9. The Storm #2
I bury myself as deep as I can and come with a low, rough sound I barely recognize as mine.
My body stiffens as I pulse deep inside her, releasing everything.
Years of restraint, loneliness, hunger, grief, and need, all of it burns down to the feel of Annie around me and the brutal relief of letting go.
I hold her through every shudder, my hand flat against her back, my face pressed to her shoulder, my body giving her everything I have.
I collapse back against the shelving and for a moment, I can’t move.
Her forehead rests against my shoulder. Her breath is uneven against my neck, and mine is no better.
When I can breathe again, I realize I’m holding her too tightly and loosen my grip.
I touch her cheek with my thumb.
Her eyes meet mine. There’s still heat there.
There’s also shock.
Mine, probably, reflected back at me.
The world starts returning in pieces. Clothes on the floor. Ellie waiting at Rhea’s. The clinic may be damaged. The facts start assembling themselves and not kindly.
She lifts her head, her eyes meet mine, and I see it happen. The heat is there.
So is the retreat.
One wall going up, then another, and I feel the movement through her body before she shifts. Her legs unlock from my waist. I help her down and let go.
She immediately grabs her clothes from the floor and turns away.
The message is clear enough.
“Let me give you some privacy.”
“Thanks,” she says without looking at me.
I pull the storage room door mostly shut behind me. I zip my pants and button my shirt in the hallway. I head out through the side door to try and assess the damage.
The worst of the storm has moved past the clinic.
At least outside.
Cold rain hits my face and gets under my collar before I make it three steps. It actually feels good to have a chance to cool off.
The oak beside the north side of the clinic is down. Thankfully, the bulk of it missed us. But some of the limbs caught the gutter on the way down. t’s ripped loose, twisted up and lying against the foundation.
One limb has punched into the roof and is lodged there, deep enough to be a problem. It should hold until I can get a roofer out.
There are several pieces of siding peeled back near the impact point. Not cleanly torn off. Pulled loose and bent outward. Fortunately, the tree is pushing up against them so that should keep them from ripping off if we get any more wind.
The only other thing I find is that one of the windows is cracked, and there is a softball-sized hole near the middle. It’s enough of an opening that the rain is getting inside.
All in all, the clinic took some damage, but it’s nothing tragic. I need to get some plastic, tape, and a couple bins and button this place up so I can go and pick up Ellie.
I text Rhea and let her know I’ll be here for about another thirty minutes, give or take.
I stand in the rain another minute, then circle back to the front. I slip off my shoes, now completely engulfed in mud.
When I walk through the front door, Annie is at the reception desk. Her bag is on her shoulder. Her hair is pulled back and her face is composed.
“Jesus, you look like a drowned rat,” she says. “Let me get some towels.”
She starts to take a step and I stop her. “I’m good.” I keep my voice easy and nod toward the restroom. “I’ll dry off.”
“All right.” Her hand drops back to her bag strap. “Well, is the building okay?”
“It’s fine.”
She watches me another second, trying to decide whether to believe me.
I add, “Nothing that can’t be handled in the morning.”
It’s not really a lie. With a minimal amount of effort, it will be true.
“Well, okay then.” She looks toward the front door. “I’m going to go, then.”
This is awkward.
“Well, be careful, the roads are probably a mess.”
“Of course.”
“Text me when you get home safely. Please.”
The words are too formal for a woman I had wrapped around me twenty minutes ago. They are also the only ones that will get us through the next thirty seconds.
“Sure.” She nods, opens the door, and steps into the wet parking lot.
The front door closes with a small click that sounds too final and the clinic settles around me.
I need to get these temporary repairs in place. That means I need to go back to the storage room.
My flashlight skims over the area. The damage outside was easier to look at.
Okay Doc, get your ass in gear. It’s a room, not a memorial.
I set the bin upright and move two fallen boxes back onto the shelf. I straighten the room and bring it back to order so there is no residual physical evidence to relive in the morning.
I take three empty bins from the top shelf and nest them together. I load up tape, plastic sheets, paper towels, and a utility knife.
On my way out the door, I grab the stepladder.
The roof is less about repair and more about buying time. I climb up into the attic and assess. The limb needs to stay where it is. Removing it will only cause more damage.
I do lay one of the bins on its side and lift the limb enough to slide the bin under it. I shift the bin back upright. Then I stuff tarp in around edges where it meets the roof. I plug it as tightly as I can. The bin, hopefully, will catch whatever water seeps through.
My phone buzzes.
ANNIE: Home safe.
I pause, staring at the screen.
Christ Doc, don’t make a huge deal out of it.
ME: Great to hear.
At the window, I clean away the loose glass and wipe the window dry.
I cut a sheet of plastic to overlap the hole and tape it into place.
I cut another slightly larger and do the same.
And then one last time with a third. That should keep the wind from punching through.
I lay two towels on the floor, just in case.
All in all, I’m making good time. I stop to call USAA and start the insurance claim. Then I write a quick to do list before I leave:
CALL: Roofer. Tree service. Window. Gutter. Siding. BUY NEW: Emergency lights and batteries.
By the time I lock the side door again, my shirt has started to dry to a damp stage, my hands are cold, and my phone alarm goes off.
Thirty minutes.
I lock the clinic and get to the car.
Coupeville is wet, falling deeply into twilight, and looks worse for wear. Branches lie across lawns and sidewalks. The street sign at the corner leans toward the road as if somebody shoved it and walked away.
The drive to Rhea’s is slow. Large branches lie in the road. Leaves cling to the windshield before the wipers drag them away. Water hides the edge of the pavement in the low places.
My mind keeps going back to Annie, to the landmine I’ve stepped on with eyes wide open.
The storage room.
The feel of her in my arms, her breath against my neck, and the way I moved inside her.
Landmine.
This one didn’t explode right away. That doesn’t make it safe. I go over and over it in my head. By the time I turn into Rhea’s driveway, I have the shape of it locked away as tightly as I can get it.
Two adults. A storm. Too much friction in a small space. A mutual choice. Bad timing. It won’t happen again.
It can’t.
Annie has her life. I have mine with Ellie. The clinic has to function.
Rhea opens the door before I knock.
“Hey,” she says. “How are things in the outside world?”
I laugh. “It’s not post-apocalyptic, but there are a lot of branches and trees down.”
“The clinic okay?”
“Yeah, some minor damage. We’ll be fine.” I take a breath. “How are the girls?”
“They were a little nervous when the wind picked up, but I kept them talking. Cocoa helped.”
“Thank you. I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing. You’d have done the same.”
I would have.
“Daddy!” Ellie shrieks, runs to me, and grips me in a bear hug.
“Hey, sweetheart.” I wrap my arms around her and hold on with no intention of letting go.
Well, at least not first.
“Dad, the house made awful noises,” she says into my shirt. “So much creaking and groaning.”
“This one or ours?”
“Both. It was terrible.”
“Noted.”
She leans back. “Erin’s cat hid under a laundry basket and I wanted to go with him but he hissed at me.”
“That was rude of him.”
“Extremely.”
I kiss the top of her head before she ducks away to hug Erin good-bye. I thank Rhea again, and Ellie thanks her too with a giant hug.
In the car, she starts talking before I back out of the driveway. The lights flickered. Rhea made cocoa. Erin told ghost stories that scared Ellie, but they were fun. A tree fell down two houses away, but everyone was fine.
I let her talk.
The words bubble out and fill the car, pushing the rest of the afternoon into the back seat. Ellie is beside me, safe, tired, and already turning fear into a story she can own.
At home, she makes me inspect the house before she will go upstairs. Leaves are plastered across the walk. A few limbs are down in the yard, and one has taken out a hydrangea that was probably important to someone before us.
“The house is fine,” I declare.
“We’re okay?” she says.
“We’re okay.”
““Now I’m going up to bed.” She looks at me, satisfied enough to trust in our house again.
“At eight?”
“Dad, I’m exhausted,” she says, slumping her shoulders dramatically. “And tomorrow I’m sleeping in.”
“Ah, sleeping like a teenager.”
“Same thing.”
Twenty minutes later, her bedroom door closes. The house settles around the two of us, one wide awake and one pretending she’ll fall asleep soon.
I grab a drink and a towel and go sit on the porch. I don’t normally drink without the guys, but fuck. This day calls for scotch.
I sit and watch the water. Waves are still angry, crashing on the shoreline. But their rhythm hasn’t changed. The tide comes in, the tide goes out.
Life keeps moving in its rhythm.
The turmoil of the storm may be almost over outside.
But inside, my turmoil is just beginning.