Page 1 of The Promise Of Rain
Prologue
Jenny
Sitting on the sagging, threadbare couch across from her, I buried my face in my hands.
Reciting the whole, sorry affair reduced me to a quivering, blubbery mess.Perched on the edge of the thin seat cushion, I worked to steady my breathing and find my calm.I worked even harder to repress the memories of what that couch had witnessed over the years.
I shuddered at the thought and fished a tissue out of my pocket.
That couch had been on its last legs for a decade or more.At least it stuck around longer than any of the men in her life.
Men could be so cruel.And after this past week, I no longer believed there was a limit.
I still didn’t know why I was here, but the longer I cried, the more convinced I became it was a waste of hope.
I wrapped my old cardigan around me tighter as I rocked myself.That sweater was almost as old as the couch, but it was the only thing I had that didn’t cling.
And it was long, shielding me nearly to my knees.
My mom hated it on sight.
You won’t get a man if you dress like a housewife, Jenny.
While her words remained embedded in my brain from years of hearing them, it was rare that she and I spoke.
Rarer still that I visited.
Today, she had summoned me.
I almost hadn’t come.
But there’s a fierce need in the heart of every child that’s near impossible to kill; a deep longing for their mother’s healing touch.
If there was ever a time I needed it, it was now.
I wiped the tears from my face with the ragged edge of my sweater sleeve and blew out a long, slow breath.
Because that healing touch didn’t appear to be coming.
“Look at me, Jenny,” she demanded, her voice raspy.
I tipped my head up and took her in.
Is this my future?
Contemplating me, she narrowed her eyes.
After so much time had passed, it was odd to sit across from her in the hell that used to be my whole world.
It seemed so small now.
The lines framing my mother’s once pretty mouth, stained from the bleed of her signature hot pink lipstick, deepened as she dragged on her cigarette.Lifting her chin, she blew the smoke above her head and dangled the cigarette between two fingers.
I’d seen pictures of her when she was young, how beautiful she was.
How happy.
I could even remember, if I concentrated, a time when she had nursed hope.
