Even though I don’t want to talk with them, I think now is my chance to find out what Mama Ya-Ya’s dreams can’t seem to tell her.
I walk to beneath the lamppost. Spot sniffs and I ask Mr. Watson’s ghost, “Is the hurricane going to be bad?”
He opens his mouth and moans, “No.”
A ghost girl skips rope. A ghost boy rides a bike. They smile at me.
Maybe they aren’t an omen after all. Maybe they need a place, like everyone else, to see the storm through.
I pick up the food the neighbors have left. Spot licks his lips, ready for dinner. I realize I’m hungry, too. I lock the door tight and head back upstairs.
Me and Mama Ya-Ya are going to be fine. Our neighborhood is going to be fine.
It’s 7:00 p.m.
Mama Ya-Ya smiles weakly and sits up slowly, leaning halfway back into a pile of pillows.
I give her a spoonful of potato salad while Spot gobbles his hot dog.
“Turn on the TV, Lanesha,” says Mama Ya-Ya. “Dreaming, I can’t see nothin’. Hand me my glasses, honey. Let’s see what the weatherman says about the storm.”
Part of me doesn’t want to turn on the TV. Why did I bring it upstairs anyway?
I press the power button and the screen lights up, and there he is, the sweaty weatherman.
Mama Ya-Ya sits up further. I sit beside her, a pillow behind my back. At the bottom of the bed, Spot is lying on his back, his belly up. If we were watching Oprah, we’d be having a good time.
The weatherman says, “Katrina is headed directly for New Orleans. If you haven’t gotten out, buckle down. It’s going to be a wild ride. Perhaps devastating.”
I go to Mama Ya-Ya’s window. Peek between slats. The sun’s gone. The moon is yellow. The wind is whistling.
“It’s coming,” I hear Mama Ya-Ya say.
I shiver. Tell myself not to be afraid. We’ll survive the hurricane.
Ghosts told me so.
I must’ve fallen asleep, because when I wake, Mama Ya-Ya has her hands thrown over her head and she is sleeping deeply. The lamp on the nightstand makes the room glow, seem unreal. Nothing’s moving. No mice—they skitter at night. Not even fat water bugs that come out when you turn down the lights.
Nothing. Silence, inside and out.
I swear I can’t hear a thing. No one’s having a party. No fighting, laughing, singing. No words drifting up from the porches. Nothing.
The quiet makes me think I’m going to die. Like Mother Nature has sucked up everything—all sounds, winds, human talk and cries. A VACUUM. ABSENCE OF MATTER.
I worry I’ll be sucked up, too.
But the silence doesn’t last.
Pop. A wild rush—a howl that is louder than anything I’ve ever heard before.
Mama Ya-Ya sits bolt upright.
It’s the end of the world. Sounding like the explosions and screams in the D-day movies Mr. Gregg made us watch in history. It’s a herd of elephants. Wild cackling hyenas let loose. A stampede of all the jungle animals. Crackling, keening, bursting, pounding, the wind screeching like banshees. Sirens dooming sailors at sea. Rain whipping wood, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, smacking at trees, beating out any sap. Like a thousand Kansas homes, not just Dorothy’s, were being swept up in a tornado.
The house shakes, teetering, in the wind and rain’s violent game. Dodgeball. Tug-of-war. Shakes, sways, and I swear, it’s going to fall…fall, fall, fall over. Down. The bed is rattling, creeping across the floor like it grew feet.
We should all get in the tub. It is strong, tough. The bolts and pipes will hold it down. Keep us from flying, falling away.
I can’t get Mama Ya-Ya out of the bed. She’s too heavy for me to lift.
I scream. She screams.
I pull. “Come on,” I scream. “Come on.”
Her face is pale. Her bony hands are cold.
The house shudders and groans, creaks and complains like it’s alive. The wind just howls back.
Her feet are on the floor; her body, slumped over. I grip her waist and pull her upright. “Please, Mama Ya-Ya, come on, please!”
She looks at me—no, through me—like she’s not sure anymore who I am.
The rain sounds like someone throwing rocks at the house. Spot barks. Mama Ya-Ya jerks and I use her motion to push her forward. One step, two. Three. “Come on, you can do it,” I say. I push. Pull.
Spot is rushing at the windows, barking at the wind whipping our house. Like it’s a mad dog outside, trying to get in.
I scream. “Mama Ya-Ya, come on.”
My face is all wet like the rain has come inside. I don’t wipe my cheeks. Just keep tugging Mama Ya-Ya. My heart is about to burst.
Then, there’s quiet—like the world outside has disappeared. A pocket of deep silence. It’s EERIE. INSPIRING FEAR. DREAD.
Spot cocks his head, listening.
Mama Ya-Ya shuffles forward. Grateful, I keep hold of her, pushing her. We make it to the bathroom and Mama Ya-Ya wants to slump down, over the toilet.
“No, here,” I say, lifting her leg into the tub.
Then, boom. The roar is back again; stones are shattering the house. Mama Ya-Ya falls forward and I fall on top of her.
“You all right? All right?” I shriek. The rain and wind are fierce. I don’t believe Mama Ya-Ya hears me even though I’m shouting in her ear. She’s moaning, moaning, moaning. Is she bleeding? I grab a towel for her head.
“Spot,” I scream. He hears me, and he stops snapping, growling at the monster outside, and runs, jumps into the tub.
I hug him, squeezing hard. He licks my tears. “Good dog,” I say. “You’re a good, good dog.”
It’s hot. Too humid, inside and out. I’m sweating. Hoping Spot won’t leap out of the tub.
I close my eyes, getting as close as I can to Mama Ya-Ya, praying our house won’t fall over. Praying she’s gonna be all right.
Like a bullwhip, the rain lashes and lashes. It’s getting heavier, like bricks. Smacking up, down, like a giant pounding with his fists. The world is falling apart. First, the sky, then the roof. Falling, falling, I’m sure. To crash down on our heads. We’re going to die.
Mama Ya-Ya sighs like she’s given up. I hug Spot even harder. We won’t last the night. I hope Ginia and TaShon are safe. I hope everybody in the Superdome is safe.
The lights flicker, then it’s dark. A dark deep and thick. The power is out.
I can’t get to the candles or matches. I’ve forgotten the flashlight.
My eyes squint, getting used to the dark.
Through the door, I can see straight into Mama Ya-Ya’s bedroom. Even though I’ve been in her room a million times, the shadows and shapes now frighten me. There are monsters here. The chair, the bed, the mirror, picking up glints of moonlight, seem to move, shuddering, trembling with spirits making them jerk, come alive.
The tub is cramped and hot.
I feel sweat trickle down my back.
“Mama Ya-Ya, you okay?”
“I’m right,” she says. “I’m right.”
I can’t see her. Her breathing is ragged. She can’t seem to get enough air. I worry. The storm is quiet, but I still listen with all my might.
Good, it’s over. The storm has passed. I start to stand up but Mama Ya-Ya grabs my hand, pulling me down.
Mama Ya-Ya is holding the bathtub ledge. “Here it comes,” she screams. “Here it comes.”
Then, boom, like a bomb exploding, the storm’s back.
“I-I-I-I-” Mama Ya-Ya is screaming. I scream, too. Spot howls.
Planks squeal as if they’re being pulled free from nails. I hear pounding—doors flung open by wind; shutters slapping against windows; glass cracking, breaking like a thousand bottles.
“I,” Mama Ya-Ya is yelling. “I.”
“Eye,” I realize she’s saying. “We’re in the hurricane’s eye.”
I inhale, and I try to wrap my free arm around Mama Ya-Ya. This is the worst, I think. It won’t get worse. But, still
, I don’t think I’ll make it. Wind has leaked inside. Snapping, swirling inside the house. I can feel its cool lick across my face. Pictures on the wall fall. Bedsheets billow like ghost sails. Mama Ya-Ya’s Evening in Paris perfume crashes to the floor, shattering. In the cold wet, I smell dead magnolias.
How long can this last?
The tub starts to buck. Slight. Real. Its claw-feet straining up, trying to escape wood.
“Hold on,” I shout. “Hold on.”
Mama Ya-Ya’s house is old. I’m sure the wood will snap, break. We’ll fly up, towards the moon. Into the hurricane’s eye. I remember a picture book with an owl, cat, and cow in a tub. We, three. We three. Spot, Mama Ya-Ya, and me will spin, cracking through the roof. Spin inside the eye.
What’ll we see? What’ll we see?
“Die,” I holler, the word bursts out of me. “We’re going to die.”
The hurricane is a never-ending roller coaster.
The tub bucks again. Spot falls against me. His fur fills my mouth. Mama Ya-Ya has let go of my hand. “Mama Ya-Ya,” I shout.
The tub shudders and stills. The monster is done with our house. It’s moving on, raining, twisting, blowing, stomping through our neighborhood. Outside, it smashes, roars. Trees snap, metal creaks, and things—stop signs? flower boxes?—are being thrown, slapped against walls. Thump. Thump. I listen hard. Retreating. The sound is moving away like thunder that travels through the sky. The wind, no longer fierce, still blows hard. The rain snaps less like a whip.
I think I hear yelling outside: “Help me. Jesus, help me!” Cries. Is it my imagination?
Spot barks. His barks hurt my ears. I want to help.
I think I should help.
What can I do? I’m scared. I climb out of the tub. “Mama Ya-Ya, I’m going to get help. Call 911.”
She doesn’t stop me and I try, in the heavy darkness, to press my way forward. Creeping across the tile ’til my feet touch carpet. I think this is what it feels like to be blind.
On the bed is my mother brightening, like a light. I see the phone is still on the nightstand.
I say, “Thank you, Momma,” and walk towards the phone, pick it up.
I hear only silence. The line is dead.
The house is trembling again. The giant has turned back around and I no longer hear voices, hollering for help. It’s too loud outside.
I think: I didn’t hear anything. It was just a trick. The hurricane teasing, making me think I heard sounds that weren’t there.
Then, I think I hear someone crying again. Loud, strong.
I can’t stand not to know what’s happening. If I can help.
We have an attic. I think if I go up there, I might hear better. See better.
See a way to help, if help is still needed.
I shiver. It’s too dark. The house is rocking. I should stay put.
Then, Mama Ya-Ya shouts, “Go see. See what the storm has brought. We’ll be up there soon enough.” She sounds like herself again—her voice firm, steady.
I hear Spot leap from the tub and patter until his fur is beneath my fingertips. He steps slowly forward. I understand. He’s guiding me. Out into the hall. We walk slowly, carefully, until my hand touches the rail, leading us to the attic door. Once we’re inside, I no longer hear any voices.
There’s barely any light, only moonlight that reaches through the small window.
We move slowly towards it.
I place my hands on the glass. The panes are cold, trembling.
I think the stars have all been swept away by the storm.
I stand like a big baby and cry.
Monday
It’s a new day.
We have survived the storm.
Mama Ya-Ya has deep circles beneath her eyes. A big bruise and bump on her forehead. My body is sore all over.
On the bedroom window, there’s a gap between planks. I press my face to the glass, peering at the morning light.
Outside, the neighborhood has been torn apart. Trees, snapped like toothpicks, are lying on the ground. A car has been turned upside down. A doormat—WELCOME—is on top of a roof. Planks dangle from windows. Doors are smashed open. A pink and yellow Big Wheel is caught on power lines, its wheels spinning. I am happy to be alive.
“Chicken,” I say to Mama Ya-Ya. “We’ll have chicken.” Even though it is dawn, chicken seems just fine.
Mama Ya-Ya is praying before her altar, lighting rosewood incense, and picking up the statue of the Virgin Mary. Legba, who guards the spirit gates, has a broken cane. The storm damaged his head, too, and Mama Ya-Ya kisses where his hair got scraped off. Mama Ya-Ya sighs.
I think she is happy, satisfied. But when I bring the chicken (which Spot licks!), she hugs me, whispering, “The true test is coming.”
I cock my head. “What d’you mean?”
“You’ve been so strong.” Mama Ya-Ya pats my cheek and I see the clouds in her eyes. “I’m proud of you, Lanesha.”
I’m proud but worried at the same time. There’s more that Mama Ya-Ya isn’t saying. I can feel it.
I take a deep breath and let my air out slow. I’m grumpy and I shouldn’t be. We survived. Mama Ya-Ya is proud of me. All is well.
We sit on the bed together and eat.
Mama Ya-Ya only picks at the meat.
I think about boarding up the bedroom window. But I do not want to look outside anymore. I don’t want to see the broken street. Or hear my neighbors mourning what they lost. I want to be happy—knowing me, Spot, and Mama Ya-Ya are alive.
Mama Ya-Ya leans her head back against the pillow. She says, “When I was a girl, I thought all I had to do was dream good things and they would happen. It was only later that I realized I could only ‘see’ the future, not control it. The truth is that even with sight, the world surprises you. Gives you twists and turns. Like when Charles died. When I found out I couldn’t have children. When my folks and all the folks I ever knew died. When neighbors didn’t want me to birth their babies anymore.
“But, you,” she said, stroking my cheek, “are my sweetest gift. The life surprise that soothed all my ills and gave me my greatest joys. I feel so blessed you are mine.”
“I love you, Mama Ya-Ya.” I clutch her hand. I feel such calm, so lucky to be here right now. I don’t ever want to live through another hurricane.
“I’ve been staying alive because I thought you needed me.”
“Don’t say that. I do need you, Mama Ya-Ya.”
“No. You’re strong, Lanesha. Who got us ready for the storm? Who fixed this chicken? Who looked after me when I remained in bed? Who tried to reach 911? Who tried to help?”
I set down the chicken and lay my head in her lap. I don’t want to hear what Mama Ya-Ya is trying to say. I close my eyes and feel her hands smoothing my hair. Soothing me. The room smells of chicken grease, dog, Mama Ya-Ya’s perfume, and Vicks. Her joints are always sore; and I’m glad she remembered to rub on the menthol from the green jar.
“I’m wearing down, honey.”
I sit up and stare into Mama Ya-Ya’s wrinkled face. She is wearing down—like a clock needing to be rewound.
“I’m eighty-two. Can’t go on forever. Think I ought to stop now.”
There are a million things I want to say to her. Like how much she means to me, how everything I know I learned from her, how grateful I am. But my words are choked in my throat and spill over my eyes as tears. Without Mama Ya-Ya, I will be really alone. Lonely. But I am being selfish, only thinking about me. Mama Ya-Ya is good for this world. There ought to be a law that good things and good people can’t leave. Ever.
“Your turn to meet the future, precious.”
Mama Ya-Ya looks like an old elf. I stroke her hand. I think what good is the future without Mama Ya-Ya?
“Eat,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Let me feed you some chicken. It’ll keep your strength up.”
Mama Ya-Ya smiles. “That’s what I say to you.”
I tear off the chicken’s wing. “Here
. A wing, your favorite.”
Mama Ya-Ya is no longer smiling. Her cheek is pressed flat against the pillow. “Time for me to pass all my remaining strength to you.”
Then, she tucks herself under the covers like a child. Pulls the blankets beneath her chin. “Storm’s coming,” she murmurs.
“It’s already been,” I say.
“More,” she says. Then, she opens her eyes and looks at me. Though I don’t think she really sees me, just my shape in her half-blind eyes. “Do you know why your momma is still here?”
I swallow.
“She wasn’t sure you were going to be all right. The world can be a hard place sometimes, Lanesha. You have to have heart. You have to be strong. Parents want their children to grow up to be strong. Not just any strong, mind you, but loving strong. Your testing should’ve come much, much later. But when it came, you shined with love and strength.”
“You’re my strength,” I say, confused by Mama Ya-Ya’s words. I’m not sure what I’m feeling. It’s not pure happiness, but something sour. Bittersweet.
Mama Ya-Ya lifts her head, chin up. “TaShon’s coming.” Her gray curls flatten again on the pillow.
There’s a pounding on the front door. Spot barks and runs down the stairs. I get up, glance back at Mama Ya-Ya on the bed. My mother is right beside her.
I head down the stairs.
“Lanesha! Spot!” TaShon and Spot are rolling wild on the kitchen floor.
“TaShon, what’re you doing here?”
“I lost my parents. There were so many people at the Superdome. I looked everywhere. You wouldn’t believe it, Lanesha. Thousands of people. When the storm was over and I still didn’t see them, I thought maybe they came home. So I left. When I couldn’t find my parents, I came home. They’re not home yet. But they will be.”
TaShon seems different. When did he become so talkative? When did he get brave enough to find his way home?
“You got some milk?”
I open the refrigerator. The electricity is still off. But the milk is not yet warm. I pour TaShon a glass and watch him drink like white milk can cure anything.
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