Jocelyn
When people talk about hurricanes along the Texas coast, they always say things like, Remember Harvey? or I’ll never forget Harvey.
Harvey is the zenith. The benchmark against which all other hurricanes must be measured. Mostly, this is because it was the
most severe storm to hit Texas in recent memory. But also—it flooded a major city.
When a tropical depression morphs into Hurricane Isaiah in mid-October, we take the same precautions we always do—gas, food,
water. Those who can evacuate, do. Medical personnel, however, can’t evacuate. We’re assigned to Team A—in-house during the
storm—or Team B—relief for Team A when the storm ends.
I’m not freaking out.
I’m not.
When the email confirming my team assignment comes, I immediately text Asher.
You team b too?
Yeah. Sucks.
I call him. “Asher, I can’t stay in my house for this storm. I know it says it’s going to hit closer to Mexico, but—”
“Who made the schedule? Can you talk to them? Maybe they’ll remove you completely, so you can evacuate.”
I sigh. “It was Cassie. She’s in charge of all our schedules now.”
“Oh.”
I can practically hear his body droop. No way will Cassie Hersl do me any favors.
“So come stay with me,” he says.
Hope blossoms in my chest, the prettiest flower to ever exist. “Can I?”
“Yes. I’ve got impact windows, a new roof and a whole-house generator.”
A growl rises in my throat. “This is why I should’ve bought a new build instead of renting this shanty.”
“That’s what I said that time your bathtub knob broke.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, I erupt into laughter. We’d been at the beach and had drunkenly stumbled into my house
to eat pizza and crash. Sweaty and sandy, I went to take a shower, but when I turned the faucet, it broke in the ON position.
We tried everything. Wrenches. Hammers. Prayers. Eventually, Asher succumbed to scooping water out of the tub and pouring it into the toilet and sink while I begged an emergency plumber to please come fast.
Neither of us thought to turn off the main water valve, nor could we stop laughing as water sloshed over the ancient beige
and blue four-by-four tiles in my bathroom.
Thirty minutes later, the plumber arrived and fixed the whole thing, eyeing us as if we were errant children. Now, holding
the phone to my ear, I’m picturing the grumpy dude’s face and cracking up all over again. “That plumber hated us.”
“Yeah, and for some reason, you still live there.”
I groan. “I know, but the rent is cheap, and my loans are almost paid off.”
“Guess I can’t blame you. You’re the responsible one, while I wasted my money on the big house and truck. But now you live
in a tiny cottage from the 1960s that is definitely not hurricane-proof, while I live in a fortress, so who’s really the responsible
one?”
“Still me, but I’ll be a good hurricane roommate and bring snacks.”
A couple days later, to my utter horror, Hurricane Isaiah strikes south of us as a Category 2—wind speeds up to 110 mph, storm
surge around eight feet. We lose power midway through landfall, but Asher’s fancy propane generator keeps us comfortable while
my snacks keep us fed.
For my benefit, Asher sets up camp in his second living room—the one with fewer windows through which I might gaze out in
stark fear.
I hate hurricanes.
When a particularly loud crack against the side of the house draws tears to the surface of my eyes, he touches my shoulder.
I flinch—a startle reflex—then grab his hand for comfort.
“What made you so scared of storms?” he asks.
I scoot closer to him, seeking a warm body to remind me I’m not alone. “It’s not storms. It’s specifically hurricanes.”
“Why?”
“I grew up outside of New Orleans.”
Asher puts an arm around me. “What happened?”
So . . . I tell him. I take a deep, shuddering breath and unravel the whole chain of events.
In a subconscious effort to heal, I’ve blocked out a lot of the events of that day. Ali remembers things I don’t, and vice
versa. For example, Ali remembers when our parents decided to ride out the storm.
They always say it’ll be bad. This won’t be any different than the others.
I, however, remember the moment they realized they were wrong.
It’s too late to evacuate, Lisa. The roads are flooded.
It all happened both painfully slow and far, far too fast.
The water rose, spilling into our house through cracks in the doorways and air-conditioning vents. My parents took useless
brooms and buckets to the rising tide, and directed all three kids into the attic of our small home.
At the top of the stairs, my brother, Leo, a year older than me, sniffled. I touched my face, finding it wet, too. Ali, the
eldest at eighteen, engulfed us both in a hug.
It’ll be okay. We’ll all be fine.
Outside the single attic window, rain and wind tore at the world. Shingles ripped off houses. Cars and everyday household
objects floated down the streets.
The water surged higher.
Downstairs, glass shattered. My parents cursed. I rushed to the window alongside my brother and sister. Below, our minivan had shoved a tree into our front porch. Across the street, our elderly neighbors waded into the torrential street, holding bags above their heads.
They had no attic of their own. If they stayed in their flooding home, they’d drown.
We watched our parents appear below, screaming at the couple to come inside with us. The elderly pair made their way through
the debris, struggling against the current.
My parents infiltrated the dangerous waters, a frantic, seemingly hopeless endeavor. The elderly couple abandoned their bags
to the water and reached for my dad. Mere feet separated them. Two yards of swelling, eddying gray water.
The elderly woman lost her footing first.
Dad lunged for her. Missed. Disappeared beneath the flood.
Mom’s scream was loud enough to pierce the storm.
Leo slammed his fist on the window. “Dad!”
A floating tree rode the waves, barely missing Mom, who started back toward the house despite the elderly man still fighting
to stay upright.
An airborne branch whipped through the air, and all three of us leaped away from the window as it crashed through, opening
the attic to the perilous world outside. Regardless of the danger, I scrambled to my feet and fell against the branch now
penetrating the window.
Outside, the water continued to rise. Mom and the elderly man were nowhere in sight. No. No. No.
I spun and darted toward the stairs, now halfway drowned in water. I dove into the freezing, dirty surge, ignoring the bump
and bustle of invisible objects beneath it.
Leo and Ali yelled at me to come back, but I ignored them, searching the front porch for any sign of life.
“Mom!” I screamed over and over, only to be answered by wind and rain and an ever-rising tide.
I slipped over something beneath me and submerged under the gritty, salty water. It seared my nose, stung my eyes, and I came up splashing. A hand grasped my wrist. Looking up through wet, salt-burned vision, I found my brother’s brown eyes and intense stare.
I have you.
Ali stood waist-deep in water on the stairs, tear-streaked and frazzled, reaching for us both. We endured the rest of the
storm braced in each other’s arms, and we attended our parents’ combined funeral six weeks later—after the bodies were recovered
and identified. We moved into our only living grandmother’s house in Tennessee.
That’s where I stop the story for Asher. Because the rest hurts to talk about.
Leo resorted to an opiate addiction to numb the pain. Desperate for a home and stability, Ali married the first man she seriously
dated, Nicolas Sanchez, before her twenty-first birthday.
I built glass walls.
The boyfriend I found at my new school in Tennessee—my first love—died in a car accident a year later. Grandma passed from
a heart attack just after I received my first admittance to college. Leo succumbed to his addiction the year following.
With each new death, my walls grew thicker and colder. I reinforced them with diamond-hard denial and steel-coated displacement
that not even years of therapy have been able to strip away. I pretended away my emotional unavailability and substituted
meaningful relationships with sexual satisfaction and casual acquaintances. My therapist says I developed avoidant attachment
from the trauma. I just think I’m smart to protect myself.
Regardless, pathologic lessons ingrained themselves into my head:
To love is to pierce barbs into my heart—barbs adulterated with endorphins and lidocaine, so the puncture doesn’t hurt.
It feels good. What hurts is the violent dislodgment, the mangled tissue left behind when the love is stolen, destroyed, killed.
Echoes of the missing pieces radiate torturous pain inward. Fragments poison the bloodstream.
I no longer allow people to penetrate so deeply.
Asher is a stealth-master. He ninja-ed his way behind my walls.
His arm tightens around me. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. Definitely get why you hate storms now.”
“Yep.”
“Why exactly do you live on the coast?”
I shrug and look out the window, where wind whips debris through the air. “I think I like to play chicken with my fears. This
time, it’s definitely winning.”
“Nah.” He reaches forward for a handful of M&M’S. “This is just a little wind. I won’t let it hurt you.”
I smile up at him—the first genuine smile since this godforsaken tempest started—and give him my Olive Oyl impression. “My
hero.”
He throws an M&M at me.