Free Barefoot in the Rain by Roxanne St. Claire

much as the old man in front of her. Without waiting to see his pained reaction, she turned to walk to the table, ready to finish this task, make order, and accomplish her very simple goal. She had to take charge of this situation, not let the situation take charge of her.
    “Why?” he asked, right on her heels. “Why do I have to give up that hope?”
    She ignored the question, scooping up the teacup and saucer.
    “Why should I give up hope?” he insisted, falling into a chair. “Is this like, you know, the part of the show where they make the person look inside their soul?”
    Oh, don’t go there, Guy. You won’t like what you see
. “This isn’t a show,” she said stiffly. This is real life.
    “Is this like a pre-show? Where they get the people ready before the cameras come?”
    She could feel the threads of patience pulling, fraying, threatening to snap. God, was she as bad as her father? She’d always feared that horrible blackness was hereditary, but years of psych classes taught her she could overcome whatever ugliness she may have inherited from Guy.
    She took another calming breath and continued packing the china.
    “What should I do?” he asked.
    She looked up, mentally searching for a way to get through to him. “You should start to make new memories.” She slid four salad plates into the carton on the table and turned back to the buffet. “This will be a good change for you. You can replace the old stuff with new and better stuff.”
    In a home somewhere with people just like you.
    But she couldn’t say the words. Behind her, he was silent, no sniffling, no breathing. Oh, God. Was he about to blow? He was too, too quiet.
    Very slowly, she turned. His head rested on the table, his shoulders shuddering with silent sobs. “I want to remember,” he blubbered.
    Automatically, she reached for him, then jerked her hand away like she’d almost touched a hot surface. “Maybe you don’t,” she said simply.
Maybe nature is doing you a favor, old man.
    “I really, really do.” He lifted his head, and his glasses slid down to the bottom of his teary nose, his eyes red, his lips quivering. “It’s all I want in the whole world, Missy.A single memory. One crystal-clear story of my past that doesn’t flash and fade before I can hold on to it and enjoy it.”
    She stared at him. “I… can’t help you.” Only that was a lie. She had so many memories, enough to fill up this house. She could tell him a lifetime of stories. Once upon a time there was a nasty man who had no control, a weak woman who’d given up control, and a scared little girl who lived for any shred of control she could muster.
    “Then make one up,” he said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “That can be your gift, you know?” He sat up a little, an idea taking hold. “In exchange for throwing away my china, you gift me with a memory.”
    “But it wouldn’t be… real.” Or nice.
    He just lifted one brow, and, for a single, crazy second, she thought he knew exactly who he was talking to. Was that possible? She swallowed hard. Could he really know her, and he’d lied all this time? “Guy?”
    He nodded, excited, sniffing a little. “You have one? A memory?”
    “How could I?” she asked. “If I just met you?”
    “You’re so smart and kind,” he said. “And you’ve been through half my stuff. You did the whole kitchen. The drawers are very neat now, even that junky one with the batteries. Surely you know enough to gift me with one memory.”
    “Okay,” she agreed, looking around, taking in the remnants of their lives: a teapot her mother’s friend brought from England, a salt and pepper shaker set painted as Santa and Mrs. Claus, a set of yellowed lace doilies her mother had loved.
    The doily.
    Somewhere, in her head, a little gold lock turned on a beautiful high-gloss box, an imaginary safety box where she’d tucked away the bad stuff, never to be pulled out and examined again.
    Until she had to.
    The box opened and