3. “Who’ll Stop The Rain”
Chapter 3
“Who’ll Stop The Rain”
Sascha - Age 6, 1976
I struggle to stifle my giggles, and a smile spreads across my face as I watch Michael’s cheeks redden with frustration. “You said you were coordinated,” I remind him playfully.
“I am!” he retorts, determined to prove himself. “Let’s try it again.”
“Alright,” I say, raising my hands in the air and demonstrating the hand motions to the rhyme. Michael follows along, his movements slightly awkward.
“Down by the bank of the hanky panky, where the bullfrogs jump from bank to banky…” he recites, making it through without a mistake but with a loud and exaggerated “KERPLOP!” We both dissolve into laughter, our bodies sinking onto the soft grass.
“Told you I could do it,” he boasts, nudging me with his shoulder.
“It only took you two days,” I tease.
“I’m not a girl. I don’t do girly stuff,” Michael defends himself jokingly. “I bet you couldn’t beat me at boy stuff.”
A sly smile spreads across my face as I raise an eyebrow challengingly. “There’s no such thing as girl and boy stuff. I bet I can beat you at anything.”
“So now you’re a comedian,” he chuckles. “There’s no way.”
“Oh really? Try me.”
With a smirk, he suggests, “Let’s play Red Rover at recess.”
I snort. “That’s not about coordination. It’s a game of trying not to get clotheslined, which is not on my list of things to do.”
Michael lets out a laugh before throwing out another challenge. “Okay then, what about basketball?”
I consider it for a moment before responding confidently, “Fine. But if I win, you have to wear a dress for an entire day.” The thought of Michael decked out in a frilly dress makes me smile.
He doubles over with laughter, clutching his stomach. “You’re not going to beat me. I’m the Kareem Abdul-Jabbar of this school.”
Now, it’s my turn to laugh uncontrollably. “Bet you a Marathon Bar that I can beat you in a game of HORSE.”
“You’re on,” he says, throwing a pile of grass into my hair.
Michael won. And he wasn’t gracious about it—although I suppose I wouldn’t have been, either. He made up a little song about how he’s better than me and followed me around, singing it in my ear until I elbowed him in the stomach.
We like to compete, especially in sports, but it’s all in fun. We make each other better and challenge each other to try harder, and that’s always good. He’s my best friend, and I wouldn’t trade him for the world.
Losing the bet didn’t go over well with Mom. She took me to the store and bought me the candy bar to give him the next day after lecturing me about the “pitfalls of making bets.” Still, she wouldn’t allow me to stiff him on our deal. “All you have in this life is your integrity, Sascha,” she likes to remind me.
I told her Michael didn’t beat me because I’m a girl, and she nodded because it’s the truth. He simply practices more than I do. He may have won HORSE, but he’s still no Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. I’ve already decided that I’m going to start practicing at recess and beat him the next time.
As we drive home from the grocery store in the quiet of the car, my mom turns to me and says, “Sascha, you know how sometimes we take in children who need help for a short time?”
I nod, understanding immediately. “The foster babies.” We’ve done it before, opening our home to children.
“Well,” she continues with a gentle smile, “there’s a child who could use our help right now. He’s about six months old and needs someone to look after him until his mother can sort some things out in her life.”
My heart swells at the thought of having a baby in the house. “That sounds good,” I tell her eagerly.
“However,” she warns, “he’s young, and he’s been through a lot. He’ll probably be a handful and may not sleep well at night.”
“That’s fine,” I say with a shrug. “I like the babies.”
“It’s kind of you to share your home with children who need it, Sascha. I’m proud of you.”
I beam under my mom’s words, but this isn’t new. My parents have taken in other kids for a long time.
When Mom and Dad were younger, they tried to have children but couldn’t. So, after many years, they decided to adopt a baby. That baby was me. It’s not a secret. They have been honest about it for as long as I can remember.
My birth mom was too young to take care of me. They have a few pictures of her; I can look at them if I’m ever sad. She was very young and alone and couldn’t take care of me, so she made the best choice she could. I’m happy with the family I have, and I’m happy to help other kids, especially the little ones. I’m excited to tell Michael about the baby. Maybe he’ll want to come over and play while the baby is here.
The following day, I tuck his favorite candy bar into my backpack, prepared to face any consequences of losing our bet. Kindergarten is almost over, and I’ve gotten to know my best friend very well. He’ll be gloating over his win for a long time.
But as the school day goes on, there’s no sign of Michael. It’s strange because neither of us has ever missed a school day. He’s been tardy a few times due to his dad’s oversleeping, but this is the first time either of us has been absent. I worry that he might be sick. As much as I enjoy spending time with my other friends, not seeing Michael today still fills me with sadness. His candy bar melts in my backpack, and I go home feeling not quite like myself.
I arrive at school the next day hoping to see Michael, but first, I have to stop by the office to bring them a note.
I stand patiently, my small body barely reaching the top of the counter. On my tiptoes, I strain to catch a glimpse of the secretary while clutching a yellow note from my mother, who gave me strict instructions to deliver it this morning.
I have a dentist appointment later today. It’s not the most exciting thing in the world, but it does mean I get to leave school early. As is the tradition in my house, any doctor or dentist appointment is always followed by a trip to McDonald’s. The thought of golden fries and crisp nuggets somehow makes it better.
Part of me wishes I could stay at school and play with Michael since he was absent yesterday, but I’m not sure if he’ll be here today either. I hope so, but so many kids have been getting sick since school started. My mom says it’s a normal part of being “tiny incubators in tennis shoes.”
But if he’s here, then I can tell him about the baby who’s coming to stay with us. His name is Dustin, and I can’t wait to hold him and feed him. Hopefully, Michael will want to come over and help me take care of Dustin.
Ugh. The silence in this office is starting to grate on my nerves. I fidget restlessly, chewing on my lip and shifting my weight from one foot to another. “Hello?” I call out into the emptiness, but only the echoes of my voice answer me. Where in the world is everyone? Maybe they all got eaten by zombies?
I silently tiptoe past the front desk, scanning the area for any signs of life. As I near the mail cubbies, I hear hushed voices and freeze in place. Peering around the corner, I see my teacher and a teacher I don’t recognize talking, both clutching steaming cups of morning coffee.
“Can you believe what happened with the Tazman family?” Mrs. Jones says to the woman wearing ugly yellow pants, her voice carrying through the area. Is she talking about Michael? The sound of his name suddenly makes my heart race and pound in my ears. I want it to slow down to hear what they’re saying.
“It’s just terrible.” The other woman sighs.
“I can’t say I’m surprised, though,” Mrs. Jones responds gravely. My curiosity peaks, and I strain to listen more closely to their conversation.
Mrs. Yellow Pant’s voice is full of sympathy as she speaks, her eyes focused on the coffee in her hands.
What happened? For the love of french fries, woman, be more specific!
“I hope they receive the support they desperately need,” Mrs. Jones replies.
“Especially Brian. He’s in my class, and he’s a real handful. It’s clear he struggles with anger and authority.”
Michael’s brother?
“I doubt it’s going to get any better. They’re already missing their mother, and now their father is probably going away for a long time.” Mrs. Jones sighs, her voice laced with sadness.
Going away where? Where is he going? Is Michael going somewhere?
My heart sinks at the realization that this must be why he wasn’t at school yesterday. Did his dad die? What happened to him?
A gentle tap on my shoulder startles me, and I jump in surprise, letting out a small squeak. Standing before me is the secretary, holding a donut in one hand and a stack of papers in the other.
“Can I assist you with something?” Her question catches me off guard, and I tremble as I meet her gaze. She crouches to my level, placing her donut on top of her papers on the ground. “Are you alright, sweetheart?” Her concern is evident in her tone. “You don’t look well.”
I shake my head frantically, gripping the note so tightly that it crumples into a ball.
“You’re flushed,” she remarks, noting my red cheeks and pale complexion. “Do you need to see the nurse?”
I shake my head again and find my voice. “I’d like to go home. I’m feeling sick,” I manage to choke out. And it’s not a lie—in just the past ten minutes, a wave of nausea has overcome me.
I wait anxiously in the stark, white nurse’s office for an eternity. The clock on the wall ticks away each second with agonizing slowness. Finally, after what feels like hours, the secretary shuffles in and places a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“Sascha, your mom is here,” she says softly.
I slide off the examination table and sling my backpack over my shoulder. My legs feel heavy like lead as I make my way to the door, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know something terrible has happened, and all I can think about is Michael and how he’s doing. The uncertainty and helplessness are tearing me apart.
Tears spring to my eyes when I see my mom crouched down, waiting for me outside the office. She wraps her arms around me tightly. “Hi, Bug. Let’s go home.”
As I settle into the backseat of our station wagon, I curl up into a ball and feel the tears start to fall. “Mom, do you know what happened to Michael’s father?” I choke out the words, afraid of the answer but needing to know.
My mom takes a deep breath before speaking, her voice gentle and comforting. “I did hear some ladies in the office talking,” she replies, meeting my gaze through the rearview mirror. “We’ll talk when we get home.”
“No,” I snap, I’m so frustrated and confused. I need to know what is happening. The crease in my brow deepens as I stare at her, demanding an answer.
Her eyebrows raise slightly as a reminder to watch my tone.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I’m just worried,” I say, my voice softer now.
“I know, sweetie,” she replies with genuine sweetness. She takes a deep breath and begins. “It seems Michael’s dad was in an accident two nights ago.”
My eyes grow wide with shock as my heart begins to race, threatening to burst out of my chest.
“What kind of accident?” I manage to say barely above a whisper.
“A car accident,” she replies with a heavy sigh.
“Did he...did he die?” I struggle to get the words out.
“No. I don’t think so. But he hurt some other people,” she explains calmly.
“Oh no! Are they alright?” I cry out, feeling panic rising within me.
“I’m not sure. From what I understand, Michael’s father was driving under the influence of drugs and alcohol, and he hit a family in another car. A mom, dad, and young child,” she says somberly.
My heart shatters into a million pieces at this tragic news. How could Michael’s father do something like this? Tears stream down my cheeks uncontrollably. “What’s going to happen to Michael’s dad?”
“Well, he may go to jail for a long time,” my mom responds gravely.
My head spins, and I’m filled with confusion and sorrow. What does this mean for my best friend?