“At the five o’clock hour, we’ve finally got an update, folks. Hurricane Tito will be entering the city, officially as a Category 4 hurricane.” The meteorologist exhaled. 

“Let’s go now to the mayor’s press conference.” A tight-lipped anchor announced. 

The mayor approached the stand with a bowed head, inhaled deeply, and braved the cameras. 

 “Please understand. If we had the time, we would’ve called for a mandatory evacuation, but with the speed of the approaching hurricane, we must hunker down.” A frenzied press drowned out whatever she had left to say.

---

6 Hours Until Impact

Serena 

When his sneakers squeak frantically around the house, Mawmaw always seems to tense up. She is constipated, and since he is occupied, I wipe thoroughly. There will be no residue on my watch. 

 “He’s anxious.” My grandmother whispers as soon as he leaves.

“To be fair, everyone probably is, Mawmaw.” I tape her diaper in place, slip her nightgown over her as one would with a toddler getting ready for bed, then ease her into her hospital-grade recliner. I like to tuck her in with a soft blanket after, since she’s a baby. She waits for me to clear the living room of any traces of her declining health. I dump the commode basin, rinse it with dish liquid, toss my gloves, wash my hands with antibacterial soap in steaming water, spray the living room with a fresh linen-scented air freshener, and return to her with a calm expression. She’s sensitive to my expressions, so I return and rub her head tenderly before reclining beside her. This eases her. Then we watch, in high definition, as a pretty young reporter interviews locals at a barren supermarket.

“It’s getting worse every year! I’m about ready to take my family and get the hell up out of Louisiana!” says one local wearing what seemed like his sweatiest clothes. 

“We’ll do like we do every year. Probably throw a hurricane party!” A nurse smiles next to her equally agreeable husband. 

“The mayor wrong for this! They been should’ve called for an evacuation! Now the roads are going to be blocked for miles!” An agitated woman exclaims as her kids, still in their school uniforms, return with cases of water bottles. 

It suddenly dawns on me that I didn’t buy my comfort snacks. 

“Daddy got everything we need.” Was she psychic? 

“When?” 

“This morning, when you were asleep. Oh! Can you get out the clean sheets? Some people might come over.” 

“And where are these people sleeping?” I press, mostly to ensure my room is safe.

Mawmaw yawns. “We’ll find somewhere…” Then dozes off into her afternoon nap. I leave her to the white noise of news reports and step out to clear my nose of the mixing fragrances. 

I am stunned by a somber, overcast sky and gentle winds passing by. It could have been a tropical storm if I weren’t informed. But I am, and as a native, I sense it approaching the same way a possum or an alligator might. The clouds are gliding across the sky, neighbors are rushing in and out of their homes with water cases and makeshift bags of clothes, and car trunks are being unloaded with a month’s worth of groceries. A chill passes over me, and I suddenly crave the comfort of my blanket and my grandmother’s presence. 

Richard 

“Just come on over.” 

He’d drink himself to death if no one were watching. 

“You sure?” Robert mumbles, which annoys me. 

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure.” Maybe it’s me, but common sense would tell you that being alone isn’t wise during a hurricane. But then a hint of liquor wafts off of Robert, and I suddenly have my doubts. He might throw up on my good sheets. I could spare him an old blanket, my conscience reminds me. 

“You can sleep on the couch,” I tell him.

A thunder clap shakes the air and ends our conversation. It’s looking like this hurricane might be bad. The wind is stronger, and those clouds ain’t pretty. I hear the rain before it touches my scalp, and I let it pummel me. I notice the plant pots still on the porch as I approach. I don’t have the strength to move them, and with that thought, I am reminded of something my mother always said. “If you want to know what it’s like to be old, just keep living.”

Well, Mama, I’m still living. Sound mind, but with a body that won’t listen. I think of all the things my body wouldn’t allow me to finish, like reinforcing the windows or filling up both cars instead of one. I still need to call Liza and Jema to see if they are on their way. They should’ve made it here, and there’s no telling if the streets are flooded. Luckily, we’ll never flood again. I made sure of that years ago. 

I step through the door, soaked, and I notice a peaceful silence. Serena, Mabel, and the TV are asleep in the darkened living room. I should join them after my shower and relieve my back some, but I can feel the buildup of debris on the soles of my feet as I head to the shower. I still need to sweep, mop, wash clothes, wipe the dishes, dust the fans, make the beds, clean out the fridge, and scrub the toilets. Oh, and the damned batteries! How could I forget those? We’ll need candles too. I think they’re in the garage.

Liza

Come on. It doesn’t take that long to open a door, does it?

“Give him a minute, Liza. He could be cleaning Mabel.” My whiny sister chastised me. 

She sometimes forgets that Serena lives here, and this troubles me. 

“Serena usually does that, Jema. You forgot?” 

“Oh. I guess I did.” She fidgets.

I just chuckle, as if it’s a silly thing she does from time to time. And she believes me.

 “If I’d known ya’ll’d be movin’ in, I’d a asked for a deposit!” My brother jokes as he finally greets us.

“You never know, Rich,” I exhale. Jema, as always, shoves her way in, as if I didn’t drive us on a barely visible road. Finally indoors, an icy touch strikes my thin skin, and I’m aware of how warm the rain has been. “It’s freezing in here!”

“Why y’all so late?” Richard casually continues.  

As usual, it doesn’t matter that everyone else is shaking; that temperature won’t go past 74 degrees. But I won’t argue.

“She’s the reason,” I emphasize. 

Jema pats a wine bottle she’s pulled from a grocery bag. “For the nerves.”

“She’s lucky I needed extra diapers, or she’d be sulking in a corner with only iced tea to drown her nerves.” I scoff.

But my siblings have effectively moved on from my complaints and towards the kitchen and a corkscrew. I’m left to drag her bags to our room. A room that always feels as if I’d checked into a luxury hotel despite the humble neighborhood. I rest on the bed for a second and let my mind wander. There was a time when we weren’t afraid to express our fears. We’d dive into our parent’s bed the minute we heard thunder. And I laugh at this memory. When we were young, fragile, and protected. And then I stop. It’s not really funny how fragile our lives have become. How fragile a home is. My home. The window I just replaced. And the leak in my roof? And the bathroom! God, we just unclogged my toilets. 

Maybe I should move to Texas with my son or Atlanta with my daughters. I don’t think I’d be a bother. 

“Liza! You want some Merlot?” Jema teases.

 I can, at least, rely on them to still comfort me. 

Jema 

“Who are you?” He looks like a bore. 

“I’m Robert, ma’am. Richard’s next-door neighbor.” A respectful bore. I let him in since he was raised right. When he steps inside, I get a good look at his face, and he reminds me of my ex-husband, the one who would comfort me with baked spaghetti during a storm. For some reason, I can’t recall his name.

“Robert!” My brother calls out, and this annoys me in the same way a forgotten word hangs off the tip of your tongue. The thunder rolls across the roof, and my hands shake. Then a drum pounds against the walls. Wait, I think that’s the door. 

“Hey, Auntie.” A shivering voice greets me from the porch. But I do not know this person. “It’s Shan. Your great niece?” That information doesn’t help in the slightest. Liza has snuck up behind me and now greets the young girl and her adorably wrapped baby. I get the sense I should get out of the way, so I leave them to catch up, refill my glass, and then look for a stable seat. Everything spins, so this is difficult. 

“Serena, get your aunt some water.” Mabel directs the girl, who I assume is Serena. She offers me a cold one, and I accept it out of kindness. She is a stranger to me, but she isn’t to others. The man named Robert stares at me, then avoids my eyes. Something is off, but I’m not sure if it’s the weather or the strangers. My hands begin to shake again until Liza returns beside me. She grabs my hand and gives it a little squeeze, which comforts me. Then all the lights cut off, and I scream.

Robert

“Fast winds…flooding on the lakefront has reached….♪ Don’t forget about us ♪…”

 I probably look ridiculous to these kids, walking around with a long antenna pointed to the ceiling. They ain’t got nothing on those phones that can pull up the news? 

“No signal, Rich!” I shout.

Returning from the garage, Richard’s flashlight blinds me, and the next thing I know, the radio slips out of my hands. 

I scramble trying to catch it, but I ain’t quick. 

The radio impacts the granite floors, and we all jump from the crash. 

“Lord!” I hear Mabel gasp.

The baby girl starts crying, and I stand there looking like a fool. 

“Oh, shit! I’m sorry. “I fumble my words as I try to fix the radio, sweating in the aftermath.

I feel someone’s hand, a familiar touch, rub my back. 

“You’ve always been clumsy, Robby. You don’t have to apologize for it.” 

Jema fixes the antenna, then strokes my cheek. I am frozen. 

“-quick updates. Hurricane Tito is now making its way through Barataria, and PowerEn has reported around 300,000 outages in the metro. We’d like to remind listeners that electricians won’t be deployed until it is safe to do so, so please be patient and remain indoors.” 

“See, all it needed was a little hit.” She smiles, tapping the top of the ancient radio.

Then her eyes glisten. She is someone else, and she’s forgotten me again. 

I fetch another beer. 

Mabel 

Even with all these candles, I can’t see. 

“Serena, roll me to my room, please. I’m getting tired.” 

Everything’s a dark blur. I hear voices and feel them beside me, but I can no longer see etches of their faces. 

“PawPaw! Can you help me?” Serena calls out to the garage. 

But I don’t need to see their faces to know. I can hear it all in their voices. The frustration, the fatigue, the worry, the care, and love. It tires me more than they’d ever know. I’m lifted from my seat by my husband and granddaughter, and I wonder if my children are safe. I can’t reach them because they won’t answer. They should be here with us, but I can’t harp on their whereabouts for long. My pressure will go up, and then Richard will be upset and worried, and he’ll say, “They’re adults, Mabel. They have lives.” And I will have to accept this because in all the daily issues they may be going through, I’m a lot, and I wouldn’t want to bother them. 

I’m wheeled to my room in complete darkness, trusting the hands that guide me down the halls, lift me into my bed, and tuck me in. She kisses my forehead, and I’m reminded of my own mother and how I tended to her in her last days. Maybe this is all I can hope for. Serena may be my reward for caring for all those who, with time, crumbled beside me. I hear the wind howling outside my window and the steps of my granddaughter leaving my bedroom, and I feel lonely again. Then my husband’s soft hands hold me from behind as if I were still the young lady he met at his sister’s baby shower. Slim, supple, and sophisticated in lavender. That was my prime, and he makes me feel as if I never lost it. That must be my blessing. That should be enough.

Impact

In darkness, young and old find solace as the winds swaddle them to sleep in the comfort of enclosed walls. All except Serena, who notices a sudden silence. Peeking out the blinds, she realizes they’re in the eye of the storm. Where an eerie silence makes one believe it is safe to go outside, where light bends.

 But she wouldn’t take the bait, despite her curiosity. Instead, she finds a blow-up mattress waiting for her in her grandparents’ room and nuzzles herself against it. A few minutes later, the rain and thunder return with vengeance.

---

8 Hours After Impact 

“Hurricane Tito is now passing over Mississippi. With around 300,000 power outages, I ask the public to have patience as crews go out to our most devastated areas. Please do not go out trying to fix any broken power lines or remove fallen trees. Your safety is our priority.” The mayor’s stresses through the radio’s speakers. 

Serena 

Sweat is dripping around my forehead and under my breast, and I smell my own musk. Agitation has planted itself firmly in my forehead, and I’ve grown tired of my thighs sticking to one another as I sleep. I sense the day before I even get out of bed. The rising heat wakes everyone else. I draw the windows and finally see the wreckage. Trash and branches litter the abandoned streets, and a power line leans against a neighbor’s roof, sparking. 

“You know they going uptown first.” I overhear a neighbor say to Pawpaw outside.

“They got to take care of the whites.” He mocks with the neighbor. 

MawMaw yells out for him, and I see him notice the fear in her pitch. 

Her insulin is too warm, Mr. Robert and Aunt Jema are heaving into separate toilets, and Aunt Liza is silently fuming by the sink when Pawpaw comes inside. 

“We can’t stay here, Richard.” Aunt Liza flips the faucet’s nozzle, and dark-tinted water drips out.

“We can take heat. We can even take warm food and bottled water, but we need to be able to wash ourselves.” 

He doesn’t argue; he just glances at me, my hands shaking as I draw the insulin into the needle, and leaves the room. We are on the road within an hour. 

For at least the next few hours, I am given back to myself in the backseat of the car, released from my duties. And it isn’t until we are gridlocked in traffic that my needs and wants emerge from whatever shelf I had placed them upon, and I finally realize I’m exhausted. 

We pass rows of oak trees that are ripped in half, and it feels as if I’ve witnessed a murder. I think of death and wonder how many years the trees have witnessed nature’s carnage. How they made it through each storm with roots intact. I ponder the tree’s life, in awe of the ringlets in its exposed trunk, and I can’t help but admire the wrinkles in my elders’ faces.