Read Online Rain Song by Alice J. Wisler - Free Book Online

being.
    As I watch my fish, I hear Kristine’s squeaky voice asking, “Is he cute?” She doesn’t know about Harrison, of course, but she would ask this if she did. He could be wildly handsome, traffic-stopping gorgeous, or as ugly as Uncle Jarvis’s leisure suit. What if he has the features of a hunchback or a gnome? What if he looks like a serial killer? Maybe I prefer pretending he is the large and gentle fish of my dreams.
    Then why did I ask that he send a picture? He knows what I look like because there are thumbnail color photos of each contributor on the Pretty Fishy Web site. My picture was taken by Ducee in her kitchen. My hair is tamed, my freckles barely noticeable, and I actually have a happy smile on my face. My bio says I teach English at Mount Olive Middle School and owned my first goldfish at age six.
    Ducee says to look at the heart, not the face. She tells us God puts more value on matters of the heart than those of the face. That’s fine to say, but how many people can really do that? I’ve known many wonderful people who never get second glances, yet they have hearts of gold. Those of us with only hearts of gold going for us have to strive a little harder to make it in this world where beauty is immediately appraised.
    So when Harrison Michaels sends me an email message with an attachment, my fingers feel tingly. The message says:
Nicole,
You asked for a picture and so here it is. If you look closely, you can see one of my Kohaku koi in the pond. He’s to the left, by the lily. He’s the one guilty of eating most of my plants.
Harrison
    All I have to do is click on the attachment and I’ll be looking at Harrison Michaels. Cute guy or gnome. Beast or cover man of GQ .
    It’s only eight-fifteen on this Saturday morning as I sit in my lumpy computer chair and stare at the little paper clip to the left of Harrison’s email message. Just one click on the paper clip and the mystery will be solved. I lift my finger, then stick it in my mouth.
    “Nicccc!” Monet is by my side, tousled brown curls swinging as she greets me. She climbs into my lap, breathing heavily as she moves, her stale cheese breath filling my nose. The pink Dora the Explorer pajama bottoms she’s wearing slide off her hips and twist around her legs. She pulls at the flannel material and starts to whine.
    I take her off my lap, adjust her pajama bottoms by straightening them on her tiny waist, and then lift her onto my lap again.
    She giggles and starts to sing the theme song from the Dora show. I know she inherited the inability to sing from Ducee. Every note is off-key. Suddenly she stops singing and shouts in my ear, “Hooot doooo!”
    Hot dog for breakfast, I think. Well, it sure beats having to make scrambled eggs or eggs Benedict.
    “Hooot dooooo!”
    “Shh,” I whisper. Grable is probably still sleeping in the guest bedroom. I carry the girl into the kitchen and sit her on a chair at the table. “I’ll make you a hot dog. Just wait.”
    When I place the plate with the sliced hot dog and mound of ketchup in front of her, she lifts her arms in the air and squirms in her chair.
    “What do you need?”
    Monet’s lips are puckered, stretched as far out as they can go.
    I step closer to her. “Do you want some juice?”
    Her large blue eyes are on me. She is asking for a kiss.
    I bend toward her lips, and she plants a fleshy kiss against my chin. I have never been kissed on the chin before.
    Content, she laughs and dips a hot dog slice into the ketchup.
    I watch her eat. Last night Grable said another appointment was scheduled for next week with a neurologist at Duke. He’s new, straight from London or New Delhi. What will he find wrong with Monet this time? It’s a good thing Dennis has exceptional health insurance.
    The phone rings, Monet reacts by mimicking the sound, and a coughing Iva says in my ear, “Nicki, is Ducee all right?”
    I pause. “Yes.”
    Iva sputters, “She invited me over for tea this morning,