Chapter 21: And the Rains Came Down

Alexander looked down at the plate before him. On it were eggs, lightly scrambled, with large grains of salt scattered on top. There wasn't enough pepper on it. There was bacon, not burnt enough. There was toast, with frozen slabs of butter slowly melting into the soft slice. It looked wonderful. He wasn't interested.

He put a forkful of eggs into his mouth. They didn't taste like anything at all.

He put the fork down, and placed his head in his hands. “Every time I eat breakfast, I think I'm going to be happy, but I never am.” It came out mumbled.

Miranda was still scrambling some eggs for herself. “I didn't hear that,” she said, brightly. Alexander pressed his palms into his eyes. Silver and red lights sprang into being.

The night before, he and Miranda had stayed up, drinking the hot chocolate that his sister had made. She never came out of her room, but Calvin had, and went right to the couch to read. It was as if Calvin didn't notice that Miranda and he were there, which suited Alexander just fine.

Miranda had went to bed after finishing her second mug of hot chocolate, but Alexander hadn't. He had poured some Comfort into his hot chocolate from the flask in his coat pocket, and drank at the table by himself. He then had went outside in his pajamas, taking his flask, but leaving the winter coat behind him on the table.

He had hoped that the Comfort would help him to feel something, but it didn't. There had been a part of him that felt pleasant, but there was a larger part that was on the outside, watching, scornful and somewhat sad. That's why he had went outside. He wanted to feel something, right down to his core. And so he had sat on the porch, letting the cold pierce his chest. As he had breathed, he let the frosty air travel into his lungs. The cold jolted through his body with every breath, making his eyes water and his ears hurt. And still that detached part of him didn't care.

He sat there for a while, looking up at the spinning light. It looked terribly far away. Alexandria had talked about hiking up there, but that night, watching it wax and wane in the dark Wyoming sky, he doubted whether it could be done. There were no stars. Only the light, spinning and spinning.

Miranda's voice brought him out of his mind again. “You're not hungry?” She had finished making her share, and had sat down to eat.

“I am not,” he said, straightening up. He was, though. He was terribly hungry, but he wasn't prepared to extend the effort it would take to eat the bland, terrible food. “Sorry, it looks delicious.”

She nodded, and started to eat the food she had served for herself.

His sister and Calvin had left in the early hours. Alexander had heard them leave, at around sunrise. They hadn't woken him up.

“You ok?” It was Miranda. He wished she would stop asking things like that. No, he wasn't okay. But there wasn't a thing she could do about it, so why worry her with his? If she wanted to be the girl who was helpful, and a pillar of strength to her boyfriend in a time of sadness, he was fine to let her have that thought. She could have whatever story she wanted.

He forced himself to smile. “Yes, I'm fine. I'm just tired, I couldn't get to sleep last night. The altitude, I expect.”

She looked down, and continued eating. He looked down too, sullen.

What would Alexandria and Calvin remember of this trip? Would they remember the long hike they took, together, probably hand in hand the whole way? Would they remember making hot chocolate and drinking while staying warm under the twinkling Wyoming sky?

What did they remember about other events of the past, like Theresa's dinner party? Would they remember washing preparing the meal together, or the silly game related arguments of the night?

Alexander didn't remember those things. He barely remembered the game; he barely remembered walking Miranda home; he barely remembered the snow. He could remember it if he really thought about it, but that wasn't what was immediately recalled when thinking about the night.

He remembered drinking the brews on the Observation Walk.

What would he remember of last night, in the years to come?

He wouldn't remember the spinning light. He wouldn't remember cuddling with Miranda, trying to stay warm as the thick cold descended with the night. He would remember drinking brews on the porch outside.

This was a hell of a story he had made for himself.

He heard Miranda get up, and clatter the dishes in the sink. The noise hurt his ears; he winced.

“I can't do this anymore.”

He looked up. Miranda was leaning against the sink, tears beginning to stream down her face. He was hurting her, and he knew it. But he didn't care.

“I've tried everything, Al, almost everything I can think of. I don't know what you need.” She moved closer to him, kneeling down. She placed her hand on Alexander's leg. He barely noticed it.

“Please tell me, please. What is going on? What can I help with?”

He couldn't even remember what was wrong. When had this started? Why did he feel this way?

She took a deep breath. “Al, do you remember the conversation we all had at Theresa's?”

“I remember talking about stories,” he said slowly.

“We talked about the brews,” she said. “You said it helped people change their story. You said that it would turn a happy story into a sad one. I think it would help you change yours. Your story seems very sad to me right now, and I don't know how else to fix it.”

It didn't really change stories, Alexander knew. It just made you read them in a different way. The brews were watercolor paints, in bright and gaudy colors, all the colors that anyone could ask for. But the stone carving of time and choice was still there, unchanged, even after any amount of distracting and transforming paint that lay upon it had washed away after a cold rain.

And then Miranda's words really hit him. He looked up.

“You think I should start drinking the brews?”

“Yes,” she said. The smile reached up to her watery eyes. “There's something physically wrong with you, Al, something that no amount of convincing can fix. You have a chemical problem. You need a chemical solution.”

Alexander stared off, remembering a story from a book he had once read. A man goes to a doctor. The man says he is depressed, that life is harsh, cruel, and short. That he can't see a way out. That he seems deeply and totally alone in a threatening world, a world where the only things that lie in front of him are vague and uncertain. The doctor says that the treatment for this problem is simple. There is a clown, one called Pagliacci, who is in town that night. He recommends that this sad man goes to see the clown, which should cheer him right up. The man looks up and says, “But, doctor, I am Pagliacci.”

Some part of him felt like he should probably feel sadder about all this. Some part of him felt very thirsty. And that detached part of him, the untouchable inner menace from the night before, that part just looked down, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

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