She has left

She has left

N. Lafont

01/28/2022

The air hung stale and cold, dust wafting beneath the dim emergency lights. Not a sound nor movement disturbed the moment, not a soul drifted in the halls. The hospital was so, terribly, quiet. The examination rooms inhabited by families who spoke in hushed, wary voices while no one dared set foot into the department halls, much less the lobby. Though the scene could be recalled that time became a vague memory in which only little moments stood out. I took in breaths of cleaning chemicals, sharpened with each frost-laden inhale. It often woke me from dazes, it often forced me to take notice of my surroundings.

I wasn’t at home. My home might no longer be the same when we return, or it would be no longer. I remember all the picture frames we shoved into the dishwasher to protect. The dishwasher was airtight. Floodwaters wouldn’t be able to enter it, at the very least. I imagined broken windows and water-stained floors would be left in the aftermath. We took what we could, especially what we valued. Was it in bags, or suitcases? I couldn’t recall. I could recall the week spent in the hospital, though. My father was able to keep us there until the storm passed, as did many employees looking to shelter their families. Sitting in the dark examination room we set up a makeshift bed in often felt tense and quiet when concealed so deeply within the building, where thrashing and pitter-patters couldn’t be heard.

The best I could do is get something to read or figure out something to draw. In that notebook, that child had left a resentful woman in white and green, her jaw clenched and fists tight. Other times, eating would be a valid distraction. However, I ate little. Spam was distasteful, what little had been eaten sickened me. Snacks such as chips and Oreos were often the first to turn to. I remember taking a picture of those Oreos. They had matched my thick, striped sweater. I wore it because of the cold. I didn’t like the cold. I don’t like the cold.

There was only one time where my mother dared bring me to the hospital lobby. Only the doctors passed through, but rarely. The reason it was avoided, however, was due to the windows. Far taller than a child like I, far taller than a mother like mine. The glass was thick, it would protect against the worst of weather. However, there was no sight to be had. The splash of the downpour heavily blanketed the glass, turned light gray with only quaking and flailing shadows outside. Palm leaves quivered, nearly torn away by the wind.

This was the woman in white and green, a resentful thing. She whirled about outside and brought fear with every thundering growl. Her nails scraped the windows and feet dug through roots. Her eye caught us but once and it brought a truer silence. It exposed so much for that moment, with the cloudy skies with not a splotch of blue, as well as the dark, murky puddles that sullied the concrete walkways.

The wordless stress allowed thoughts to flow. Most of those thoughts wondered how other people were faring. Family and friends, did they flee the state, or do they hold their ground at home? It started as the yearly warning of tropical storms. Then, category two. Then, three. Then, four. Even rumors of a five. She laid waste to the first land in her path, then my home fell in her way. That home of mine was threatened, as was I. However, reprieve came in her escape, and the woman outside took with her those tears and screams. Those among me, hiding in dark crevices, rose.

They all fled, my family as well. We had to return and define what had been lost and destroyed in her vengeance. We had to return and define the safety of our loved ones, who remained at their homes. We had to return and define if there was anything to return to. As my family, belongings in tow, proceeded to our car, we could see trees torn from their perches in the courtyard, roots in the air and leafless branches to the ground. It was a wonder they hadn’t been cast asunder through windows and car seats. With how young I was, I imagined such. I imagined such disasters, yet desired to see the results.

The drive was but a whirring with nary a voice to follow. I watched for remnants of that lady’s visit through the window as we passed. When we neared home, the old gate had torn and fallen outside the neighborhood. With how little destruction I had seen on the way, what I saw of my house was the slightest bit unexpected, absurd even. The pine trees were forced against our roof and hung upon it for support, if just to keep them from finally falling as they would have. I remember that we didn’t keep those trees, as well as the stumps left in their wake, beige mushrooms eventually making little shades on the sides.

It was only upon entering that we realized our lights dared not turn on. Each breath turned lungs heavy yet without relief. Standing inside seared us. The air conditioner didn’t work. There was no power for us, nor for our neighbors. Blankets and pillows were brought outside and cast upon seats. We rested in our yard, beneath stars but within humid heat. It felt surreal to me, even years later. But this had all been what she did, and what I experienced. I still remember the woman in green and white, I still have my drawing of her. I still think about her.

Her name was Irma.