Flood

pexels-photo-709542.jpegThe opaque water rushed under the door, saturating the beige carpet. The winds whistled like a siren. Vee jumped to her feet. The storms had taken everything from her, and now it demanded more.

Vee wondered if things could have been different. If only we had listened to the Earth’s admonitions. If only we had not been so complacent. That was the folly of humans, she thought. We believe we are the progenitors of the universe. But this was not the case on that day—or any day. This wasn’t the time to think, though.

Vee’s body became automated. She had become accustomed to this routine—almost like doing dishes or brushing teeth.  Slow the flow of water, gather personal belongings, and run.

She leapt out of the window and onto the inundated lawn. That was her third “home” this month. Since federal aid to climate refugees was stymied, people began moving out of state to seek stability elsewhere. Dilapidated houses were abandoned like aged smartphones.

This year’s hurricane season had been exceptionally destructive. One right after another. Scientists estimate over 100 trillion gallons of rain has been dumped on the state so far.

A Category 5 freight train was approaching her. 63rd Street, Vee thought. The old red and white basketball stadium—reinforced walls, a titanium roof—would be her safest option.

It was a straight shot. A 45-minute walk at most. Vee rose to her feet and began sprinting. On the corner of Gilman and Hearst she began to hear a cacophony of shouts from a mauve and blue trimmed stucco house. Violent winds had forced a Live Oak through the terra-cotta roof. “We’re stuck!” “We’re stuck!” the voice screeched. “Please, help!” “Please!” another tiny voice pleaded.

If I stop, I’ll almost certainly be swept away by the floods, Vee thought. The murky waters were already accumulating. A thin layer had concealed the pavement below.

What would her daughter have said? Her daughter had only been six, and yet, she had emotional intelligence far beyond her years. Her daughter had watched coverage of the recent tsunamis in Southeast Asia—thousands were killed and millions were without electricity for months—and had sobbed for nearly two days.

“Mommy, we have to help those girls,” her daughter would have said. “They would do the same for us! What if it was us in that house?”

It was us, though, Vee thought. It was you. The waters had consumed you, swallowed you whole.

Her decision was predestined. Vee rushed toward the house and forced open the door. The fallen oak tree and other debris had created a dam—obstructing a portion of the hallway in which the girls were ensnared. Rain and turbid water pooled into the hallway. “Can you hear me?” Vee shouted. “I’m gonna try to dislodge this, but when I do, you have to get out immediately.”

The girls were crying. Their big brown eyes swelled with tears. “What do we do now?” The two asked anxiously.

“Move to the opposite side of the wall—away from the debris so nothing falls on you.” Vee replied.

Vee began plucking branches from the top of the debris, careful to avoid collapsing the structure. This reminded her of a game she once played with her nieces in San Antonio. The rules were the same here, albeit much more was at stake than an arbitrary collection of points.

The debris began to creak and shift. An infinitesimal hole began to form. The girls would have to crawl through it—they must, she thought. Any more movement of the wood and the structure would come crashing down like an encroaching tide.

“Hurry! You have to come now.” Vee demanded. “You’ll have to crawl through.”

The girls scaled the splintered woodpile making their way toward the exit. For the first time Vee saw the first girl’s face, peeking through the branches. Her face was familiar. Perhaps she had seen her around town. Perhaps it was in a different world. A world in which her daughter was still with her. It would have been at her daughter’s school at the front entrance under the green awning. The girl would have on a denim JanSport bag—staring at the ground and waiting to be picked up.

“Lady? Lady?” The girl shouted. Vee regained focus and pulled the child to safety. She was so light—almost ethereal. The girl plopped down beside Vee in the soupy living room.

The other girl was next. Twins, Vee thought. They each shared deep brown eyes and freckles splattered across their faces like paint.

The second girl had something the other did not, though. Her right arm was an amalgam of reds, blues, and purples. Her hand was contorted, twisted—unrecognizable. It must have happened when the tree fell on the house. Why wasn’t she screaming with pain? Where are their parents? Were they with them when the storm made landfall?

Vee grabbed the girl’s uninjured hand and pulled her toward her chest. For the first time in months, Vee felt a semblance of meaning in her life—a freeing from the suffocation of this hurricane season. Something present that had been lost in the waters.

Lifting the two girls onto her shoulders, Vee navigated the transient sea that had formed in the living room, and headed toward the mauve front door.

Vee and the twins stumbled out of the house and into the flood.

A ringed kingfisher perched on a slanted telephone line—its feathers iridescent in the sliver of peach sunlight. Their eyes locked for only a second. Although it would not be the last, the storm—like this moment—would soon pass.

Author: Taylor Lyon

I am a freelance science writer with an emphasis in global health and environmental news. 
I'm currently pursuing a Master's degree in global environmental health at the University of California, Berkeley. 
I am based in Berkeley, California.


One thought on “Flood”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s