“Folks, it’s time to batten down the hatches. This hurricane is set to become the Perfect Storm as it barrels down the eastern seaboard of the United States.”
Our local Channel 12 meteorologist, Skip Waters, pointed to the massive circular image on the graphic map as he continued his report.
“We’re looking at sustained winds possibly as high as one-hundred-ten mph, with a tidal surge potentially reaching sixteen feet above flood stage. This is not a drill, neighbors. Hurricane Sandy is certain to bring us damaging winds and dangerous floodwaters before she’s done.”
My mom and I eyed each other over the top of my younger brother’s mop of blonde curls as he obliviously stacked Legos. Neither of us wanted to scare the little guy, but I could tell Mom was just as nervous about the approaching storm as I was. We’d been through Hurricane Irene just last summer when we were still living in North Carolina with my dad, and had been without electricity for almost a week afterwards.
Now, my mom, my brother Jamie, and I were living in a tiny apartment above Aunt Karen’s garage in Breezy Point, Queens, New York. We watched the continuous weather reports about what the news guys were calling the Storm of the Century. And it was coming straight for us.
Mom stood up, briskly brushing the dust off the knees of her pants from where she’d been kneeling down playing with Jamie’s Legos. “Come on, kiddo. It’s bedtime. Go brush your teeth and pick out a bedtime story. Jenna is going to read to you tonight.”
“Aw, mom, I was just about to call Briana,” I groaned.
Jamie rushed over to where I was standing beside the kitchen doorway. He threw his little arms around my knees, gazing up at me adoringly.
“Jenna! Read,” he implored with his bewitching dimpled smile.
There wasn’t a thing I could do in the face of those sweet, puppy-dog eyes. I caved immediately with no further argument, bending down to gather up the four-year-old con man in a bear hug. He squirmed and giggled as I squeezed him tight, then released him so he could go get his Spiderman toothbrush.
As soon as he rushed past her down the hallway to the bathroom, my mom looked at me with a serious expression. “You still have your flashlight next to your bed?”
“Sure, Ma, I’ve got my flashlight. And I’ve got my emergency backpack with extra batteries and bottled water. Why, are you scared about the storm?”
My mom gazed at me thoughtfully for a minute before she replied. “Not scared, exactly. But, honey, I’ve been through lots of hurricanes down South. There’s something about this one that is giving me a bad feeling. I just want us to be prepared.”
She and Aunt Karen had gone hurricane shopping earlier that morning and stocked up on supplies like bottled water, candles, batteries, bread and such. Enough to get through a few days without electricity in case the storm caused us to lose power. Uncle Jim was a fireman for Ladder 38 and had been staying at the firehouse all week, so it was just us girls and Jamie, waiting out the fast-approaching storm.
Aunt Karen had hung out with us all evening, playing with Legos and keeping one eye on the weather reports until she’d yawned and told us she was going down to bed. She had said goodnight, and told us she thought the storm would probably be gone by the morning when she’d be back up to see us.
I hoped she was right.
I helped my little brother settle in under his Spiderman comforter and started reading Green Eggs and Ham for the millionth time. It was warm and cozy in Jamie’s room. He snuggled up close under my arm while I read out loud, “I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam I Am.”
Though I tried to focus on the book, I could hear the wind howling outside. Raindrops hit the window with quick tapping sounds. I tried to block it out of my mind and just kept reading.
I knew it was a dream. In the back of my mind, I knew that this was October 29, 2012 and my parents were divorced and I lived in Queens and I must have fallen asleep. But it was so real.
I could hear the wind howling, and I jumped when a crack of lightning lit up the inky sky in my dreams. I was standing in front of the bay window in our living room in New Bern, North Carolina, peering out at the hundred-year-old oak trees in our front yard that were bent completely in half by the raging winds of Hurricane Irene. I was wearing neon green and black Tripp pant. On both arms, I wore wide black wristbands made from folded bandannas. And I was numb inside.
I wasn’t really scared of the hurricane. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen everybody get all freaked out and run around screeching, “A hurricane’s coming, a hurricane’s coming.”
So some tree limbs would fall, and the yard would be flooded. We might even have to use the generator for a while if we lost power. But then the excitement would be all over and I’d be stuck helping my mom clean up storm debris. Again.
Not only wasn’t I afraid of Hurricane Irene, I didn’t really feel anything at all. I used to get so upset when I’d hear my parents shouting at each other behind their bedroom door. I used to worry about my mom finding out that I like girls. I used to be so happy when Erica would come sleep over on the weekends. I’m not sure when I quit feeling things. I just know that it seemed like one day I was about to explode with a mixture of worry, confusion and happiness, and the next day I just didn’t give a damn.
That numb feeling returned in my dream. It was like I was hovering over the old Jenna, watching her lose herself, but I was powerless to do anything about it. I saw myself lean forward and blow fog onto the glass windowpane, then draw a lightning bolt through it.
Erica came up behind me and pinched my arm, hard. I flinched and jerked my arm away. She hissed in my ear, “I told you I want a sandwich. Why haven’t you made me a sandwich yet?”
I gazed at her quietly for a moment, enduring her fierce glare before I turned and walked away, headed towards the kitchen. Mom had stocked up for the storm like she always did, so even though the power had gone out a couple of hours earlier, there were still plenty of cold cuts and bread, plus chips, bottled water, Little Debbies and other snacks. I zoned out a little as I stacked cheese and turkey onto slices of white bread.
I wondered why I wasn’t a crying, screaming basket case. I should be raining tears like that damn storm, but I couldn’t. Anybody who was in an abusive, controlling relationship, who had a dad who was a mean drunk, who was failing the tenth grade because of too many absences, and who felt invisible like I did, deserved to have a good cry every now and then.
The boom of a thunderclap directly overhead snatched me out of my reverie. I picked up Erica’s sandwich and brought it to her in the living room where she was lounging sideways in my dad’s recliner. The storm seemed to be getting louder and louder outside, and the whole house was shuddering and vibrating with every blast of wind and rain.
I started breathing faster and faster as I watched dream-Jenna turn casually and account for the whereabouts of her mom, brother and girlfriend. Nobody was paying any attention at all to her. She walked slowly toward her bedroom and I wanted to shout at her.
“Stop! Wait!”
But I had no voice.
She picked up a candle from the kitchen table as she passed, and walked into her room, closing the door quietly behind her. She carried the candle over to her nightstand and slowly kneeled on the floor next to her bed. Sliding her hand beneath the mattress, she pulled out a small, white bundle. It was a folded hand towel, dotted with dark brown smears.
Dream-Jenna unfolded the towel and looked down at the burn kit hidden within: lighter, gauze, and two ointments, one to soothe the heat and one to help prevent scars. She wouldn’t need the lighter tonight, so Dream-Jenna rolled up her sleeve and gripped the candle firmly. She wondered if she could burn enough to end it all?
Bam! Bam! For a second I was still in my old North Carolina bedroom and I thought someone was knocking on the door.
Then I sat up higher and looked around at the Spidey-themed curtains and the bookshelf crammed with Dr. Seuss books. I realized I had fallen asleep reading to Jamie while we were waiting out the hurricane.
Though that still didn’t explain the loud noise.
I heard it again. Bam! Bam!
I slid my arm out from under my sleeping brother and got up to go check it out the Apocalypse.
My mom came in just then. We leaned weakly against each other as we looked out into the eerie light of a pre-dawn sunrise choked by dark, swirling storm clouds. In the distance, an exploding fireball lit up the sky. We heard that banging noise again and looked down beneath the window to see a boat floating beside the garage, banging into the side of the building as the waves surged back and forth.
My mom gasped. “Oh my God!”
She ran out of the bedroom and down the hall. I followed closely on her heels and nearly slammed into her when she stopped at the top of the stairs. She clasped her hand over her mouth.
I looked around her at the sight of water lapping against the steps.
Just then, another explosion sounded. The dawn was fiercely lit by another huge fireball. Immediately after that, we heard the banging sound of the boat against the garage wall again, only this time it came with Aunt Karen’s voice yelling all our names. We ran back to Jamie’s window and opened it.
Aunt Karen was now in the boat, struggling to hold it steady while she called up to us. “We have to go! We have to get to the firehouse now! The house is on fire; the whole block is on fire. Jim and the others can’t get to us through the floodwater!”
Everything that happened after that was completely surreal. We quickly bundled a sleepy Jamie and ourselves into warm coats, grabbed our emergency backpacks and climbed out the window. We piled into somebody’s 14-foot Johnboat that had fortuitously broken loose from its mooring and floated right to us.
I remember holding tightly onto the sides while Aunt Karen maneuvered the little boat through the waves that rolled up against the burning houses. I looked down to where my sleeve had bunched up to reveal my forearm. The faint old burn marks seemed to glitter in the glow of firelight and the stormy sunrise, a reminder of how close I’d come to giving in to despair just over a year past.
I didn’t think I’d ever be a self-harmer again. I definitely didn’t think about that one bad burn anymore.
My dream about last year in North Carolina was just a dream, and I was never going back to being Dream-Jenna again.
My mom had walked in on me the night of Hurricane Irene, and totally freaked out when she saw the flame of the candle against my skin. She kept hugging me and questioning me until I told her everything.
It had been almost a relief, for everything to come tumbling out. About how I was gay. About how my dad had figured it out, and would call me sick names behind her back when he was drunk. About how Erica was pushing me around. And mostly about how the only time I felt anything anymore was when the fiery glow was ever-so-slightly licking my skin, leaving a thin, red burn that I could feel deep inside for days.
Maybe if I could have talked to her sooner, things wouldn’t have gotten so bad. I should have known she’d help me. She’s my mom. She loves me.
I looked up from staring at my arm to see the firehouse just down the block. We had outrun both the flood and the flames as the little boat finally ran aground against a curb. We all climbed out and trudged towards Uncle Jim. In his fireman’s suit, he came running out of the open bay doors of the Breezy Point Ladder 38 firehouse.
I was suddenly filled with a surge of gratitude. Glad to see Uncle Jim, glad to see the firehouse, glad that the wind had died down to a murmur, and most of all, glad to see the sunrise struggle to assert itself above the cloudy skies.
And I was glad to feel glad. A year of therapy, a move to a new city, my parents’ divorce, and another hurricane had all been weathered. I felt like more than one kind of storm cloud was rolling away.