Rain had so much hate in her heart after that day in the woods. It was a monster just barely caged in her brain, raging, knocking things around. She didn’t know how she could live with that much rage in her; it was a black fog over her life. Everything that once seemed beautiful or fun or funny was just ash. Who would she be now if her parents hadn’t gotten her the help she needed? She didn’t know, didn’t want to know.
Her father took off his glasses, those eternal round specs. “I did hate him—then. But now I understand what it’s like to have demons. To let them control you. I forgive him.”
He looked at her uncertainly, like maybe he was worried he’d said too much. It was late; he’d woken up with her after her nightmare, made her some warm milk. Now they sat on the porch together, looking up at the starry sky.
“I can’t forgive him,” she said. “I won’t.”
“No,” he said gravely. “That’s different. I won’t forgive Eugene Kreskey either. How can we?”
He reached for her hand. His hand was big and strong, enveloping her own.
“Look,” he said. “Let’s keep it practical. When the memories come, say this to yourself—I am not that girl. I am not in that place. It is behind me, part of my past. I survived because I am strong.”
But it wasn’t true. She’d survived because she was weak. She’d tried to explain this to her therapist, to her parents. No one seemed to understand that. You were a child, Lara. What else could you have done? She could imagine at least a million scenarios where things could have gone differently. Still, that mantra, it worked. It never failed to give her a little jolt, a boost out of the mire of her memories. Rain guessed the old man wasn’t a total failure as a father. Maybe she was too hard on him.
Finally, she just gave up on sleep. Who needs it when there’s coffee?
She extracted herself from the warmth of her husband’s arms and left the bedroom. She checked on Lily, then went to the room she and Greg used as an office, sat at her desk and checked her email. Nothing from Henry. She sent him a message, knowing him to be a chronic insomniac, and definitely not one to complain about 3 a.m. missives. Just a subject line: Did you forget about me?
She hesitated before going down the rabbit hole of social media. Did she really want to open that browser and get sucked into the vortex of Everyone Else—all the pretty lies, half-truths, curated moments, bravado, faux-humble braggadocio. Had she ever emerged from a social media romp with her self-esteem intact? No.
But she went anyway, wading through the lives of old school friends on whom, but for social media, she’d never have laid eyes again, colleagues who were doing (way, way) better than she was—or so it seemed, former editors she’d never really liked, distant cousins she hadn’t seen in a decade. The cavalcade of filtered images—trips to Venice, recipes for a Tuesday night, pots prettily bubbling on stoves, perfectly decorated rooms, pictures of children in all manner of comic mischief.
Rain’s own picture of Lily covered in sweet potatoes had earned her 250 thumbs up, hearts and laughing emojis. She was pathetically pleased, started scrolling through the comments. A note from her old friend, journalist Sarah Wright: What a cutie! Motherhood is the most important job in the world! The heart-eyed emoji! Rain clicked on Sarah’s page.
Honored and stunned that my feature on the opioid epidemic has been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in Journalism. Am I dreaming?
Rain already knew about the nomination, of course. It was everywhere. And Sarah deserved it. She’d been working her ass off for decades. So, how was it possible to be happy for someone—because Sarah was a great person and a stellar journalist, and her series was, simply put, brilliant—and yet still feel a dump of despair so total that you almost needed to lie down. Sarah’s kids had been more or less raised by nannies and by Sarah’s mother—a fact over which Sarah herself had voiced poignant regret and had even written about. According to Gillian—who knew everything about everyone—Sarah’s daughter had just dropped out of Princeton and was living in Sarah’s basement. Sarah’s son, according to Gillian, didn’t even speak to her.
Women make choices, said Gillian, single and childless, by choice. We must. Do