Rexanne Becnel - Blink Of An Eye

“I see. Any idea how the Community Homes facility fared?” she asked.

“It was in Gentilly, so probably not too well.”

“Lord almighty.” Then she sighed. “Well, don’t you worry, sugar. Your brother’s going to be just fine wherever he lands. Give me your phone number. I promise to keep track of him so you can always find him through me. Okay? And take my cell number, too.”

“Thanks, Alma. Thanks so much.”

After I hung up, I felt enormously relieved. Through the years I’d discovered that most of the people involved in long-term care for people like Clark were great. There was always the occasional bad apple. But for the most part they were good folks—massively underpaid, of course—but genuinely involved with their clients’ lives. Like Verna Jenkins, Alma Charles definitely belonged in that group, an angel who would make sure that Clark and the others from his group home were well served.

“Thank you,” I whispered into the sweltering night. Thank you to who? Alma? Verna? God?

I’m not a churchgoer. I quit after Dad left us. Mom was too depressed to force the issue, and other than a Christmas manger scene, God didn’t make much of an appearance in our household. But all the while I’d tried to talk my first boyfriend, Gary, out of being gay, I’d prayed a lot. And later when I’d tried to get pregnant, six years of heavy-duty praying.

God hadn’t listened—if there was a God. Or else he’d decided I was an opportunist who only prayed when she wanted something. That was the more likely scenario. I’d prayed briefly when Tom had gotten into trouble with the insurance fraud, but it was halfhearted, as if I knew it wasn’t going to help.

Since Tom’s conviction, I hadn’t prayed for anything. Why bother? And I hadn’t thought much about God either, not even in the height of the storm when I wasn’t sure Lucky and I would make it to that porch.

But I was thankful to God tonight, because He was taking good care of my brother. I was thankful, but I was lonesome.

How I missed Clark, his funny smile and silly giggle. My forty-two-year-old kindergarten kid. How long would it be before I saw him again?

I know it seems stupid, me getting all teary-eyed missing my brother. If I’d followed through with my suicide plan I would never have seen him again. But I wasn’t suicidal anymore. The moment had passed. That wasn’t to say it might not come again. But the impulse had subsided just as the opportunity had.

Beside me, Lucky woofed in his sleep and his feet twitched in hot pursuit of some dream squirrel or cat. I turned to face him, grateful to have him with me. If he hadn’t slammed into my windshield…

Closing my eyes, I vowed not to go there. Life was what it was. From now on I wouldn’t look back with regret. One day at a time, that was my new mantra—more stuff left over from rehab and my forced participation in AA. I’d hated every minute of it, resented being stuck in the same category as some of the really down-and-out folks who straggled into the meetings. At the same time, I’d resented the presence of the longtime sober ones who lived and breathed AA.

But as much as I hated to admit it, AA did have a few good points. Like that one-day-at-a-time thing.

A mosquito buzzed near my ear and I swatted blindly at it. One day at a time. I’d lost track of the days though. How many weeks since Hurricane Katrina had wiped out the whole damned Gulf Coast? Since I’d abandoned my suicide plan? Since I’d had a drink?

And how long since I’d met Ben—or should I say since I’d stepped back into nursing mode?

So which one was it that had me happier than I’d been in years: the teetotaling, the job or the man?

I actually smiled as I admitted to myself that I didn’t know. And I didn’t much care. I was bathing in a swimming pool and living without electricity, but I felt really good these days. Needed. And that was enough for me.

The next day we needed every helping hand we could get. Word had gotten around, as it always does, and the park was seeing a lot more people every day for food, water and medical help.

“Where’s Ben?” I asked Tess after I finished bandaging a nasty cut that needed stitches. Unfortunately the wild-eyed old guy wouldn’t let me anywhere near him with sutures.

“Ben went down to the Quarter, to that FEMA hospital set up in one of the hotels,” Tess answered. “It turns out they have lots of supplies but no patients. Everybody’s over here or going to that street clinic on St. Philip Street. He’s hoping they might share some of their supplies with us.” She rolled her eyes. “Like the feds are gonna cooperate with anybody.”

“Maybe they could move their operation down here, you know, to where the people actually are.”

She shook her head. “That’s way too logical for the organization that dithered while New Orleans drowned. They should have been here the minute the winds died down.”

She had a point. Tess hadn’t had any connection to New Orleans prior to Katrina, and had only come down to help as a favor to Ben. But already she’d attached herself to the city with a vengeance, connecting to the people and our strong sense of community. I have to add also that she was suspicious of anything that any branch of government said or did. She thought Mayor Nagin was hopeless, Governor Blanco was a waste of time and you did not want to get her started on President Bush.

I’ve never been all that political, but it was hard to remain neutral when weeks after the biggest natural disaster in American history, so little progress had been made.

No, I take that back. Jackson Square had been cleaned up beautifully for the president’s visit. It was just everywhere else that remained a wreck.

An hour or so later when Ben showed up, his expression said everything. There would be no sharing of supplies or personnel. If people wanted help from the FEMA clinic, they had to go to the FEMA clinic.

“So here’s what we do,” Ben said as we gathered around him. “Anything that requires prescriptions or anything more invasive than stitches, we send to them. We need to assemble a fleet of cars so we can ferry people down there. Do you have a car?” he asked me.

“Sorry. It drowned.”

“I’ll ask around,” Tess said. “How about we make any patient who has a car promise to give us a couple of hours of cab service as payment?”

Ben grinned at her. “Good idea. Another thing. Another group of doctors and nurses should be arriving tomorrow, assuming they don’t get turned away at the military checkpoints. Since a lot of you have indicated you’re staying for a while longer, we need to locate more places to put them up. We probably only need five or six beds.”

“I have room,” I said. “A fold-out couch and a roof that doesn’t leak.”

“Great.” He smiled at me.

Great. I smiled back. Why don’t you come stay with me?

Immediately I ducked my head. I did not need to be sending out “I’m available” vibes to this man. For all I knew the good doctor had a sweet little wife tucked away at home. And anyway, the last thing I needed right now was to get involved with some guy. Lucky was all the male I could handle these days.

Still, it was nice to know that feelings I’d assumed long dead and buried—like sexual awareness—were still alive and ticking. It made me feel alive.

I busied myself with setting up the exam area—more bandages and sterilized instruments—but I must have been smiling to myself, because Tess shot me a curious look. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Yeah. I guess I am. I talked to my brother last night.” Now why had I told her that?

“Really? He evacuated?”

“Yes. But he’s doing fine in Baton Rouge.”