by Jenni Ogden
“Have you decided to leave too, Dr. Grayson?”
“’Fraid so; it looks like the best option. It sounds as if it might be difficult getting to the airport.” I nodded towards the family.
“Everyone has the same idea this morning. Perhaps you and your daughter could get a ride in the Bennetts’ shuttle if it ever arrives.”
“That would be great, if they could fit us in.”
Mrs. G. chuckled. She’d apparently read my mind. “They’re very roomy shuttles. You should be able to squeeze in. Hang on a mo’ and I’ll ask Mr. Bennett.”
She returned a minute later. “That’s fine. Goodness knows when it will turn up, but you’d better be ready.”
“Thanks, I’ll go and get Lara and our luggage,” I said, surprised by the sudden stilling of the butterflies fluttering in my chest. I’d been trying to ignore them. While Lara threw her clothes into her case, I left a message on Adam’s answer phone; it was three in the afternoon in London. I’d forgotten that today was Finnie’s big cricket match at the end of their cricket camp. Adam had a policy of always turning his mobile off when we he was doing things with the family.
Half an hour later the loaded shuttle was crawling through the city, hemmed in on all sides by vehicles of every description. Most were going the same way, northbound to the airport along Highway 61, or towards Interstate 10 and away from New Orleans. Our driver dropped us two hundred yards from the main terminal entrance behind the backed-up traffic. The departure hall was jammed with stressed-out people and crying kids, and bidding a heartfelt goodbye and good luck to the Bennetts, we punched two bottles of water out of a dispensing machine and resigned ourselves to a long wait in the United Airlines queue. Lara was wilting, her red hair frizzy in the humid air and her eyes enormous above smudges of dark. The weight on my heart got heavier. Guilt, worry, fear.
It was two hours before I confirmed what I already knew; we would not be getting a flight out until after the hurricane. Pushing our way against the thronging crowds back outside into the searing heat, we found a shuttle dropping off a load of hopeful passengers, and asked if we could catch a ride back into town.
The driver grinned at us. “You’re goin’ the wrong way, doncha know.”
We climbed into the shuttle. “We figured it might be better than hanging around here. Can you suggest a nice hotel that’s likely to stand up against all hurricanes? The one we’ve been in had hopeless air conditioning and we could do with a cool room if we’re going to sit this out.”
“Hard to say, but any of the big hotels should be all right. What about the Park Plaza? That’s survived a few almighty blows. I’m headin’ there now to pick up some folks.”
“That sounds fine, thanks. Hopefully we’ll be able to get a room if everyone else is leaving.”
With most traffic going the other way, the trip into the city was a good deal faster than the one to the airport, and we soon pulled up at the solid looking Park Plaza Hotel.
“Good luck,” said the driver as I handed him a generous tip. “Enjoy the Big Easy in the big wind.” He winked at Lara and she managed a grin.
“You too. Keep safe,” I said, sounding a good deal more relaxed than I felt.
We pushed through the people pushing back to get into the shuttle, and stood in another queue at the hotel reception, fascinated by the mix of people milling about in various forms of dress with all manner of strange baggage.
“What are they all doing here?” Lara whispered. “They don’t look like stranded tourists.”
A woman sitting on a large bag, a cat next to her in a wire cage, overheard her. “We’d be better off if we were tourists,” she said. “Most of us folk here have no way of leaving, and our houses mightn’t stand up to a hurricane as bad as this one looks like bein’. It’s better to hole up in a hotel until it’s over.”
The twenty minutes we were standing in the queue was more entertaining than Bourbon Street. Lara got talking to two girls about her age and I contemplated getting out my camera so I could share the strange sights later with Finnie and Adam. But I managed to control the urge. Snapping away while the locals worried about whether their homes would still be standing next time they saw them would definitely tag me as a brash tourist. We finally reached the desk, and when I inquired if there were any rooms left, the receptionist asked me if I was a doctor. I nodded, wondering what on earth about my current appearance gave this away, and was even more puzzled when she asked me for my letterhead authority from Tulane.
“Pardon?”
“You’re a doctor from Tulane?”
“No, no: I am a doctor, but just visiting.”
“I assumed you must be from Tulane University Hospital. They’ve worked a deal with us for their staff and families to stay during the hurricane. But you have to show something, like a page with letterhead, to prove you’re one of theirs. So I can’t give you the cheap rate, but we’ve still got some rooms at the rack rate.”
“Thanks.” I looked around. “Goodness, it’s quite a crowd. I hope you’ve got in enough food.”
“We hope so too. Folks usually leave as soon as the hurricane passes, so with luck that will be Tuesday at the latest. We’ll get lots more guests tomorrow though, unless Katrina is good to us and turns away.”
“Fingers crossed, although I suppose that means someone else will cop it.” I watched the desk clerk tap away on his computer, hopefully finding us a hurricane-proof room with good air conditioning.
“I’ve got a twin on the fourth floor. That would be the safest bet. It’s high enough so it won’t get flooded, but not too high, so it won’t sway about. And not too many flights of stairs if the power goes out. Also, it’s got fairly small windows, so there’ll be fewer windows to smash.”
“Heavens, I’d never have thought of all those things.” The butterflies began their fluttering again. “It sounds as if you’ve done this a few times before.”
“Yeah, but this hotel is as solid as a rock. Just hunker down, and you’ll be fine.” The clerk pushed over the registration form. “Can you fill this in, and you’ll need to pay the full room rate in advance. That’s a policy we have for hurricanes. How many nights do you want?”
I considered for a moment. “Make it three. We have a flight out on Tuesday night.” I handed over the completed registration form and my credit card.
“Thank you Dr. Grayson. Katrina will have moved on by then. Good job you have a flight booked though. Now here’s your key, and a map of the area and the various sights around here...” He paused, and laughed. “You probably won’t need that. Room 402. Take the elevators over there,” he said, pointing. “You’ll need to take your own luggage up; the porters are run off their feet.”
“Not a problem.” I thanked him, extracted Lara from her new friends, and we made for another queue.
On Sunday, we woke feeling remarkably chirpy. Last night after an excellent hotel dinner, we’d made the best of a balmy evening and strolled along Canal Street and through City Park. The clear sky made the prospect of the oncoming hurricane much less frightening. Hard to imagine Katrina was out there somewhere, wrecking a swathe of destruction as she advanced on New Orleans. On our return I had a gin and tonic in the hotel bar, and Lara had a non-alcoholic and very expensive cocktail. We obviously weren’t the only people finding the hurricane hype somewhat surreal. The bar was buzzing, and everyone was having a fabulously good time. We dragged ourselves away from the blues band an hour before midnight, and took turns luxuriating under a high-pressure shower before falling deeply asleep on our blissfully comfortable beds in the air-conditioned room.
Even our phone call to Adam had been positive. Although he didn’t sound too happy when I told him we’d failed to get out, he calmed down when I described our new sleeping arrangements, especially when I added that the hotel was listed on the National Register of Historic Places—a handy detail Lara had read out from the welcome pamphlet on the coffee table—and therefore had withstood one hell of a lot of h
urricanes. Finbar talked to us as well, excited because they’d won their cricket match and he’d batted two sixes. He was envious though. “Lucky sod,” he said to Lara. “I don’t suppose there’ll be another hurricane when we all go to New Orleans in December, on our way to New Zealand.”
My eyebrows were up when I took the phone back from Lara and spoke again to Adam. “New Orleans in December?”
“Well, I did say we could all go some time, and Finbar seems keen. I thought it might make Lara happy given you weren’t able to see Danny’s grandmother. We could do a bit of advance planning and perhaps you could write to her first.”
I felt the smart of tears behind my eyes. “I love you. I’m sorry about all this. But we’re safe as houses so you don’t need to worry. Lara’s already made friends with some local girls staying here.”
“Not sure safe as houses is the best thing to hope for. I’m glad you’re in a solid hotel though. That one you started off in didn’t look too sturdy.”
I gazed down from our ‘smallish’ window on to a calm-looking city. I knew it would be stinking hot and humid outside our cooled cocoon. The streets below had few people on them. Perhaps we should go for a walk while we still could, and find somewhere in the French Quarter for a monstrous American breakfast?
Lara had turned on the TV to check the latest gloomy predictions about Katrina. Maybe it was a storm in a teacup and had died away in the night. No, she was on target to slam into New Orleans on Monday morning. A second rapid intensification had occurred at seven this morning, and Katrina was now a Category 5 storm. Extensive flooding of New Orleans was predicted as a result of the massive storm surges of up to thirty feet that would be generated by a hurricane of that size. This was rapidly becoming one of the most intense Atlantic hurricanes on record.
Ray Nagin, who we learned was the mayor of New Orleans, was due to report to a news conference at ten, so we decided to have breakfast in the hotel before venturing out. A pancake stack, maple syrup, two eggs easy over, bacon and tomatoes, all diluted by two large cups of coffee for me, and tea for Lara. We were glad of it as ballast when we returned to our room and had to stomach the next bulletin. Nagin called Katrina ‘a storm most of us have long feared,’ and ordered what was apparently a historic first—a mandatory evacuation of the city.
I wasn’t too sure what that meant, but clearly we and a great many other people weren’t going anywhere. We found ourselves glued to the TV, watching hyped-up news reporters interviewing people as they tried to get out, dreadful scenes of the devastation Katrina had wrought through Florida, and bird’s-eye views of Interstate 10, now with the southbound lanes turned into northbound ones, packed with fleeing New Orleanians.
The Superdome was also filling up with the homeless, poor, and frightened, and already looked like an organizational nightmare. Apparently up to 100,000 New Orleans citizens had no car or means of personal transport to leave the city, even if they wanted to. Thank heavens we were safe here, and not stuck in the Superdome, or in endless hours of unbearably hot traffic jams and road rage.
At noon the National Weather Service reported that Katrina had been downgraded to a Category 4, still a catastrophic storm, with winds of up to 140 miles per hour and a storm surge of twenty feet. But a new warning had entered the mix. The levees in New Orleans, built to withstand a Category 3 hurricane, might be overtopped.
“All wood-framed low rising apartment buildings will be destroyed. Concrete block low-rise apartment buildings will sustain major damage, including some wall and roof failure. High rise office and apartment buildings will sway dangerously, a few to the point of total collapse. All windows will blow out.”
Heavens, how will Mrs. G’s little old hotel and Kat’s Voodoo Parlor remain standing in this?
“Persons, pets and livestock exposed to the winds will face certain death if struck. Power outages will last for weeks. Water shortages will make human suffering incredible by modern standards. Once the tropical storm and hurricane force winds onset, do not venture outside.”
Sitting on our comfortable hotel beds, the wind picking up outside, the message finally sank in. This is actually happening. It’s not a case of American over-reaction. While Lara stayed glued to the TV, I paced the room, trying to focus my mind and think what we should do next. We were being told to stock up on essential supplies and water. Perhaps we should go out and find a supermarket and get some stuff, just in case? We should certainly get some spare batteries. We both had head torches but they mightn’t last the distance if the power was out for the next few days.
The hospitals? Could I offer some help? Should I try and contact Stork at Baptist Hospital—has its name been changed to Memorial? The last time I’d seen Stork was at a Neurosurgery Conference in San Francisco about three years ago, and he’d seemed happy then in his job at Baptist—or Memorial or whatever it was called now—so he’d probably still be there. He was a seriously good neuroradiologist.
Those crazy days at Mass General. I hadn’t thought about them for years. Stork Hamilton had been a slightly peripheral member of my close group of friends there, but his laconic southern drawl and wicked sense of humor had made him a welcome addition whenever he deigned to join us. Before the hurricane messed up our plans, I’d been wondering whether I should look him up. I knew Stork would be hurt if I didn’t, and he’d love to meet Lara. But the thought of having to explain about my panic attacks was not pleasant. Bad enough knowing that the medical community in London, and probably elsewhere in the UK, was gossiping about me, without spreading the news internationally. Not that Stork would gossip, but somehow these things always got out sooner or later.
I sighed. Was it even worth trying to find him now? I wouldn’t be much use as a neurosurgeon, given my incompetence label. But if legally all I was permitted to do was assist with general first aid, explanations mightn’t be necessary. I could surely still manage that without going into panic mode. And Lara would be OK staying by herself for a few hours in the hotel. Last night at dinner we’d sat with one of the girls Lara had met in reception and her parents, and the girls had exchanged room numbers. The two of them could hang out together. Better than being stuck with me for hours on end.
So around two o’clock, leaving Lara with a gaggle of other teens in the well-stocked games room and armed with a map of the area and directions from the desk clerk, I started out for Memorial. The winds were definitely picking up as I walked the short distance to the sprawling hospital complex on Napoleon Avenue. The security guard at the main entrance was trying, without much success, to vet the steady influx of locals arriving in the hope of being permitted to shelter from the storm, and I managed to convince him to let me in. Showing my London hospital ID card to a receptionist on the information desk, I asked her to page Dr. Hamilton, and sat down to wait. Not that I expected Stork to appear, given the chaos all around.
Less than ten minutes later there was a tap on my shoulder. Stork stood at least six foot three inches and was as skinny as a stalk; thus his moniker. His actual name was Bryce. His long, mournful-looking face topped by a halo of spiky, graying hair, belied his naturally optimistic outlook, an attitude that had not deserted him, even in this crisis.
“Georgia, my lovely.” His grin split his face as he grabbed me and buried me in his hug. Pulling back he looked me up and down. “Nice of you to drop by.”
“I thought I’d see how you guys could cope with a spot of wind and rain.” I felt a smile crease my face; I’d almost forgotten the surge of warmth that seeing an old friend could generate.
Over a cup of dishwater coffee from the dispenser machine in the lobby, we rapidly exchanged news about our families, before getting onto the current chaotic situation. Stork’s wife, Marcie, and his two kids, were also bunking down at the Park Plaza to ride out the storm. Stork did some consulting at Tulane University Hospital and had decided to take up their offer of cheap accommodation for staff families. He nodded towards the family groups milling around the lobby, many
with dogs and cats and birds in cages.
“A lot of staff whose families can’t get out, or don’t want to leave, stay in the hospital buildings during hurricanes, but Marcie and I thought the hotel would be safer,” he explained. “It’s likely to get frantic here. Many of our medical staff have already left New Orleans, so we’ll have our work cut out if Katrina is as bad as predicted.”
“What’s with all the animals?”
“I know. Bizarre, isn’t it? The hospital will be full of pets as well as people. So much for hygiene.” Stork’s long face made him look as doleful as the beagle sitting in a cage a few yards away.
“Could I help?” I offered tentatively. “I realize I couldn’t do much, given I’m not licensed in Louisiana, but my Massachusetts license is still current from the short courses in aneurysm surgery I’ve been teaching in Boston over the past few years. Perhaps I could assist with—I don’t know—first aid, or even triage if that’s permitted, if you have an influx of people with injuries after the hurricane.”
“Hey, that could be helpful. If we do get in a pickle the State Governor will likely suspend state licensure requirements so out-of-state medical professionals can help out.”
“I’ll give you my mobile number and if you need me, just call. I’ll find Marcie when I get back to the hotel. It’ll be good to see her again. Lara and your two are sure to hit it off.”
“Marcie will be glad of the company and some distraction from two cooped-up kids. I won’t get over there this evening. We’ve just had a crisis meeting, and I need to stay on site until the hurricane is over, and we know we’re on top of things. But with luck, we’ll all be back to normal, bar a few broken windows and some surface flooding, by tomorrow night.”