You Can’t Catch Rain

Tides break out onto shores. Soft glows of amber light extend their nimble limbs, clambering at her bare feet. She cannot outrun them. She is clutched in their sinister grip disguised as a phantom touch.

Wisps of charcoal clouds buttress the sky in preparation for a tempest—unheeded, unconquered. Threads pull at the seams, close to their breaking point.

Thunder collapses and joins with the tides. The threads come undone, and they become a downpour. They are a sign of healing the world and breaking it apart.

The girl, still in the clutch of her phantom, doesn’t know which she prefers.

~

Rain splintered my skin open.

I had forgotten my umbrella. The taxi driver had already sped off in a hurry—somehow knowing not to overstay their welcome. I took one final glance at the car’s retreating back, its taillights gleaming against the wet, pothole-ridden tarmac.

Cupping my free hand over my eyes, I looked at the house before me. It was a single-story structure built on low, wide stilts with a raised porch wrapping around its entire circumference. The neighbouring houses, each separated by flower beds and sagging metal fences, were similar in architecture though varied in their sizes.

I hurried up the creaking stairs, taking out a set of keys from my jacket pocket. A fluorescent light hung from the awning, casting an eerie glow around the leaves of the potted plants and the rattan mat by the door that said WELCOME in neat block letters. The keys clinked against each other. My hammering heart would not slow down.

A click of the lock, and the door swung open silently. The scent of cardamom and star anise whirled passed as I took a step over the threshold. A lamp was left switched on at the far corner, a mellow orange heartbeat keeping the living room alive. Boxes yet to be folded leaned against the left wall while several assembled stacks surrounded the couch and coffee table. Rings of old stains—whether tea or coffee, I couldn’t quite tell—marred the white table despite a box of coasters kept on it. Some habits die hard.

I toed off my shoes and closed the door, hanging my soaked jacket behind it and dumping my duffle bag next to the couch.

The farther in I walked, the stronger the smell of smoke and spices. Fumbling for the light switch in the kitchen, I squinted my eyes at the bright light that flickered on just as the buzz of electricity filled my ears. On the small dining table sat a food cover with a note stuck to its surface: Went to bed. Here’s some food.

My eyes traced the swirls of the letters, the thickness of the lines. There was a splotch of ink that Mama had left on the paper after the word food. I pursed my lips, my gaze drifting to the bowls of white rice and lauk sitting complacent under the shelter of the mesh cover. Maybe it was the rain or the late night, but I was hungry. I washed my hands and began to eat.

As soon as I tasted the salted fish and curry and white rice, I released a deep breath. The rich combination of the flavours seeped into my senses, cocooning me like a warm blanket on a chilly night. For this moment, my unease about returning home flittered away.

Finished with dinner and leftovers and plates kept away, I manoeuvred around the cluttered living room, grabbed my bag, and trudged through the short hallway to the right of the kitchen. I took care not to look at the first room I passed as I walked into my childhood bedroom.

~

The sky cries and heaves. Its screams beg for mercy, demands vengeance.

The girl stands paralysed. She is a butterfly trapped in a glass cage, wings clipped and tied. Amber light reaches for her again, and she tries to run, climb. All the while, letters, words—they scatter from her lips, lost in the windstorm that grows too strong.

But the rain falters, curious. It goes quiet. The sky too.

~

Sunlight poured in through the cracks of my bedroom window, incessant chirpings nudging me awake. Groaning, I rolled over on the springy mattress. The bedframe squeaked under me as my feet thudded onto the ground.

My childhood bedroom had remained relatively the same since I last visited—which meant it was cleared out of most of my belongings that I had brought with me to the city. The hallway, however, had gone through quite a change. Items were missing from their usual spots on shelves and in cabinets. Frames that had hung on the walls of the hallway were no longer—now all that was left were rusted nails and rectangular shapes a shade lighter than the plaster wall surrounding them. I wiped away beads of sweat building on my forehead. It was barely mid-morning, and the house was quickly heating up.

I stopped in front of a cabinet beside the kitchen entrance, the wooden façade chipping away. Most of the items had been moved, but a stray snow globe here and a few books there were still covered with a light coat of dust. As I scanned the shelves, a flash of blue caught my eyes. It was a photograph encased in a black plastic frame. The picture wasn’t anything special—in fact, it was slightly blurry as though whoever took it wanted to be quick and didn’t care too much about the outcome. The camera seemed to be held at an angle because the two children in the photograph, both of similar heights, looked lopsided with their arms around the other’s shoulders. But the background in the photograph—the sky, the beach, the cliff in the distance— was something to behold. Taking up most of the photograph was the sea beyond the children that shined a delicate blue, reflecting the cloudless sky. Remnants of laughter rumbled through the air, fading like a portrait melding with time. I shook the memory out of my head.

Peering into the kitchen, a figure sat at the dining table, straight-backed and turning over a newspaper laid flat on the surface. The dishes I had washed last night were in the drying rack, oddly still dripping with water.

Mama’s back was facing the entryway, and for a split second I was taken back to when I was a child and all the times I had returned home from the local beach with my hands full of seashells or some other object, eager to show Mama what I had found. But whenever she saw me, she simply told me off for tracking in sand.

“Morning, Ma,” I said in a tone that was neither jovial nor curt. I made my way straight to the small nook where the kettle and packets of teabags and instant coffee were kept.

“Oh, Sofie. How was the trip from the city?” Mama asked in a monotonous tone. No preamble or other welcoming acknowledgement. She merely lifted her head and continued flicking through her newspaper.

I shrugged, though Mama couldn’t see. “Alright, I guess.” Swiping a mug from its holder, it clicked against the countertop. The sound of sloshing coffee filled the air as I twisted around to look at her. I noticed her hair, which was tied and pinned neatly into a low bun, was streaked with grey.

            As though she sensed me staring at her, Mama got up from her seat. The chair screeched against the tiled floor. She placed her empty mug and plate in the sink.

“Liana said you’d only start packing when she arrives next week,” I said, gesturing to the boxes gathered in the living room.

“I didn’t want to wait any longer since there’s only a couple weeks left before I move out.” Finally, Mama turned around, her brown eyes training on me. Her fingers twitched at her sides. “And now that you’re finally here, I can get more things done.”

We stood across from each other. Mama’s gaze was insistent, and I broke away first, my eyes instead settling on the open window at the end of the kitchen.

Clearing my throat, I replied, “Yeah, of course. I’m here to help after all.”

“Well, I will continue with the packing. You can start with Liana’s old room.” And with that, Mama walked off, the hem of her loose kaftan swinging about her ankles. I heard her bedroom door shut closed, and I gulped down my remaining coffee. The scorching heat was a welcomed numbness as I cleared up the rest of the kitchen and got ready for the day.

Changing out of my pyjamas, I decided the beach would be the perfect place to get a clear head. Out the front door, I walked down to where a line of dense foliage made up the end of the street. The entrance to a dirt path curving along the trees behind it peeked out from the tree line. It was a well-used trail used by those in the neighbourhood as a shortcut to the beach. The pathway was clear of any rubbish—though I had to nudge a few stray branches along the way.

When I arrived at the beach, the scent of saltwater saturated the air. The sand was tan- coloured and coarse, the grains scraping against my feet. Gentle waves shimmered under the morning sun as I strolled along the shoreline, unbothered that my slippers were soaked through. It was pleasant to breathe in this freshness rather than the putrid, tangy air of the city that I had grown accustomed to.

Not long after, a cliff bordered with rocks came into view at the very end of the beach. I paused to regard it—it was the photograph in the cabinet.

As I made my way toward it, a fat droplet of water splashed against the sand in front of me. I looked up to see dark clouds rolling in from the sea’s direction, and soon enough, the rain picked up and I was sprinting toward the rocks and rounding the bend, away from the shoreline. The ground underneath me gradually sloped upwards, sand turning into dirt, and I knew the cave I used to hide out in was nearby. By the time I reached it, my clothes and my hair were drenched, and I was out of breath.

The cave itself was formed in the muddy grey cliff, but there was a smaller and accessible entrance partly concealed by a cluster of trees. Beyond them was a narrow opening that was often overlooked unless someone knew where to look and what to look for. The rough exterior of the cave was covered with moss, a place seemingly dangerous—and definitely hidden. It used to be the perfect hangout spot when I was younger, and when I’d come with my sister or a few friends to pass the time.

The opening widened into a hollow and small space, but it was big enough for three or four people to stand upright. While I haven’t been back to the cave since before my move to the city, looking around, there seemed to be signs that people did still visit the place. Someone had left a picnic mat that was folded and tucked behind a loose rock. There was a box of matchsticks. Two hand fans.

The mouth of the cave overlooked the sea, now a couple metres below me, with a slope leading to a bed of rocks against which waves crashed. Water trickled down the cave’s wall, pooling into shallow dips in the uneven rock floor. I sat cross-legged by the cavern’s edge and watched the rain fall down from the sky and into the sea.

The rain had begun a steady rhythm, and lightning flashed across the darkening sky. Bubbling inside me was a childish urge to stand and run in the rain, but I settled for stretching my arm out to feel water droplets on my skin, prepared for the coldness to seep through.

In the back of my head, I heard Mama’s voice: Don’t catch rain and expect it to not be cold.

I sighed. Even in this place of solace and when I needed space from her, I still thought about Mama.

I continued basking in the rain, letting its coldness turn into comfort. My mind wandered to the younger of the two children in the photograph in the cabinet; she looked carefree, happy. I recalled moments when she used to dance in the rain with arms held high, trying to catch all those droplets of water in her tiny hands. But often her mother would drag her home before the girl could even touch the sand, hard lines set around her mother’s mouth and eyes. Mama disliked the beach and had constantly berated me and my sister for spending hours swimming and running and laughing.

I stayed in the cave for minutes, maybe hours, watching the rain return to the sea. It was a sweet melody as I leaned against the cold wall and revelled in the weight of rain on my hand.

~

The sun made itself scarce for the rest of the week.

Mama and I had barely spoken aside from her instructions on which rooms to pack and where to place the boxes once I was finished. And if we did, it was during mealtimes, but those were also silent save for the muffled pattering of rain outside.

At the end of the week, while preparing the table mats, Mama asked when I was returning to the city.

“Maybe next week. I don’t want to bother you more than I already am,” I said in a nonchalant manner.

Mama perked up. She was in a rarely chipper mood. “You can stay for a bit longer, Sofie. We haven’t spent much time together even though you’ve been back for a week already. It’s like you’re a stranger.” She splashed a spoon of sambal onto her plate.

I gave a tight smile. “Maybe.”

We continued the rest of the meal in silence.

Now, I was in the midst of clearing out my sister’s, Liana, bedroom. It was almost identical to mine except it was crammed with items that were stored in the deep trenches of wardrobes and shelves. The room had become a storage place of sorts, overflowing with the surplus of old clothes and prayer mats and other trinkets. I had set about separating them into categories, the loaded boxes waiting to be sealed.

I dragged an empty box toward me and got to work on the short wardrobe nearest to the window. Tugging on the drawer’s handle, I yanked it open. Nestled in between piles of tattered table cloths and thick books was a picture frame with faint fingerprints smudging the glass glazing. Behind it was a photograph similar to the one in the hallway cabinet, but this time it was only of myself as a child with wet sand smeared all over my bare arms and legs and a carton of juice clasped between my hands. Smiling at the photograph, I shook my head and placed the frame on top of the wardrobe.

The humidity in the room was stifling as I worked through the last set of drawers. I stood to stretch and walked to the window to unlatch it. A chill spray of rain hit me in the face as I leaned forward and extended my arm out to feel the water drumming against my skin.

Flower bushes lining the outer wall of the house across were being whipped around by the onslaught of rain and wind. Bright red petals scattered the ground, and I recalled Uncle Jo, who used to live in the house, and how he was always tending to his garden. But then his wife fell ill, and Mama took over while he was at the hospital. I cocked my head to the side, a frown on my lips. I wondered who watched over the flowers now.

I inched backwards and remembered too late about the box behind me. I tripped over and knocked into the wardrobe, catching myself in time. The picture frame tumbled from its place atop the drawer and shattered on the floor. Gingerly, I stepped around the broken frame and eased the photograph from the glass shards, my thumbs smoothing out the creases.

“What did you do now?” I winced at the bite in Mama’s tone. She stood at the threshold, scanning the mess on the floor. Her eyes narrowed when she caught sight of the gaping window and the water dripping down my elbow and on to the floor.

“I was just—”

“Clean this up. And close the window,” Mama snapped and left the room.

An unsettled feeling punctured through me. Careful to avoid stepping on the glass, I pulled the window shut. My eyes skimmed over the disarray of boxes in the room as the memory of Mama and Uncle Jo and the garden withered away, and all that was left was the frame I held. That, too, I put away into a box and left aside.

~

Thankfully, the weather cleared up the following morning. Glowing sun. Crisp and clean air. It hit me how terribly I missed this in the city.

I let my legs take me to the beach, glad for the cool water rushing over me as I dove into the sea. A pair of birds chirped overhead, dancing with each other in the air. In the distance, I glimpsed the rocks that surrounded the cave above. It was a welcomed relief to distance myself from the house.

More people were at the beach today—probably seizing their chance for sunny day. A couple sat near the tree line where there was a consistent shade, occupied by the picnic basket with containers of food they’d brought with them. There was also a young family nearby, their shouts and laughter twisting the ache in me.

I pictured Mama’s face. Her exasperation and disappointment were like lightning strikes, swift and palpitating. From a young age, I’d learned it was best to tread lightly with her and that any little thing could tick her off. Her foul mood would cause anyone within her vicinity to walk on eggshells for even days at a time until her surliness wore off. But I had a knack for disregarding my own caution at times.

My legs kicked underneath me as I fought the growing current. Two children of the young family shrieked as they splashed in the shallow part of the sea, delighted by the current pushing their floating kickboards they each laid on. Their mother had her hands on both the children’s back, only letting go once the next wave came in and took them off toward the shore. Their father strolled to where his family played in the water, a third child—probably a year old—squirming in his arms. He’d been sitting underneath the cover of the trees, shielding the infant from the intensity of the sun.

I swam back to shore and spent some time scavenging for seashells to add to my collection. As a child, I had a fascination with seashells which I never outgrew and would make it a point to collect more whenever I could. Most of what I found had hairline cracks going through their centre or were broken off at the corners. I stopped short as a domed seashell about the size of my palm caught my attention. I continued my search until I found a few more of various shapes and sizes. Satisfied by my findings, I gathered the rest of my things and left the beach.

When I eased the front door open, I found Mama sitting at the couch. A pile of bubble wrap rested on the seat cushion beside her.

She looked up, her eyes panning over me. It almost felt like I was being judged. Knowing her, I probably was. Mama settled her gaze on the seashells I held in my hand.

“You need to wash up before helping me with this,” she said, returning her attention to the items she was packing today: ceramic plateware.

“Uh—about yesterday—”

Mama only waved her hand in the air, bringing my attention to her wrist brace. I looked at it in puzzlement. “Forget about it. It’s nothing.”

But from the look on her face—the deep set of her brows and the slight clench in her jaw—told me that it wasn’t ‘nothing’.

I took a deep breath, and just as I opened my mouth to reply, Mama interjected.

“Actually, Sofie … you don’t have to stay on. You should enjoy the rest of your holiday in the city, so you can even leave this weekend if you want. There isn’t much work left to do here anyway.”

Mama hadn’t bothered to look at me as she spoke.

I stood frozen, taken aback at Mama’s demand. For that was what this was, and what could

I say to that? Her hot-and-cold demeanour was infuriating.

Mama continued to tape the ceramic plates with bubble wrap, placing each one gently into a box. When Mama moved to pick up the box, I rushed to swipe it from her grasp.

“Your hand, Ma.” I lifted the box before she had time to protest and took a step back. We

stared at each other before she relented.

She pointed at the space next to the clothes rack. “Put it there. I’m giving this to one of the neighbours. Remember Aunty Sree? She’s picking it up tomorrow.”

I simply nodded and did as Mama instructed.

“I was wondering, Ma. Uncle Jo doesn’t live next door anymore, right?”

“Mhmm. But his son visits to check in on the house pretty often. Uncle Jo never even asked him to do that—he just does. How nice of him, kan?”

I let the silence answer for me.

Outside, thunder bellowed, and for a moment it felt like the floor underneath me was shaking. Once in my room, I caught a glimpse of the sky through my window; the clouds were greying. The sunny days weren’t here to stay—at least not yet. I sensed the weight of the incoming rain, and if it was a storm that arrived, I knew it would not stop for a long while.

~

They are beautiful in a grotesque sort of way.

Jagged rocks rise high to pierce through dark clouds—their faceless bodies etched with strands of time, streaked with rain and sea. Almost translucent in the dying amber light, a figure sinks into sand, their head bowed as though in prayer.

The girl observes them. She cannot discern who the stranger is, only that they look defeated. A translucent arm stretches out toward the sea, reaching for something that isn’t there. She tries to call out to the stranger, but the words catch in her throat. She tries to move, but her legs remain motionless.

She is like the butterfly in the glass cage.

Perhaps, the girl wonders, these rocks will topple and the threads will rip apart, and what follows will only sink and drown in a raging sea.

~

Rain pelted against the roof as I laid in bed, the rough material of the blanket scratching at my skin. Blinking my eyes open, they adjusted to the darkness permeating the room, aware that sleep wouldn’t return anytime soon. I dragged myself out of bed and changed into track pants and rummaged through a pile on the floor for a pair of shoes and a windbreaker.

In the hallway, Mama’s bedroom door was curiously ajar, and peeking in, it was empty. Low whispers floated from the living room. I tiptoed over to see the living room washed in orange light and Mama seated on the couch.

“Ya, I know.” Mama spoke in a hushed tone. “But maybe it’s more trouble than it’s worth, Liana. I think you still should’ve arrived first. Mama doesn’t know what to do with her sometimes.”

I drew a sharp intake of breath before I could stop myself. Mama whirled around. Wide-eyed, the light from her phone illuminated her cheeks. “You’re awake.”

“Hello? Ma?” Liana’s faint voice drifted from the receiver.

“Liana, Mama will call you back, okay?” With that, Mama clicked at her phone, promptly hanging up on my sister.

“What were you talking about, Ma?” I posed the question in a neutral tone—like I was asking about the weather. I was struggling to smother the hurt worming its way to my heart.

Mama huffed, indignant. “I only said your sister should be here. I know how you get sometimes.” She spoke with such callousness that I had to resist the urge to raise my voice as I strode into the living room.

“So, you didn’t want me here? You know I only wanted to help.”

“Listen to me, okay? No need to get so upset.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Not when years have gone by, and the most I could do to avoid her was move to the city. But even that didn’t help when there was still a part of me that hoped she’d be different the next time I’d see her.

And right now, I just stared at her. Stared, and kept staring. Mama raised her brows, confounded by my reaction. Of course, she didn’t realise how her words have sunk into me and made my skin heat up.

Loosening a tight breath, I said, “I’m going for a walk. I’ll pack my things later.” Hastily, I put on my track shoes before wrenching the front door open.

“Sofie! It’s raining outside.”

“I have a jacket,” I called out without looking back.

The rain hadn’t lightened. The streetlamps—though spaced apart—were bright enough to guide me to the end of the road. I walked in and out of the shadows, a small speck encased in blurry circles of light. Once on the dirt path, I paused to switch on the flashlight on my phone, speed walking while trying to avoid tripping over loose stones and branches that littered the ground.

Disappointment and annoyance flared through me. At Mama. At myself. Knowing how my mother would get and that she hadn’t changed should have cinched how I saw her—how I should always see her.

Wet sand squished underfoot, making me nearly slip several times before eventually reaching the group of rocks where the cliff looked menacing in the darkness. The canopy of trees provided enough cover from the rain as I stepped through the cave’s entrance, my footsteps echoing throughout its hollow interior. My ragged breathing was drowned out by the sounds of rain and the waves roaring below. I dropped to the floor, the chill seeping through my pants and pricking at my knees. I squeezed my eyes shut. I was tired. So, so tired.

Shivering slightly, I took off my hoodie—although that did little to quell the trembling.

Don’t catch rain and expect it to not be cold.

I heard my mother’s voice again. I used to believe that I had gotten over it: my mother’s oscillating behaviour and the way she spoke to me no matter the level of severity. But it had always been difficult for me to challenge my mother, and I didn’t know if I ever could.

And for this one moment, when all else seemed hopeless, I screamed. I screamed until my voice turned hoarse, and until the claps of thunder and my screams morphed into one, and shook the cliff’s foundation. Lightning flashed across the sky, its veins branching into disparate directions, unwoven threads of electricity existing in the sky, before disappearing and appearing once more.

My screams turned into tears, and I slumped forward on my knees.

Don’t catch rain and expect it to not be cold, Sofie.

~

Rain spills over. The threads have loosened, and the grieving pieces cannot be stitched back together. The girl knows this, and with her heart heavy, she sighs and steps into the spillage.

It isn’t a summer’s day drizzle—it never has been. The girl waits, and waits, and before long her skin shrivels from standing under the downpour, arms up and out, hoping to catch a droplet. Knowing that, inevitably, it is futile.

She closes her eyes and sees the sky speckled with white. Molten gold hushed with pink and purple tint the sky, feathering across the expanse. A breeze sweeps dark hair across her face. The sky takes in a breath of air after a long, hard cry.

The sky is awake, and the rain is gone.