Jennifer Brown: Torn Away

When I finally made it to the bottom step, I was out of the rain’s reach, so I stood there and stared, squeezing water out of my hair and wiping my cheeks dry with my hands, trying to figure out what to do next.

Trying to figure out how I would survive until Mom and Ronnie came home.

There were a dozen bottles of water in Ronnie’s mini-fridge, along with a few beers, some cheese in a jar, and a package of hot dogs. I’d had to dig through broken boards and rubble with my hands to get to the refrigerator. By the time I unearthed it, I was so thirsty, I downed one of the waters while I sat on a clear spot on the floor in front of it, my fingers torn up and sore.

My stomach growled heartily as I spotted the cheese, but I was afraid to eat it, unsure what we would do about food once Mom and Ronnie and Marin came home. I wanted to make sure there was enough for all of us. I wondered when we would get help on our street, and if the helpers would have food. I wondered if our real refrigerator was still upstairs somewhere, and if it still had food in it, and tried to bat away a panicked thought that the refrigerator upstairs could at any minute cave in the floor it was sitting on and bury me. I scooted back from the area where the kitchen had spilled into the basement, into the opposite corner. That section of floor had felt solid.

I sat on the concrete and sipped my water, listening to the thunderstorm, watching as the rain picked up and tapered off, only to do it again, bathing the basement in shadows that got deeper and deeper as night fell full force.

I didn’t hear anything else outside. No voices, no sirens, no cars. Just the tapping of the raindrops, the clap of the thunder.

Eventually, I got up and made my way over to the flipped couch; it was wet on the back side, but the cushions underneath were dry. I pulled them out and carried them to the pool table, which I’d pushed closer to my safe corner. I placed the couch cushions under the table and rounded up my backpack, Marin’s purse, the flashlight, and my cell phone. I rummaged through an old dresser that Mom had stuck in the farthest corner of the basement, and found a blanket we used for picnics and on the Fourth of July to watch fireworks at the park, some beach towels, and a deck of playing cards with the date of Mom and Ronnie’s Vegas honeymoon embossed on the box. I took them all, lumping the towels together like a pillow and covering myself with the blanket. I stuffed the playing cards into Marin’s purse, along with the gum and the lipstick, and then clicked on the flashlight and stretched out across the cushions on my stomach, feeling safer, as if I could wait for everyone down here until morning if need be. I didn’t want to, but I’d be okay if I had to.

The book I’d been reading before the tornado hit—which seemed like forever ago already—was a little damp, and one of the pages had been torn. But for the most part it was all still there, and I decided to finish it to pass the time. I wondered if Miss Sopor’s house had been destroyed, too, and if the high school was still standing.

Surely it was. It had to be. Jane might have been inside it.

I imagined everyone going back to school, with stories to tell about how they’d weathered the storm. About how their houses were damaged or their cars were messed up. What about Jersey Cameron and Kolby Combs? I imagined them saying. They aren’t here. I heard they lost everything. I didn’t want them doing that. I didn’t want everyone talking about how Jersey Cameron, the mousy drama club girl, had nothing now. I groaned and rolled to my back, staring up at the bottom of the pool table, the book slack in my hands. With my free hand, I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and tried to call Mom again. Still nothing. Where are you, Mom? When will you get to me?

I pulled up my messaging and thumbed a text to Dani—Am in basement. Ok but everything destroyed. You?—and then typed out a similar text to Jane—Made it thru tornado. U ok? I stared at my phone’s screen, hoping that the messages would go through, but after a few seconds an error message popped up instead.

My stomach rumbled again and I turned over and opened Marin’s purse. A waft of cinnamon and mint puffed out in my face, along with the familiar scent of my mom’s makeup and my sister’s shampoo. I dug around until I found a full pack of gum, unwrapped a piece, and stuck it into my mouth to quiet my hunger. I chewed, listening to the rain continue, and turned the foil wrapper in my fingers.

I thought about my sister. Marin hated storms. She was probably freaking out right now, especially if she was trapped in a dark closet with her dance classmates, smushed together, the skin of their arms sweating up against one another. Mom would be trying to calm her, rubbing her sticky curls and talking to her. Maybe singing to her. Trying to think of a way out.

I hoped they were okay. I hoped they were in the police station or a grocery store or someplace safe, trying to call me, trying to figure out how to navigate the car to the house. To save me.

I pulled a pen out of my backpack and bent over the little square of foil. I drew a stick figure on tiptoes, arms out and legs bent, curved lines surrounding the figure to indicate motion. I gave the stick figure big eyes with long eyelashes and a smiling mouth, then added a princess crown to the top of its head just for fun.

Marin does the East Coast Swing, I wrote under the picture, then held up the foil and gazed at it, a smile curving my lips. Marin would love it when she saw it.

I folded the picture over itself into tinier and tinier squares, then tucked it in the zippered pocket inside the purse.

By the time morning came, the rain had stopped, leaving in its wake a sharp light that gave everything a vivid edge. I unwound myself from my blanket and slid out from under the table, blinking, the events of the day before rushing in on me.

It wasn’t a dream , I thought with disappointment. The tornado really did happen.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the time. It was 11 AM, and I had no messages. I tried to call Mom’s phone again and wasn’t surprised when my attempt was greeted with an automated message saying my call couldn’t go through.

It was hot. Already. My hair stuck to my neck, and I could feel a bead of sweat slowly making its way down the small of my back. My legs were goose bumpy where the blanket had wrapped around them and trapped in body heat all night. The wreckage on the open side of the basement had become saturated and was now baking in the May sun. It was already starting to stink.

I was hungry.

I was thirsty.

And, worst of all, I had to go to the bathroom.

My eyes landed on a paint bucket Ronnie used to store rags. How embarrassing. I would hold it.

To keep my mind off my bladder, I went to the refrigerator and ate two cold hot dogs, which were starting to not be so cold anymore. I wondered how long they would still be good. After I finished them, I took out a bottle of water, shutting the door as quickly as possible to conserve as much cold air as I could. I leaned back against the refrigerator and listened to the noises outside.

I heard disjointed words like “in there” and “destroyed” and “keep pressure on it” and “ambulance” and “overwhelmed.” Somewhere in the distance I heard the buzzing of a chain saw.

I listened for Mom’s voice. For Ronnie’s. Marin’s. I listened for my name, for cries of hope.

I didn’t hear any of that.

When the pain in my bladder got to be too much, I finally mustered up my courage and walked over to the bucket, feeling silly and embarrassed, hoping nobody suddenly came down to “rescue” me at that moment.