They can’t keep people out of their own homes! Grandma looks like she might cry.
They don’t want people killing themselves to get their belongings. Dad puts a hand on her arm. We have to wait.
Clare is biting her nails and staring at the TV screen. Our house can’t flood, she says. We’re not even close to the river and the dam is so far away. There wouldn’t be enough water to reach us.
Flooding by sewer backup, Dad says. The sewers can’t contain the runoff water so it’s overflowing into the alleys and streets.
In the afternoon, our neighbor Bruce who didn’t evacuate sends Dad a picture of our house. There is a foot of water surrounding it.
No one talks after that.
That night I can’t sleep. I’m on the top bunk and Clare is on the bottom. In the middle of the night she says, Audrey?
I think it must be a dream, but I still respond. Yes?
I’m scared for our house.
Me too, I say and wish I could see her.
If it did flood, it will only be a few feet, she says. Not high enough to reach the stuff on the shelves.
I don’t know what to say so I don’t say anything at all.
We’ve lived there our entire lives, she whispers. I don’t know how to live anywhere else.
* * *
In the morning a newscaster says, Seventy-five thousand Calgarians can now return to their homes. The mandatory evacuation has been lifted.
Then the mayor comes on. He looks like he has been up all night too.
We’ve turned a corner, the water is receding, but we’re still in a state of emergency. We’re also heading into tough times. As people return to their homes to find them damaged, some people might feel despair. As a city, we must lift them up with kindness and support.
On the way home, we stop at Walmart and buy the only rubber boots left.
Hasn’t the water receded? Clare holds up a pair of Hello Kitty boots and frowns.
You have no idea what we’re in for, Mom tells her.
The first thing I notice is the mud. The water is gone, and mud coats the grass, and the bottom of every tree and house. There’s a fog in the air and a humming that sounds like it’s coming from more than one house. Not sure what it is. The streetlights flicker above me.
It looks like a war zone. I think it and then an army convoy roars by on Elbow Drive.
My boots sink into the path as we walk up to the front door. It’s like walking through melted chocolate.
The windows to the basement have a line of mud. That’s where the water touched them.
Dad’s hand shakes as he tries to put the keys in the lock. He’s probably worried water will rush out when he opens the door. I’m worried about that too. He puts the key in the lock and looks over his shoulder. Mom nods and he turns the key, opens the front door.
Nothing happens.
Dad’s shoulders visibly relax. No flooding on the main floor, he says.
The front hall is too dark for us to see anything. Dad flips the light switch. Oh right, he says. The power is out.
Clare has her boots off and is already racing down the hall. I know where she’s going so I run after her. She yanks open the basement door and screams.
It’s not what she expected. Water is lapping the staircase two feet below us.
* * *
Dad goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge, pulls out a beer. Twists the top off and takes a sip. A really large sip.
It’s warm, he says.
What are we going to do? I ask.
Right now I’m going to have this beer.
I go back outside. Mom is standing on the sidewalk. I join her as Mrs. Hutcheson rushes across the street and pulls Mom into a hug. They both start crying.
Did you just go inside for the first time?
Mom nods and sobs.
How bad is it?
The basement is entirely flooded.
You need a pump. Donald has a pump and is pumping out everyone’s basements. You need to talk to him.
Okay. Mom doesn’t move.
He’s at the McNally house, Mrs. Hutcheson says.
Okay.
Mrs. Hutcheson pulls her into another hug. Oh, honey! They start crying again.
Across the street another neighbor is sitting on his front step, smoking. His shoulders are hunched and he’s shaking. Behind him, mud people come out of the house. Drop what they’re carrying into a pile on the sidewalk.
My insurance company will only cover sewage backup, Mrs. Hutcheson is saying now. And even then only a portion of it. No overland flooding.
How do they know which one it is?
You need to take a sample of the water in the basement. To qualify as sewage you need to have evidence of feces. That’s what I’ve heard.
I think about all the possible germs in the sample. E. coli, salmonella, norovirus, staphylococcus, shigella, and streptococcus.
They’re calling it the hundred-year flood, Mrs. Hutcheson says. None of us knew it would be this bad. It happened to all of us.
I go back inside. Dad is still in the kitchen. There’s an empty beer bottle on the counter and Dad is holding another.
I look at Clare. She’s staring straight at the wall.
His entire room is underwater, she says.
Dad tilts back the beer and then puts it down. Glass rings against marble. I’m going to go call Bruce, he says. See if he’s had any luck with finding a pump.
Donald has a pump, I say. But I don’t know if Dad hears me because he doesn’t respond as he walks away.
Clare finally blinks and looks at me. I can’t believe all of Adam’s stuff is gone.
I walk to the basement door and open it again. Adam’s stuff is gone and Adam’s ghost left with it.
Clare is upset, but I’m happy. If Adam’s ghost moved on, maybe he has forgiven me.
Clare
A superstitious person would say that I wanted this. That I asked for it months ago when I daydreamed about a wrecking ball outside my window. That’s all I can think about as I lie awake in my room all night. By midmorning, the basement has been pumped and we have the all clear to enter and check out the damage. After pulling on our rubber boots, we go down the stairs.
The rugs are no longer in a path to the couch. They’ve migrated across the room and tangled themselves into muddy snakes on the concrete. The couch is now angled in front of the curtain that leads to Adam’s room. The curtains are still shut but entirely brown. Everything is brown. Every single item is the same awful color, like someone opened a can of shit and tossed it over everything.
I swipe aside the one curtain still remaining and it barely moves, it’s so stiff with mud. And sewage, I think, and want to gag. Like the main room, nothing is untouched. His comforter, his books, his picture frames . . . his clothes. It feels so messed up to be standing in Adam’s room mourning clothes I’ve worn in secret. I glance at the nightstand, relieved Adam’s phone is safely tucked away in my room upstairs.
Dad and Audrey come into the room seconds behind me. Dad’s face is a tight drum, stark white against all the brown. He doesn’t move from the doorway, but his eyes scan the room, veiny and sad. When he speaks, it’s like he has to focus to say the words in their proper order.
“I don’t even recognize it. But then, I was never allowed in here anyway.”
None of us move. We’re just staring at one another across the room, breathing in shit-filled air, and there’s nothing we can do. Like when Adam died. We saw his body in that stupid box before they cremated him and he looked so much like Adam but asleep, and I kept wishing that I could just lean down and kiss his forehead and he’d wake up.
“We can save some things,” Audrey says in that matter-of-fact way of hers. “The stuff that can’t absorb mud or water. That isn’t contaminated. We can clean it off with the hose outside. I’ll go grab some bags.”
Then she disappears and Dad sways on the spot, like the breeze she created is enough to knock him over.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
The question seems to awaken him. He walks over to a shelf and picks up a baseball trophy. “I remember this. This was the very first trophy he ever got. Baseball. He could hit anything.” Dad chuckles. “That was part of the problem. He hit the balls he should have left, too.”
“I remember,” I say, even though I don’t. I remember being told the story.
“Adam was very athletic. He picked up sports right away. But all he cared about was skateboarding.” I’m waiting for that edge that always seeps into Dad’s tone when he talks about skateboarding, but this time it doesn’t. Instead he says, “He was really good at that, too. He just got on it and rode. Never seen anything like it.”
“I know. I used to watch him with his friends.”
Dad grins over his shoulder as he picks up the next trophy. “Skating at the elementary school, right? It’s okay, he never lied to us about it. We never asked.”
“Yeah, at the school. He could ride the handrail. It was scary to watch.”
“I bet.” Dad releases a sob. His drum face crumples and he puts a hand over his eyes. His whole body is shaking. I come up behind him and wrap my arms around him, my cheek against his back. We stay like that until Dad squeezes my arm, letting me know he’ll be okay.
It’s crazy to think the water was high enough in the basement to touch objects on Adam’s shelves, considering we live a few blocks from the river. But from what I’ve heard on the news, the cause was storm-water backup—because of the excessive rainfall, the rivers rose, and water flowed into the storm-water pipe system and spilled back onto the streets through storm-water drains. I pick up the picture frame I looked at only a month ago, the one that made me want to reach through the glass and touch Adam’s face, and wipe the mud off with my sleeve. Water has seeped between the glass and melted our faces.
It’s replaceable, I tell myself. Somewhere in storage is an SD card with the original photograph.
In storage. My heart ricochets against my ribs. I drop the picture frame and run.
When Adam was moving to the basement, Mom made us go through our bedrooms and separate items into donations for Goodwill and special keepsakes to box up and store in the furnace room. It was like she suddenly realized the house was too small for all of us. We also boxed up all the toys we’d outgrown and stored them with our baby items.
I thought I was prepared for this, but I’m not. All I keep thinking about are Adam’s baby photos and baby blanket, the matching dresses that Audrey liked and I hated, our drawings, the toys I wanted to pass on to my kids, and all the family heirlooms to be saved for the next generation.
As I shove open the door to the furnace room, my heart is in my throat and the tears are already pooling in my eyes. The skis are on their sides instead of leaning against the wall. Ski and snowboard boots have migrated across the room like the couch. Boxes are no longer on shelves—they’re everywhere. I blink and the tears hit my cheeks as I run between the boxes, checking for labels, which of course have floated away. The boxes themselves are soggy and most of them are destroyed, their contents strewn across the room. I recognize some shipwrecked items, including Christmas decorations and Dad’s tools that didn’t fit in the garage.
Releasing a cry of despair, I squat on the concrete floor, both hands grasping what’s left of my hair. I’m going to pull the rest of it out in anguish. I can hear myself, low and guttural like an animal, and I know it’s happening. My walls are all coming down. Like the water breaching the dam, I’m going to bleed all over this F-ing house because I’ve finally lost everything.
“What are you doing?”
Audrey’s shape appears in my vision, blurry like we’re on opposite sides of an aquarium.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“No.” I don’t bother to stand up. “I can’t find it. Any of it.”
“Can’t find what?”
“Our memories. The stuff Mom had us pack up to save.”
“Do you mean the boxes I took upstairs?”
I blink. Then I’m on my feet. Oh please, please, please let her be saying what I think she’s saying. My heart is thumping in my chest, but I force myself to speak slowly so I don’t freak her out. “Audrey, what boxes did you take upstairs? When did you move them?”
“The important ones.” Audrey shrugs. “I took them to my room when they announced the natural disaster. I wanted to be prepared.”
With a cheer, I rush her. I pull her into my arms and squeeze her so hard, she actually winces. “Thank you, Audrey. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You don’t know how much this means. You’ve saved us.”
Audrey
When I show Mom and Dad the boxes under my bed, Dad cries. Mom pulls me into a gigantic hug and kisses my cheeks over and over again.
Oh, Audrey! You have no idea what you’ve done for us. We thought we’d lost it all.
When did you do this? Dad asks.
When you told me the dam might breach. I thought if the house flooded, the water bottles should be upstairs so we could drink them. Then I saw the boxes and decided to take them upstairs too. I put everything under my bed for safekeeping.
Now Dad is hugging me too. He lifts me up and spins me around and says my name over and over again.
You are so clever. Cleverer than the rest of us. What would we ever do without you?
Late in the afternoon we take a break from cleaning and sit in the family room to go through the items. First we look at Mom’s and Dad’s photo albums from their childhoods. They only have a handful of albums each because cameras used film back in the days. It was expensive to take and develop a lot of pictures.
My grandma was a scrapbooker and made albums and albums of Mom growing up, from baby to university student. Mom and Dad were in high school in the eighties, so Mom’s wearing colorful leggings and leg warmers in a lot of photos. In one of Dad’s high school photos, he’s wearing a tie-dye track coat and pajama pants.
That’s hideous, Clare says, and they laugh.
There’s also the baby book of Dad that Grandma made. It’s full of pictures of Grandpa. I don’t remember Grandpa very well because I was only seven when he died. He looks like a stranger in the pictures of him holding Dad as a newborn. He looks too young to have a baby.
Next we move on to our baby items. Our three baby books. Photo albums. Folders of school pictures and artwork. Little dresses, sleepers, and blankets Mom wanted to keep.
She picks up a small blue sleeper with teddy bears on it and presses it to her face. When she pulls it away there are tears in her eyes.
It still smells like him. How can it smell like him after all these years?
I don’t even realize I’m doing it. I crawl into her lap like I used to do as a little kid. I’m crying now too. Mom presses my cheek against her chest and kisses the top of my head. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Dad and Clare are hugging too. Dad has pulled her into the crook of his arm and she’s burying her face in him.
I want to apologize. I need them to know that every day I wish I could have just stayed in that stupid gym-not-dojo.
The important thing is that we still have each other, Dad says. And our memories.
I feel Mom nodding. A hot tear hits the top of my head.
Adam was always so happy, Clare says. Her voice is muffled because she’s talking into Dad’s chest. That’s what I loved the most about him.
Dad tilts his face to the ceiling like he hopes the tears will slip to the backs of his eyes. I loved that too, he says. Adam was always up for learning new things and doing something. Dad laughs but it sounds like a sob. Even when he was six and we took you all to Mexico. We thought he’d be happy just playing in the pool and swimming in the ocean, but he wanted to go on all the excursions.
He was so sweet and loving, Mom agrees. Her voice breaks on the last word.
It’s my turn. Everyone goes quiet.
He was nice to me, I say, and feel Mom’s arms tighten around
me. I know it was my fault. I say it loudly enough for everyone to hear. Adam would still be alive if not for me.
Oh, sweetheart! Mom turns me around to face her. It wasn’t your fault. We’ve been so worried you felt that way but didn’t know how to bring it up with you.
It was just an accident, Dad tells me. A terrible, terrible accident. None of it was your fault. Please don’t blame yourself, Audrey.
I glance at Clare. She’s staring at the floor. Dad’s hand is rubbing her shoulder over and over again. A robot arm.
Sometimes bad things happen in life, Mom says. We can’t prevent them. Sometimes we can’t even learn from them. Sometimes bad things happen and we wonder why they could possibly happen to us and what we did wrong. But we did nothing wrong. You and Adam did nothing wrong. You’re a good kid, Audrey. Do you hear me?
I nod because I don’t think I can speak.
It’s normal to feel guilty when someone dies, Mom says. It’s one of the stages of grief. We all feel guilty about something when it comes to Adam. I feel guilty for things too, but I loved Adam with all my heart.
Dad reaches out and takes Mom’s hand. I feel guilty for pushing him to play sports when he wanted to skateboard, he says. I wish I’d told him I thought he was great at it.
Clare finally looks up. He knew, Dad. And Mom, he knew you loved him and he wouldn’t want you to feel guilty about anything. I think he’d be happy to see us all getting along. I know that’s what he wanted.
Thank you. Mom’s voice sounds like a whisper.
Dad glances at Mom. Clears his throat. I think this would be a good time to tell Audrey. Don’t you think, Margaret?
I feel Mom nod. She twists so I can see her face. It’s wet with tears.
Sweetie, we’ve made a decision.
We’re going to give it a try, Dad tells me. You can go to whichever school you choose.
Really?
Really.
I look at Clare. Mom and Dad look at Clare. I can feel Mom’s arms tense around me. When Clare stands, I stop breathing. She’s going to get upset. She’s going to yell and run out of the room like she always does.
Under Shifting Stars Page 20