TaShon is filthy and he smells like he wet the bed. But I know he is too old for bed-wetting.
“Tell me,” I say.
He’s still on the floor, his legs curled beneath him, his hand on Spot’s fur.
“It was terrible, Lanesha. Never seen so many folks. People sleeping in the stands, on chairs, cots. Smelled real bad.” TaShon wrinkles his nose. “All the bathrooms ran out of toilet paper and paper towels, real quick.”
I hand TaShon another glass of milk, but he shakes his head at it. I put the glass on the counter.
“You survived the storm.”
“Yeah. But it was scary. Folks shouting, crying, all the time. The storm roaring, rattling the Superdome like it weren’t nothing.
“There was a big screech, Lanesha. You wouldn’t believe it. A big sheet of metal was torn off the roof. Crazy! The Superdome!” TaShon looked up at the ceiling, as if it could be ripped off any second.
“Everybody went wild, Lanesha. The darkness made everything worse. You could feel the rain, thick and heavy. Hear the wind overturning cots. Hear folks screaming for their kids. But you couldn’t see nothing.
“But my pop made me feel even worse. Dads aren’t supposed to be scared. Pop was holding on to me. I could feel him trembling. And my pop, who ain’t been to church in years, kept saying, ‘Please Jesus,’ and squeezing me so hard, I could barely breathe.”
TaShon covers his eyes with his hands. I hug and pat his back like Mama Ya-Ya does for me when I’m scared. I kept repeating, “It’s all right, TaShon. We survived.”
“Even with thousands of people screaming, the wind was louder.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t think we’d get out of there. That the wind was going to toss the Superdome like a Frisbee. Everybody inside would die.”
I don’t tell him about our night.
TaShon, like Mama Ya-Ya, seems to have run down. His energy drained like boys siphoning gas from a car. Sitting with his legs splayed, his head bent, and arms soft at his side, TaShon is and isn’t himself.
Spot rubs his back against TaShon’s thigh.
TaShon lays his head on Spot’s belly. Then shivers, staring up at me. “When I couldn’t find my parents, I headed for home. I figure home is our meeting place.”
I see dirt, sweat, and tears dried on his face.
“They’ll be home soon. I just know it.”
“Sure, TaShon. Your parents will be worried, but I’m sure they’ll figure out you came home.”
“Where else is there to go?”
“Right, ’specially since the hurricane is gone.” I pat TaShon’s back again.
TaShon cries. I’m shocked. His knees are pulled up to his stomach, his head is on his knees, and he’s shaking, tightening his grip about his knees, squeezing his shoulders small.
“Lanesha. I don’t want to see no more. It seems even worse outside. New Orleans is all torn apart.”
I want to tell him how confused I am by Mama Ya-Ya’s words but, instead, I just change the subject.
“TaShon, how’d you get here?”
TaShon doesn’t move.
“You couldn’t have walked. Superdome is way across town.”
He still doesn’t move.
“Here. I can put chocolate syrup in the milk.”
TaShon doesn’t look up, but his nails scratch the floor. I see the stumps on his hands. TaShon, Twelve Fingers. But he didn’t really have twelve fingers, just baby skin that looked like it wanted to grow. I agree with Mama Ya-Ya. It was a sign. Meaning he’d hold strong to life. I think it makes him special.
I set the glass down. “Spot needs water. You want to get it?” I hold out a bowl.
TaShon stands up. Tears have streaked his cheeks clean. He takes the bowl and turns on the faucet. Water sputters, flows yellow, then dies.
“Here. Bottled water.”
TaShon pours water into the bowl, and we both stand watching Spot lap until the water’s gone.
“More,” I say, and TaShon pours.
When Spot’s done drinking, TaShon sits on the floor beside him, his fingers tracing the linoleum cracks. He speaks softly: “I walked some. First, I thought it was fun. Like them dogs that get lost and find their way home. I climbed over all kinds of mess. Bushes. Trash. Newspaper stands knocked down. Even saw a suitcase cracked open on a telephone pole.
“Hardly anybody on the streets. I kept thinking no one was as brave as me, even though I was scared.” TaShon rises to his knees, grabs his milk, and drinks it gone.
“Glass was everywhere. Cars left by the side of the road. Even a bus got overturned. Dogs and cats everywhere, digging in trash
“Mud’s everywhere. Bushes, gigantic trees pulled out of the ground. I got so I couldn’t walk no more, Lanesha. It was too hot. I was tired. My legs wouldn’t move. I sat on the sidewalk. A white lady with a straw hat drove by. She had a dirty-faced kid in a car seat.
“‘You seen Lyle?’ she asked me. I said no.”
“Who’s Lyle, TaShon?”
“Don’t know.”
“Husband, son, dog, or cat?”
TaShon shook his head. “Don’t know. I asked for a ride. Said I’d help look for Lyle.”
“Didn’t she ask about your parents?”
“No. She kept talking about the end of the world. After a while, I told her I wanted to find my dog, Spot. She said, ‘Blessed be children and animals,’ and asked where I lived. ‘Ninth Ward,’ I said. She said she didn’t think Lyle was in the Ninth Ward. But she said it wouldn’t hurt to see.
“But it did, Lanesha. The porch on my house fell off. It’s in the middle of the street. Momma and Pop are gonna cry. They always say, ‘The house is all we have. Momma’s momma left it to us.’ Rudy and Rodriguez’s house is a mess, too. Shutters tore off.”
“Did you see them? Are they safe?”
“Don’t know. Their house looks empty. Mrs. Watson’s house lost its roof. I told the white lady that your house, Mama Ya-Ya’s, was home.”
“She just let you out?”
“Yeah. Said she had to find Lyle.”
I’m still sitting on the floor. Imagining this poor lady driving and driving. I do not want to go walking in the city and see what TaShon has seen.
“Can I stay here, please, Lanesha?”
I see shadows, ghosts hiding in the kitchen corners.
I say, “Stay. Course your parents will be back. Home is home.” But I’m really thinking, I’ll have to take him back. Not now. But soon. If I was TaShon’s mom, I’d keep looking for him until every last person left the Superdome.
Still Monday
“Mama Ya-Ya, look who’s here.”
“Heh, TaShon, baby. Give me some loving.” Mama Ya-Ya opens her arms and TaShon throws himself into them. He holds on and Mama Ya-Ya rocks him. “Y’all eat some chicken. You’re gonna need the strength.”
Mama Ya-Ya sounds like her old self. Except she doesn’t scold TaShon for putting his dirty self and shoes on the bed.
TaShon won’t let Mama Ya-Ya go. He’s hugging her hard, his hands locked behind her neck.
Mama Ya-Ya looks over his head at me, and smiles. I smile back. I know there’s nothing better than Mama Ya-Ya’s hugs.
“You got separated from your parents.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mama Ya-Ya holds TaShon away from her, looking straight into his eyes. “You’re growing good, too. Don’t worry, baby, you and your family will be all right. You’ll be together soon.”
“For real?”
“For real. Grab some chicken, sweetheart,” Mama Ya-Ya says. “Lanesha made it. Almost as good as mine.”
Mama Ya-Ya smiles. I can tell she’s proud of me.
TaShon laughs. “Lanesha cooked?” He grabs the last wing and leans against the four-poster bed. Then, amazing, TaShon winks at me.
I wink back. I think the future—TaShon—will be all right.
It is still day outside. The bedroom is dark, even though there are
lit candles on the altar and nightstands. Heat is rising in the room. I’m going to have to undo the boards and open the house windows. It is getting way too hot.
TaShon doesn’t seem to mind. He’s sitting on the floor with Spot, eating more chicken.
“What’s that beside you, Mama Ya-Ya?”
“You see her?” me and Mama Ya-Ya say at the same time.
My mother’s ghost seems more solid. I can see wrinkles in her nightgown. See the shape of her jaw. She has freckles like me. She is sitting up and her eyes, even though they’re ghost eyes, are blinking like she’s coming awake.
I step forward and my mother’s ghost head turns, watching me. Can it really be like Mama Ya-Ya said?—“Everybody in Louisiana knows there be spirits walking this earth. All kinds of ghosts you can’t see, not unless they want you to.”
I step even closer. My mother and Mama Ya-Ya are sitting in bed like sleepover friends. Goodness.
“TaShon,” Mama Ya-Ya whispers, “I’m glad you’re here, honey. You’re going to help Lanesha. She’s going to help you.”
“I know,” says TaShon, biting into chicken. “You got corn?”
“No corn,” I say. “You see my momma next to Mama Ya-Ya?”
“Who?” TaShon leans forward and twists. He’s looking back at Mama Ya-Ya and the oversized pillows.
“Do you see her?” I almost shout.
TaShon looks at me, his eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead. “I don’t see nothin’. Must’ve been a shadow. Can I have some more chicken? Please.”
Mama Ya-Ya reaches out her hand. “I’m sorry, Lanesha.”
“It’s okay,” I say, even though I’m disappointed. I hand TaShon a drumstick.
I look at my momma. She is definitely alert, watching me.
“It’s grace to see both worlds, Lanesha,” Mama Ya-Ya reminds me. “It’s a gift.” Then, she says, “TaShon, you should clean up. There’s a bathroom off the hall.”
Chicken grease is all over TaShon’s face. “Come on, Spot.” The two of them scamper off the bed and out of the bedroom.
I’m not dumb. Mama Ya-Ya got rid of TaShon on purpose.
“Lanesha, your momma and I want to help you. We’ve been praying. Decided we’re going to help you get birthed.”
“I’m already born.”
“Yes. But this will be a different kind. Like a sweet sixteen. Becoming grown in a new way.”
I’m shocked. My mother smiles. She’s so pretty. Young. Not much older than me.
Math is supposed to explain everything but there’s no equation for this. Mama Ya-Ya telling me I’m going to be born. Doesn’t make sense.
“Whatever,” I say, feeling too tired to argue.
“You should move to the attic, Lanesha.”
“Why?”
Mama Ya-Ya takes my mother’s ghostly hand. “Your momma came to me. Young and pregnant. She’d heard that I delivered babies, with no questions, no pay.”
My mother is looking ANGELIC. An easy word: LOOKING LIKE AN ANGEL.
Mother and Mama Ya-Ya are holding hands, sitting in the bed like twins.
TaShon has come back cleaner, grinning like an idiot. He lies down on the floor, wrapping his arm about Spot, and curling up.
I speak the truth: “Mama Ya-Ya, I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“It’s okay. You will. The universe is shining with love, baby. To survive this night—that’s what you need—love.” Mama Ya-Ya reaches out both hands. “Life is full of surprises.” I take her hand, feeling her palms, Mama Ya-Ya’s strength.
“You need to get up to the attic,” Mama Ya-Ya whispers.
“It’s too hot. The hurricane is over.”
“That’s where you need to be,” she says sternly. Then, she grimaces. “I need my medicine.”
I hand her a pill and a glass of water. Mama Ya-Ya’s face is gray. She takes the medicine and leans back on the pillow. My mother is gone.
TaShon sleeps on the floor with Spot. Mama Ya-Ya is sleeping, too.
I take the planks off the bedroom window and open it wide. I see the damaged trees, shrubs, and houses.
The sky is beautiful after a storm. Blue. And the fresh air feels good. All the clouds have been blown into the Gulf.
I see some of the neighbors moving in the streets. They look like zombies, moving slow between damaged trees and houses. Crying at the mess. Trying to pick up and clean. Shadowing them are regular ghosts. A whole parade of them. Everyone seems to be looking for something they lost.
I feel the hair on my neck, bristling. I’m uneasy.
I look at the bed. Mama Ya-Ya is breathing heavy, though her face seems peaceful. I can’t do nothing for her. Can’t even call 911. I can only do what she’s asked me.
I decide to move to the attic. I let TaShon sleep. I grab the water bottles, blankets, and start moving.
My mother’s ghost (for the first time ever!) is out of the bed, standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching me.
I can’t explain why this makes me feel so proud.
The attic is stuffy. Most areas in the attic, I have to hunch my back. I can’t stand straight. Up and down the stairs I go. I lug up food. Drag up blankets. Pillows. Flashlight. Candles. Water jugs. After a while, even my momma stops standing. She sits on the stairs, watching me while I work.
I keep my mind on happy thoughts. Soon everyone will be back in Ninth Ward, making the neighborhood like it used to be. Cleaning up. I feel strange up here, making a place for us in the attic. But Mama Ya-Ya wants me to move up high, and so I do.
I grab my dictionary and the encyclopedia, Volume B, with the bridges in it.
I grab a book for TaShon.
I grab thigh meat and a bone for Spot.
If I can survive a hurricane, I can survive one night in the attic. I can do that. In a few days, I’ll be at school again. Hanging out with Ginia, and sharing Spot with TaShon. He’s my dog now, too.
The small attic window makes a ray of light across the floor. I look around. Everything needed is here. Then, I think, I don’t know why, what if we’re trapped? I won’t fit through the window. It doesn’t even open. I’ve seen pictures of folks from other storms, standing on roofs. The hurricane is gone, but what if it comes back? Can a hurricane come back?
I remember there’s an axe in the shed. Be prepared and then maybe it won’t happen. I think of the umbrella again—“carry it, and maybe it won’t rain.”
It’s a sad world outside. TaShon didn’t lie.
I pick my way through trash—trees downed by storm and pieces of houses, sheds’ roofs ripped off. Our shed is a mess. It was never in good condition anyway, but now it looks like it’s leaning and will fall down any second. I step over wood, mud, branches, sticks, carefully. The axe is usually in the back, leaning against the wall. Now it is buried beneath cans, a garden rake, and more. The shed creaks and I hold my breath, stand still—afraid I’m going to be buried. Then, I exhale, working quickly—grabbing the axe and an extra flashlight—I search for anything else that might be useful. A green tarp. I grab it and some rope. The shed creaks, shudders again.
I dash out—my heel catches on the frame. Pieces of wood, the front door, tear away and fall. I fall onto the mud. Water splashes about me.
I sit up, quick. Water? Leftover storm water, I think. But wouldn’t it be soaked up by the soil?
The water seems higher. It must be my imagination. I stand quick, wiping my hands on my shirt. My jeans are wet. I squat.
There are tiny bugs floating dead in the water; others are skimming, still alive. Their tiny wings battling fierce. I think I see a leech. Slimy, fatter than a worm.
I step into the house, trying not to track water. But there’s water on the floor, too. Too much water to be just from my feet.
I glance back at the door. Water is coming over the door ledge. Not much. A little. Enough. The hurricane has left. Water should be draining. Not rising.
I tremble, run upstairs to my room, and chan
ge my clothes. I do not want Mama Ya-Ya to see me so dirty or TaShon to see me so scared.
I cross the hall to Mama Ya-Ya’s room. I shake her shoulder. Her eyes open.
“I’m ready,” I say. “Water’s coming into the house.”
Mama Ya-Ya doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t act surprised.
“We need to get to the attic.”
“Let me tell you one last story.”
“There’s no time.”
Mama Ya-Ya ignores me. “You know how Noah, his family, and the world’s animals survived the flood?”
“God sent the flood because people had been bad.”
“That’s the story—because people had been bad. But I tell you, Lanesha. Sometimes a storm is just a storm. A flood is just a flood.”
The word flood bothers me.
“It doesn’t matter how the flood started. What matters is how it ends.”
“With a rainbow.”
“Yes. All colors. All light blending beautifully. Some say it was God’s promise not to send a flood again. I just focus on God’s promise. It wasn’t about flood, precious. Not really. It was about love.”
“The universe shines down with love,” I say.
“That’s right.” Then, Mama Ya-Ya unclasped her necklace. “Charles gave me this. Now I give it to you.”
It’s a gold necklace with a tiny heart that’s been on Mama Ya-Ya’s throat for as long as I can remember. It is delicate and strong. I put it on and it feels like a cool thread, tying me forever to Mama Ya-Ya.
“Rest now,” says Mama Ya-Ya. “You’re going to need your strength.”
“The water is rising.”
“There’s time to rest,” says Mama Ya-Ya. “I know some things.”
True. Mama Ya-Ya knows a lot.
Besides, the room is hot. I’m tired from hauling stuff up the stairs. Just for a bit, I decide. I’ll lie down just for a bit.
“Go on, baby.”
I stretch out on the end of the bed, just beyond Mama Ya-Ya’s feet. My hand hangs over the edge. Spot licks it, then rests his head on TaShon’s thigh.
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