’ll ask Margie if I can start and end my shift fifteen minutes earlier.

Fen’s hand is cold in mine as I hustle him down the steps into the rain for the miserable mile walk home.

“I can’t see, Momma,” Fen complains in a shout.

“Just pull your hood over your eyes,” I say. I don’t want to pick him up. He’s five, but not small. A piggyback might work, but my jacket is slippery wet, and he’s not the only one struggling to face the walk.

My hood blows off my head, and my hair whips around my face.

“Fuck me,” I mutter beneath my breath.

A truck drives by, too close to the curb. The puddled rainwater rises in a giant wave and drops over the two of us.

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