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After The Storm by Cassandra D. Bell
August 28, 2002 I woke up with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. After getting my shower and first cup of coffee, I realized the feeling wasn’t the result of something I had eaten the night before. It was more internal; either my heart or my head wasn’t clicking in time with things around me. My twin boys Joshua and Jared thought I had lost my mind. Eight-year-old boys rarely think their mother is all there, but they seemed a little more leery of me on that morning. I half answered most of their questions, let them wear whatever they wanted to school, and wouldn’t let them turn on the television set. And that is sheer anguish for young boys who need their daily fill of Nickelodeon. After watching me scamper around all morning, they seemed relieved when the school bus pulled up in front of the house, and they were rescued from the quiet chaos. I had had that uneasy feeling before, and it has never been a sign of anything good. If it did mean there was life-altering information coming my way, I didn’t want to find out on television or radio, so I wouldn’t listen to either. I’ve always had this fear of hearing about the death of a loved one while watching some cold lifeless news report: “Officials say there were no survivors and they are still investigating the cause of the accident . . .”[awkward pause]“. . . and now Brett takes a look at that weekend forecast.” No one wants to hear about death through a news report and certainly not from a reporter who obviously failed Segue Class. After the boys were gone, with one cup of coffee, two twelve-ounce cans of Diet Coke, and one stale chocolate-covered donut under my protruding Gucci belt, I made up my mind to get out of the house despite the pestering uncertainty in my gut. No sooner than I grabbed my newest Coach handbag and opened the front door, it hit me. The muggy warmth of hurricane season. It’s a damp stillness that hangs in the air. The low, fast-moving clouds and uneasiness of the wind pushing against the palm trees speak to you. There’s almost a smell attached to it. You see locals walk out, look up, sniff the air, and put their hands on their hips only to announce, “Feels like a storm coming, hope it isn’t a bad one.” Even in northern Florida, hurricane season means keeping your head up and your eyes open. Before you have time to react to the feeling, the wind and rain could toss your world into utter chaos, leaving only a mangled mess and victims surveying what’s left with tears in their eyes and their mouths dropped open. No matter how many times the storms have blown through, you’re never quite ready for it. The weather reports, the home and garden chains selling wood pallets, even the empty grocery shelves: nothing ever prepares you for what Mother Nature can do on a day with a feeling and a smell like this. Assured that my nagging was simply a sign of a storm brewing, I ran back inside, grabbed the remote, and hit the power button. Sure enough, Meteorologist Skip Meadows was spouting off the latest about a change in the path of the storm and giving the coordinates of Hurricane Lily. He was warning Floridians from the tip to the top to get ready for the high winds and heavy rains. I hit the power button again, killing Skippy in mid-sentence, knowing I’d have less time to get all my errands run before the boys were sent back home from school early, and Lily shut life down for a few hours or even days. Having wasted too much time worrying about some unexpected mishap, I grabbed the purse again, tossed it over my right shoulder. A quick glance at the wrist watch revealed that the ten o’clock hour was approaching at alarming pace, so I grabbed an umbrella and dashed to my car. With my mind on at least four things at one time, I started the engine, put the car in gear and started backing out of the driveway without looking. A quick glance in the rearview mirror just as I reached for my cell phone sent chills up and down my spine. The mailman with his mouth and eyes open wide was standing carelessly at the end of my driveway trying to shove past due bills into the box. I slammed the brakes and screamed as my heart pounded against my chest cavity. Mr. Mailman scooted his narrow rear just out of reach of my left bumper. I rolled down my window to make sure he was okay, as he threw up a forgiving wave, kept shoving mail, and then moved to the other side of the street to avoid the horrible death by motor vehicle I almost inflicted. After he was clearly out of the way, I pulled out of the driveway, trying to stay calm enough to make the call to my husband Derrick.
After The Storm:Part 1 | After The Storm:Part 2 | After The Storm:Part 3 | After The Storm:Part 4 | Order After the Storm |
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