In Your Embrace (5 page)

“What was that?” Hannah screams.

Andrew is on his feet and rounding the staircase with flashlight in hand before Hannah and Claire can get to their feet.
 They scramble up the stairs behind him, trying to see their path by the bouncing of his light against the floor as he rushes ahead.

“Andrew?” Claire calls.
 They hear a door open and a loud grunt of displeasure from above.

“Yeah,” he calls, leaning over the railing of the second floor.
 Hannah and Claire come to a halt on the darkened stairs and Andrew shines his light over so they can join him. Once they are all on the landing, he swings the flashlight to his right and Hannah gasps.  The large ocean-facing bedroom that will one day be a grand suite is now home to a faded green canoe.  Or at least what is left of one.  The fiberglass hull appears to have been torn apart and then chucked straight through the second story window.  Rain lashes through the empty window.  Glass snags in the damp carpets.  Splinters of the boarding used to seal the room litter the floor.

Andrew’s head droops as he motions for the girls to step back and he closes the door behind him.
 “Nothing we can do about this until the storm passes.”

Hannah feels numb as she slips back down the stairs under the guiding light of Andrew’s flashlight.
 
Perhaps the destruction is far worse that we realize.  We are so remote out here. What if entire houses are being washed away?

She curls her arms around herself at the thought.
 People all along the Outer Banks are suffering.  Probably farther inland as well.  The clean-up will most likely take weeks, if not months.  Hannah remembers the horrifying images left behind from Hurricane Katrina.  The thought of that sort of damage happening here makes her sick at heart.

Hannah has only just sat down when a terrible ripping sound echoes from the front of the house.
 Her heads whips around as her stomach rises into her throat.  
It sounds as if the entire deck has been torn away!

“Stay here!”
 Andrew shoves a spare flashlight into Hannah’s hands and rushes down the hall.  Hannah watches his light sway erratically back and forth then disappear completely.

Claire sinks down beside Hannah, and the two women cling to each other as they wait. Minutes pass, stretching endlessly before them, and still Andrew does not return.
 Hannah can hear water splashing, but it sounds far too loud and too near to be hitting the exterior of the house.

“Claire?”

“I see it,” she calls back with a grim tone.  Lifting the light, both women peer down the hall to see water seeping under the closed door, spreading their way.  “Andrew?  Can you hear me?”

No response.
 No light.  No sign of her husband.

Hannah
notices a tremble of fear beginning in her aunt’s fingers.  She clasps tighter and helps her rise.  “Let’s go check on him.”

Claire’s widened gaze turns to meet hers.
 “He said to stay here.”

“And we would, but he might need some help,” Hannah responds with as even a tone as she can manage. Fear claws at her throat, making it hard to breathe as she hurries down the hall with Claire in tow.

“Uncle Andrew?” she calls as she reaches the door leading into the living room and the kitchen beyond that.  Water floods over the soles of her sandals.  Far too much water for a few broken windows to let in.

“Can you hear him?”

Hannah starts to shake her head but then presses her ear to the door at a faint cry.  “Oh God,” Claire moans as she places her hand against the door, searching for the knob.  “I can hear him!”

The door spills open before Hannah as Claire shoves through, knocking her into the wall.
 Her aunt stops short, her face a mask of disbelief in the glow of the flashlight.  An entire corner of the front room of the house has been torn away.  Something large hovers in the dark as Hannah steps close to the edge, shining her light out into the night.

She can see the driving rains and watches the swells rise and fall with the undulating ocean.
  Beyond that she can just make out the peak of a roof.  Only a roof.  “Oh God,” she gasps as it rises with a storm surge and spills over the sand dunes and onto the road beyond.

“Hannah!”

She whips around to find her aunt kneeling not far from the kitchen door.  Hannah splashes through the water, shocked to see tiny white caps in the living room.  Books, small tables and photo frames crash against her legs, lost to the tides.  Two of the solid wood bookcases are gone, swept out to sea.  The couch she lay on only a short time ago teeters on the edge.  Another wave and it is gone.

“Aunt Claire?”
 She gingerly picks her way toward her aunt, her flashlight beam poised before her.  She can see a dark stain in the water as she draws near.  The slumped set of her aunt’s shoulders worries her.

Something large beats against the kitchen door.
 Claire cries out and pushes back against it as a flood of water slips through the open crack.  “Hannah, help me!”

Flinging herself around the edge of the couch, Hannah stops short, her mouth gaping in horror.
 Red stained water laps against her legs, floating away from Andrew’s prostrate form.  A large spear of wood protrudes from his stomach.

“The railing on the deck must have torn free.” Claire presses her back against the swinging kitchen door and props Andrew’s head in her lap to keep his face above the water.

Hannah can barely hear her over the winds but she knows that Claire is praying.  Praying with all her might for God to spare Andrew’s life.

FIVE

Aftermath

Sweat trails down Timothy’s neck as he struggles to dig his way out of his house.
 The boards that he worked so hard on to protect his windows failed. Glass litters nearly every inch of his downstairs.  Chunks of particleboard are scattered about, forcing him to weave over upturned furniture drenched from the rains that broke through in the early morning hours.

If Timothy still had any family photos hanging on the walls, or any semblance of decor at all, he has no doubt they would have been tossed about in the gusting winds that tore through his house.
 It was a long night.  One that he would never like to repeat for as long as he lives.

His only thought as daylight brings with it a weakening in the storm is to check on his neighbor, Mrs. Stevens.
 Grabbing a sledgehammer, Timothy beats against his front door till his shoulders ache and the blisters on his palms burst.  The dented metal door refuses to budge.  Moving along to a window nearby, he yanks down the remains of a moist curtain and hikes his foot high to kick out the shards of glass and board beyond.  It crashes to the bushes below.

Poking his head out, Timothy groans as his heart sinks into his stomach.
 “I guess I know why I can’t get the darn door opened now.” He shakes his head, taking in the sight of a faded red sedan propped against his porch, the rear end pressed again his door.  He recognizes it as his neighbor’s vehicle from four houses down.  How it ended up all the way down here is anyone’s guess.

Rubbing his arm, sore from all that useless pounding on his door, Timothy surveys the ground beneath him.
 It’s not a long drop, but judging by the copious amounts of debris in his front yard, he needs to be careful.

Propping himself up in the window, Timothy leaps and almost manages a decent landing, but his back foot connects with the tangle of a juniper bush and he lands face first on the moist ground.
 Mud smears his black t-shirt, clinging to his bare arms.  “Perfect.  Just perfect.”

Grumbling to himself, Timothy rises to his knees and wipes his chest.
 The sight before him is one he has only ever glimpsed on TV.  Many of the houses on his street are battered and broken.  Large chunks of fencing and patches of roofs clutter the street.  Pools of water remain where over flooded gutters struggle to keep up with the deluge.  Water gushes through the streets, eroding yards and loose stones that once filled poorly mended potholes.

The large tree in his front yard leans dangerously toward the back side of his house.
 Another couple of feet and he’ll be forced to do some damage control.  His front porch looks fairly decent, considering he lost several spindles to rolling debris.  The hand painted terra cotta planters his wife made last summer have all been smashed beyond recognition.  Timothy winces at the ache that rises in his chest at the sight of another piece of Abby that has been lost to him and turns away.

Glancing toward Mrs. Stevens’ house, he sees that her home has taken a beating.
 Mangled lawn chairs lay strewn about her front lawn.  A red metal mailbox protrudes from her side door.  The old oak tree in her front yard has lost a large number of its limbs, which now teeter on the edge of her porch roof, threatening to cave it in.  Power lines dangle low over her yard, long since dead from the winds.

Dodging a lady’s bike and child’s plastic slide, Timothy picks his way toward his neighbor’s front door.
 “Mrs. Stevens?  Can you hear me?”

He pauses to listen, pressing his ear against the door after he hammers his fist against the screen door.
 “Please call out if you can hear my voice.”

When he receives no answer, he hurries down off the porch and heads toward the side door that leads into her kitchen.
 The windows along this side of the house seemed to have fared well.  Most of the boards remain intact.  Gripping the mailbox imbedded in the side door, Timothy grunts and yanks it free.  He chucks it to the side and reaches through the shattered window to unlock the door, careful not to slice his arm on the jagged glass still poking out of the frame.

“Mrs. Stevens?
 I’m coming in through the kitchen.  You can put your frying pan away now!”

Although his spunky neighbor has never actually come at him with a frying pan before, she has threatened him with it a time or two if he continues to refuse to call her Iris, which of course he does.

The door swings open to reveal a darkened interior.  All of the shades and curtains have been pulled across the windows, just as he had told Mrs. Stevens to do.  
Good woman
, he smiles as he closes the door behind him as an afterthought.

The kitchen is hot and stuffy.
 The humidity is high as he feels his way around her Formica countertop and toward the swinging door that leads to the hall beyond.  He jumps at the feral howl of a cat as he backs onto its tail.  It hisses and swipes sharp claws against his jeans then races away.

Although his home was built around the same time as Iris’, Timothy has done a great deal of remodeling since moving in
, and the floor plans vary greatly now.

Once in the hall, Timothy moves slowly, craning his head to look in each room.
 Although he has been here several times before, he has never known exactly which of the three small bedrooms Iris uses for herself.  The first he comes to looks to be a spare bedroom.  A thick layer of dust gives the blue patchwork quilt adorning the bed a dingy gray look.  Six cats stretch and yawn atop the twin sized bed pushed back into a corner.

He continues to call out as he picks his way through the house, careful to step over shattered picture frames and shards of broke
n porcelain cats that once lined dozens of shelves in the hallway.  His concern grows with each unanswered call.  Iris may be getting up in years but she has never been belligerent or hard of hearing.

“Mrs. Stevens?
 Please answer me.”  He enters the living room and is surprised to see it relatively intact.  The faded olive green upholstered chairs and matching love seat still stand upright.  The glass coffee table stands in the middle of the room, ready to whack him in the shins if he makes a wrong move.  The peeling, brown veneer cabinet TV console sits like a hulking monster in the corner.

As he turns to look into the dining room he notices the china cabinet on the far wall has toppled over.
 Antique dishes Iris has collected over the years lie in thousands of tiny pieces against the floor.  Timothy is about to turn away when he spies one of the calico cats pacing back and forth, its tail straight in the air.

Rushing forward, Timothy spies his neighbor’s frail hand sticking out from under the cabinet, nearly hidden in the pile of broken
off-white plates.  He shoos the cat away.  “Mrs. Stevens?  Can you hear me?”

A faint moan comes from under the cabinet.

“Can you squeeze my hand?”  He reaches down and takes her hand in his.  Another moan follows but there is no movement in her fingers.  Either she is too weak to respond or she is wounded as seriously as he first feared.

He leans back and surveys the cabinet, attempting to determine
a way to maneuver the solid antique piece off Iris without causing further harm. As he kneels , he loops his fingers under the edge and tries to lift it straight off, but the cabinet barely moves.

A cry of pain forces him to give up.
 “I’m so sorry.  I’ll have this off you as soon as I can.”

Spying an old-fashi
oned wooden coat stand lying on the floor near the front door, Timothy races to grab it and shoves it in a small gap between the cabinet and the floor.  
All I need is a little leverage.

Careful to avoid Mrs. Stevens’ hand, he leans onto the wood and it lifts slowly.
 His arms begin to quiver from the effort it takes to hold the piece of furniture, and he realizes that he can’t do this on his own.  If he tries to reach for her to pull her free, he will lose his grip and then risks sending the heavy load crashing back down on her.

He looks around, frantic to find anything to shove beneath the cabinet. Hooking his foot through the leg of one of the overturned chairs, Timothy tries to maneuver it toward him.
 A burning begins in his arms as he kicks at the chair, attempting to break off one of the legs to use as a prop, but all he manages to do is shove it out of reach.

Grunting with effort, Timothy is forced to lower the cabinet.
 His heart breaks at the sound of his neighbor’s cry of pain as the weight settles back on her.  “I need to get help.  I’ll be right back.  I promise!”

Stumbling to his feet, he rushes to the front door and yanks it open.
 He leaps over the debris scattered around the front porch and ducks under the fallen tree and power lines.  He slips twice on the wet yard before finally reaching the street.  He spins around in search of help, but the street is deserted.  Most of his neighbors evacuated several days ago.  Those who stayed seem to have remained locked within their homes.

He doubles over, his hands upon his knees as he takes in great gulps of air, trying to force himself to think.
 
The power is out so I can’t call for help.  No one is around to help me.  What am I going to do?

Timothy feels helpless as he rises up.
 Iris needs him and he is failing her…just as he failed to keep his wife Abby safe.

No!
 
He shakes his head.  
This has nothing to do with Abby.  Focus, Tim.  There has to be a way around this.

His ears perk up at the wailing siren of an approaching ambulance.
 He rises onto his toes to watch the boxy white vehicle weaving its way through the debris and turning onto his street.

Thank you
, he silently whispers, knowing that the prayer he never even spoke into existence has just been answered.

Timothy waves his arms overhead, running straight into the vehicle’s path.
 He leaps out of the way just before it reaches him and rushes to the driver’s window as the paramedics pulls up beside him.

“You alright there, Tim?”
 a gray haired man with a slightly off-kilter moustache asks as he leans out the window.  Charley Patton has been working this gig for as long as Timothy can remember.  He’s a good man, in Timothy’s opinion.  Big heart and strong arms for the job.

“My neighbor is trapped in her house.”

“Is she bleeding?  Conscious?”  He glances back over his shoulder.

Timothy tries to see who it is that he’s speaking to as he answers, “she’s trapped under a cabinet.
 I think she may have broken something, but she reacted to pain.”

Charley’s face falls.
 “I’m sure sorry to hear that.  I wish I could stay and help, but I’ve got a passenger who is severely injured and needs immediate medical attention.  I’ll call for help and check back as soon as I can.  Afraid that’s the best I can do for ya, Tim.”

His shoulders sag as Charley begins to move past.
 He watches after it as the vehicle rolls over downed power lines and pushes a metal trash can out of the way.  Suddenly, the back door pops open and the ambulance is forced to slow.  A girl, probably only a couple years younger than himself, hops down from the back and runs toward him.  Over her shoulder, the paramedic in the rear slams the door shut and the ambulance moves on.

“Did you say a woman is trapped?”
 the girl asks as she halts before him.

Her hair is windblown.
 Her face streaked with dried blood and tears but her eyes look alert, focused.  “Yes.” He nods and points toward Iris’ house.  “Over there.”

Without another word, the girl rushes ahead of him, weaving through the debris.
 He hardly has a chance to call out a warning before she dips low to avoid the power lines, and he rushes to catch up.  
Who is this girl?

By the time he hits the front door, she is already kneeling beside Iris, her hand curled around his neighbor’s.
 “It’ll be ok.  We’ll get this thing off you and get you all fixed up,” she soothes as she shoves aside a tabby that persists in trying to coil its tail around her arm.

He stands in amazement as she turns damp eyes up to look at him.
 “This woman must be in a great deal of pain.”

He nods and hurries forward, silently scolding himself for not acting sooner.
 Truth be told, he’s not sure what to make of the girl.  He doesn’t know her name or who she is, but that doesn’t matter.  He needs help and help has arrived.  He’s not about to put his own morbid curiosity before Mrs. Stevens’ health.

“If you can stay with her, I’m going to use this coat stand to pry the cabinet up.
 Do you think you can pull her out?”

The girl’s shoulders press back as she nods.
 “It’s pretty heavy,” he warns, rubbing his arms in preparation.

“I’ll be quick,” she assures and positions herself on her knees.
 Loose chestnut curls fall about her shoulders as she waits, concealing her face.

Timothy grunts as he puts all his weight onto the coat hanger.
 The china cabinet slowly rises like before, but this time he can feel a strain in the makeshift lever.  “I don’t know how long I can hold this!”