My First Hurricane

“Heed to local precautions and warnings,” he said, and he meant it.

I should have listened to that statement with all of my heart.

I didn't think I’d need to evacuate. I asked locals, and they spit out mediocre stories of Irene, which sounded like less of a commotion than a Colorado snow storm. Half the people were staying. I had nowhere to evacuate to. I looked forward to the excitement of a storm.

Key Foods closed early Saturday, so we tried Jubilee. The bread and imperishables were gone, and besides, the line was around the aisles and out the door. We would come back tomorrow.

On Sunday, we accumulated a few supplies from a less-than-crowded Key Foods (evacuation A zone was long gone at this point). Cookie crisps, macaroni & cheese, salsa, chips, soda. Later, we watched football and ordered delivery wings. We talked to the people we cared about far away and reassured them that everything would be alright.

On Monday, we waited for the storm. We smoked cigarettes outside, listened to the news, walked to the water and told our friends the weatherman was full of crap. At sunset, the hurricane started playing games. The news of water kissed my lips, seducing me to the streets. I lived at 200 Water Street, at the intersection between Fulton and Water, near Pier 17. We went outside. The rain was light. The water was about an inch high across the street from my building. No one was outside. Looking back, I saw the calm before the storm. I remember the ecstatic happiness, we have the city to ourselves.

We decided to walk the two blocks west to grab some beers. It took us about 10 minutes to return to my apartment. At this point, the water was to my ankles, so we ran. We knew danger was near.

We ran inside. The doormen were frantic. There were several people in the lobby (and one dog) who wanted to get upstairs as soon as possible. They told us no until the water broke into the lobby. “We all have to get upstairs!” a girl with dyed ebony hair shouted. They told us to wait. We started exploring options.

Within two minutes the water was well past our shins, and the building staff started realizing that the water was coming no matter what. “Okay,” the aggravated Russian said. “Follow me, and stay close.”

We followed him, needless to say, around the back entrance, where none of us had ever been. Down the concrete stairs, and it didn't look like the luxury rentals that we paid an arm and a leg for.

When we filed through the maintenance hallway, we soon realized that we would be “swimming” to our entrance. Trash bags floated in the basement like ruptured balloons in a swamp. The current was so strong that I felt like a goldfish being flushed down the toilet. And still, it got deeper as we got closer and closer to the only way back to our homes. The guy with the dog was pulling his submerged golden retriever through the wreckage that smelt of New York sewer waters. My heart beat out of my chest as three of the men couldn't open the door because of the current. I felt like I was surviving the Titanic, except the ship was New York City, and I didn't have a Jack to save me. I wasn't a Rose.

And suddenly, the city had us to itself.

Reaching solid dry concrete was like reaching air after you've dived too deep in a pool. The relieving escape when waves have been rocking you back and forth too deep. We walked up the eleven stories and when I ran into my apartment, I scooped up my dog. “Nadia, I won’t leave you again, I promise,” I told her. The eye of the storm screamed at our high rise windows.

As I was looking out above the street lights, the power went out. Our building swayed back and forth as Water Street turned into a literal Water Street. I called my Dad and told him it looked like Venice. The cars, like little boats, submerged. The buildings little islands in a beautiful city. I wanted to take a picture, but New York City was too dark for that. It was the first time I’d been in the real dark in the City.

The people that didn't evacuate wanted to converse. There was no panic, but rather a sense of celebration. Twenty-somethings smoked in the hall. Music blared from the lofts. The sixth floor, in the lounge, was a congregation. Our 11^th floor group all descended to try to get news. I brought Nadia in her New York purse.

The lounge was lit up with candles. We all looked the same, privileged kids with high expectations, rich over-sized adults with so many dreams, yet no cares in the world. Playing pool like there were still lights. Drinking beers like there were still resources. Dancing like we were in Venice.

I told Frank that I had to leave. It was too loud for Nadia. She was a cherished addition to the party, but she could get lost, or hurt, and she was confused. I told him he could still play pool, to go to Brad’s. He said he’d walk me upstairs. I got into my New York apartment and set Nadia down. Frank lit up a cigarette. I reached into my purse for mine, and I realized that I left them two doors down in Brad’s apartment. I told him that I would be right back.

I smoked a cigarette in Brad’s apartment. I wish I would have never done that. Near the end of my smoke, Frank entered. I put my cigarette out and we went back to my place.

I wanted to go to bed, and so I called Nadia. I called Nadia. “Nadia, come here boo boo. Nads, come here love na night time.”

She didn't come.

I called again, this time with more urgency. “Nadia! Come here baby! Where are you? Come on baby!”

She didn't come.

The flashlight touched all the places she would go. Under the bed, under the covers, on the couch, in her house…She wasn't there.

“Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Nadia…Nadia!”

I wanted more than anything to be able to turn on the lights. I lost the one thing that mattered to me that I brought to New York City and I started to feel the panic set in.

We ran into the hall, calling her, scouring the floors for the thing that mattered most. Knocking on every door, frantic. “Did you see a little Chihuahua with a pink collar? She was just here.”

“You go down, I go up,” I said to Frank. “And make sure you write down what every apartment says, or if they even answered.”

1216 – Didn't see her, gave me an additional flashlight

1215 – No answer

1214 – No answer

1217 – No answer

1212 – No answer

1211 – No answer

1210 – No answer

1209 – No answer

1208 – No answer

1207 – No answer

1201 – No answer

1206 – No answer

1202 – Didn't see

1204 – Didn't see

1205 – No answer

1203 – No answer

The notebooks are full. Did we miss a door?

There’s a thirteenth floor, then a fifteenth, then a sixteenth, then a seventeenth, but there’s an eighteenth. What about the nineteenth? Oh, and there’s still the twenties…21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29…

Is she below us? What about the 2^nd floor, or the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth? She’s not on the 10^th? Where is she? Oh my God, where is she?

There’s the 30s. She must be on the 30s.

30. 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38?

Why can’t I find her?

Maybe someone found her and decided to evacuate.

Once the phones work, they will call the number on her collar.

I listened at every door.

Do you hear that bark? Are they barking for her? Do you think she’s in here?

When is the power coming back on?

I left my apartment door open. Nadia knows her way home. Do you think she went back?

And I’m crying on the floor on the halls. No one, but maybe Sandy, hears me, and she laughs. I don’t want to believe Nadia is a victim of the storm.

“Where are you Nadia? Where are you? Please come home!”

A Late Arrival at DIA

She died on a Tuesday. While I was on a plane, flying home to say goodbye. While my mother waited for me in the airport parking lot.

When I got to the red Durango at passenger pickup, we embraced. Then, my mother said, “We’re too late Courtni.”

“What? What? What? When? No!” but I knew. She was gone. We were too late.

Our tangled, tear-stricken bodies descended to the pavement. The car door remained open, my suitcase unattended. And we cried together on the curb.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I wailed, and suddenly, I felt I made my mother miss the final moments.

“No,” my mom rejected my apology. “It was what she wanted, she didn't want us there,” she said, and I guess we’ll never know. “I told her to wait until Tuesday; I just didn't give her a time.”

When I boarded, she was alive. When I landed, she wasn't. How come I didn’t see her soul ascend to heaven from 10,000 feet above? I missed her by a little over an hour.

From the airport, we went to the hospice. I became a frightened child in the sterile halls, my hand tightly gripping that of my mother’s, as we went to see the dead body of her own mother.

Each door we passed I cringed, scared and knowing we were getting closer and closer to the name tag “Virginia Mantello.” Closer and closer to realizing she was gone.

Her mouth was open, gaping, her cheeks sunken it. Still, as a picture, we moved slowly around her as if time stopped. All the wrinkles were gone, a face swollen with death. Her hair was combed, parted, wrong, sweet like a silver child angel.

My mother put her head to my Grandma’s shoulder, tears and whispers landing on her mother’s neck. For a moment, I’m taken aback – I can’t help but think about my own probable future – the moment I’ll be hugging my own dead mother’s body, minutes after her soul leaves this world.

It’s one of those moments you grow up a whole lot of bit in just a little bit, realizing one day, your mother will die, realizing today, your mother lost her mother.

We live, we love, we lose, we leave. That is the reality. It’s the price we pay for being human.

Kindred Souls

A poem for Gramma

Taffeta and silk,
Slippers softer than pink.
Baby daisies on Mother’s Day,
Summer’s warm, beautiful light.
Soon, everything will be all right.

Porcelain unicorns,
The nutcracker ballet.
A convertible with its top down,
Can’t you feel the soft breeze?
Soon, it’s whatever you please.

A Victoria Lynn dolly,
Blue Bird orange juice in cans.
Silent Night playing on a violin,
The most touching music plays.
Soon, it’s all wonderful days.

Henry and a swing set,
Your preemie in Cabbage Patch.
Holding the babies of your babies.
Papa reaches his hand out to dance.
Soon, you’ll get the chance.

Bed Knobs and Broomsticks,
Paper dolls with paper clothes.
Charm bracelets linking me to you,
Oh, the love we’ll forever share.
Soon, we’ll be together there.

     In my heart for always,
     Every day and everywhere.

Two Tear Drops

“What are you thinking about?” he asks me, and the waves hum silently on the shore. Here I am, here I go, I am gone, they say. They tease me with their temporality.

“I was just wondering if my grandma has ever seen the ocean,” I said, and the tears were warm, salty, sudden, like the water.

And I don’t know if she has seen the ocean, if she has breathed New York air, or seen San Francisco’s Haight-Asbury. I don’t know if she has seen the naked bums in Austin, or the Flatirons in Boulder. Does she remember the grandiose of Vegas, and is Chicago still on her mind? Has she experienced the peace in Guatemala or the pain within her own home? Does she know what it’s like to kiss in the rain, and was there something she regrets, early on, that she can never take back? When she remembers life, does she remember salt and pepper scrambled eggs and the Nutcracker Ballet at the Buell Theater? Is she mad at him, or at her, or at us, or at anyone, and does sorry ever cut it, even when you’re dying? I do not know, and for that, I am sorrow-stricken.

She has to be scared of dying.

Where do we go? What is ever after? And she will never go home, they say. I wonder if she ever said goodbye to her pillow, her shoes, and her Cabbage Patch doll telephone. Did she bid farewell to the dishes, dirty in the sink? Or the sewing machines, lining the walls where my mom used to sleep? What about the hard boiled eggs still uneaten and the diet coke cans in the fridge? Who will consume them; will they die along with her? When will we have the heart to throw her crocheted Chap Stick holders in the trash? And are these things still in your mind while you are dying?

And no, a higher voice says from above. You do not think about things, but about the moments. So, I think about an Italian bus driver taking out a young girl that had dreams of becoming a stewardess. And I think about matching Easter dresses, and the momma who made them. The dolls, the costumes – they dance and curtsy, thanking their creator. I think about unicorns, and how real they felt every year with her, and I think about my own mother, crying so hard, because she’s losing the only thing that’s always been constant.

Gramma is dying of lung cancer.

Listen: Steve Wariner, Two Tear Drops