0:04

100 year flood, that's what started

0:06

it all. It was long before

0:08

I was born. My dad was a kid

0:10

when it happened, they lost their house. He

0:13

doesn't remember much. Grandma and

0:15

grandpa sent him to stay with some friends that were up

0:17

on higher ground when the rain kept coming

0:20

and coming. He has vague

0:22

memories of being bored out of his mind and

0:24

the adults coming and going, talking

0:26

to each other in hushed voices. He

0:28

remembers the woman and grandma's friend

0:31

cooking for what felt like all day, saying

0:33

that the food was going to the churches

0:35

and the community center and everywhere else

0:37

that people were staying who had lost their homes.

0:40

Then grandma and grandpa came back for

0:42

him and he found out there was no home

0:44

to go back to. They lived

0:46

in a rental for a bit over a year in the next

0:49

town over. It was a hard year,

0:51

he said, as he was going to a different

0:53

school and didn't know anyone. But

0:56

they were lucky, they got a new house

0:58

and moved back.

0:59

Lots of families that went away just

1:01

never returned.

1:03

The town shrank after the flood, and while

1:05

the population eventually recovered as new families

1:08

moved in, it lost a lot of people

1:10

that remembered what happened.

1:12

Grandma died seven years ago, grandpa

1:14

died five years ago, and dad,

1:17

well, he was only a kid. Mom

1:19

certainly doesn't remember anything because she

1:22

isn't from here. They met in college

1:24

and he wanted to move back home to be close to his

1:26

family.

1:27

She agreed. She certainly

1:29

didn't want to be near her family.

1:32

I still haven't met my maternal grandparents,

1:34

don't even know if they're still alive. Mom

1:36

doesn't talk about it. I didn't particularly

1:39

want to come back here.

1:41

It's a small town and there's not a lot

1:43

going on around it, just flat

1:45

open fields of corn and soybeans. The

1:48

river, of course, is not very exciting

1:50

either.

1:51

Every bit as flat as the terrain around

1:53

it, meandering back and forth in

1:56

gentle curves until it passes through the

1:58

center of town.

1:59

No kayaking on it in the summer, but

2:01

that's the extent of its relevance to the town.

2:04

Other than the flood, of course.

2:06

The hundred year flood, and that barely anyone

2:08

remembers.

2:10

This was more a town for established

2:12

families. Young couples ready to settle

2:14

down and have their first child and maybe

2:16

a few more.

2:17

People like my parents, who had roots here

2:20

and were looking towards retirement. It

2:22

wasn't the place for someone fresh out of college

2:24

and wanting to start a career, but when dad

2:26

got his diagnosis I had to reconsider

2:29

what my priorities were.

2:31

He protested of course, but I knew how

2:33

to spin it. It wouldn't be that long,

2:35

I had said.

2:36

Plenty of people take a short break after college

2:38

to go on some dream trip or something

2:41

before finding a job.

2:43

I wasn't flying overseas to backpack across

2:45

Europe or anything exciting like that.

2:48

But it would still be like a vacation.

2:50

A staycation. A staycation

2:52

at my parents' house in my old bedroom with

2:55

the occasional trip to the hospital for dad's

2:57

chemotherapy appointments. None

2:59

of us were particularly afraid. The

3:01

oncologist had said, curable, not

3:04

treatable.

3:05

Curable.

3:06

It's an important difference. So we

3:08

would go to the appointments. This was going

3:10

to be hard, but it was just one small

3:12

part of our lives and we'd get through it and

3:15

everything would keep going after that.

3:17

That's what I told myself.

3:19

This was just a pause. Still,

3:22

it felt weird to be moving my belongings

3:24

back into my old bedroom.

3:26

I was going to move to Seattle. I'd

3:28

already picked out a couple of rentals I could afford

3:31

for a few months while I searched for a job. They

3:33

weren't in the city, but they were close enough that

3:36

I could always move to some place nicer once

3:38

I was more stable.

3:39

Instead, I found myself standing

3:42

on the creaky wooden floor of my old bedroom,

3:44

staring at the narrow twin bed I'd spent

3:47

most of my life sleeping in.

3:49

My parents had started using the bedroom as storage

3:51

and half of the room was lined with boxes that

3:53

used to be in the basement. Dad didn't

3:56

like keeping things in the basement, not

3:58

after losing everything he'd ever owned. Wound in

4:00

the flood as a kid. Explosion des her

4:10

lips and lips.

4:29

My dad's voice interrupted us.

4:43

I don't want the boxes in the basement. My

4:46

father materialized behind her in the doorway.

4:49

He hadn't started chemo yet, but

4:51

he was already wearing a blue surgical mask.

4:54

He didn't want anything getting in the way of his treatment.

4:57

I'd need to start wearing one soon as well, I

4:59

thought.

5:00

I'll move them back out when I leave. I

5:02

promised.

5:03

Have you looked at the weather? It's going

5:05

to rain all next week. This house shouldn't

5:07

even have a basement. None of the houses

5:10

around here should have basements. They

5:12

have basements because of the tornado risk.

5:15

My mom sighed.

5:17

This was an old argument. My dad

5:19

seemed to be picking a lot of fights over the same things

5:21

again and again lately.

5:23

I suspected it served as a distraction

5:25

from the cancer. When's the last time

5:27

we had a tornado around here? He

5:30

asked, but he was already walking

5:32

off down the hallway. My mom's voice

5:34

drifted after him as she followed him, leaving

5:36

me to do what I wanted with the boxes and

5:38

to get my own things unpacked.

5:41

When's the last time we had a flood? I

5:43

muttered, hefting the first of the boxes.

5:46

I swear they were all full of dishware and

5:48

probably weighed about 50 pounds each.

5:50

I lugged them back to a vacant corner

5:52

of the basement that I assumed used to be where

5:55

they resided. There was an odd

5:57

smell down there that took me a while to place.

5:59

At first, I thought it was mold and I searched

6:02

the corners and walls and turned on the

6:04

flashlight on my phone and carefully examined

6:06

the ceiling. There wasn't a drop of

6:08

moisture that I could find, which was a relief.

6:11

The last thing my parents needed to be dealing with

6:14

right now on top of Dad's diagnosis

6:16

was water damage.

6:17

With the last box downstairs, I paused

6:20

to take a couple of deep breaths in one last

6:22

time to identify the smell.

6:24

It wasn't musty, I thought.

6:26

No mold or mildew.

6:28

It reminded me of the outdoors, but not

6:30

quite like a summer day or being in a forested

6:33

area, something else.

6:35

It struck me as I went upstairs.

6:37

Hey, I thought. It

6:39

smelled like hay. I

6:41

didn't think much about it, not until almost

6:43

a week later, after Dad's first chemotherapy

6:46

appointment.

6:47

It was later in the day and Mom and I were taking

6:50

care of the evening chores. All that

6:52

was left was running the trash out to the bin.

6:55

Mom had already taken the trash out to the curb, but

6:57

the kitchen trash had filled up since then and

6:59

she didn't want Dad to try to take it out because it

7:01

was raining. It had been raining since

7:04

yesterday, just a steady rain,

7:06

the kind that saturated the ground and backed

7:08

up the storm drains.

7:10

It should stop sometime in the night, according

7:12

to the forecast.

7:13

I put on a jacket and headed outside.

7:16

The sunset had come early on account of the

7:18

overhead clouds, but it wasn't dark enough

7:20

for the street lights to come on yet. There

7:23

was a foul smell in the air, lingering

7:25

over the scent of damp earth, and I

7:27

wrinkled my nose. Surely it wasn't

7:29

the trash. I lifted the lid

7:31

of the bin, tossed a bag in, and then

7:34

saw the source of it a short distance away.

7:36

Poop. There was

7:38

poop on the sidewalk, a big pile of

7:40

it. Some animal had come by and pooped

7:42

right in front of our house.

7:43

Gross, I muttered. At

7:46

least the rain would wash it away. Dad

7:48

was waiting in the entryway when I came back in.

7:51

He shuffled over and reached for my jacket, so

7:53

I turned around to let him take it off and put it

7:55

away. Even cancer-stricken,

7:58

he wanted to be a gentleman sometimes.

7:59

Mom didn't like it when I went out in the rain,"

8:02

he said, shaking the water off my jacket. She'd

8:05

get real upset and tell me I wasn't allowed out. Did

8:08

she not want you to get wet or something? No.

8:11

I mean, she'd be really upset.

8:14

He frowned.

8:15

Sometimes she'd cry. That

8:17

startled me. Grandma always seemed

8:19

very grounded to me, like a mountain that

8:21

could weather anything. She was resilient.

8:24

She didn't get angry very often, and when

8:26

she did, it was more a quiet disappointment

8:29

that felt even worse than being screamed at. I'd

8:32

never experienced it, thank goodness, but

8:34

crying.

8:35

I couldn't imagine my grandmother crying. Well,

8:38

someone's out in the rain. They let their dog poop

8:40

on your sidewalk. My dad suddenly

8:43

came to life. He tapped into that energy

8:45

that the chemotherapy hadn't begun to erode

8:47

yet. I know who that is. Here,

8:50

let me get a paper bag. We'll scoop

8:52

it up and leave it on their front porch. My

8:55

mother's voice rang out from somewhere upstairs.

8:57

No, you won't! Clearly, I'd

8:59

found another one of their long-standing disagreements,

9:02

but dad was already rummaging in the pantry.

9:06

It's probably nice and soggy, too.

9:08

I hope the bag falls apart when they pick it up

9:10

and it falls on their foot. I don't understand

9:12

why they can't just pick it up like they're supposed to.

9:15

Their dog isn't even that big.

9:17

Well, at least this gave me a way to

9:19

head dad off from his plan of petty revenge.

9:22

I don't think it's them if it's a small dog.

9:25

It was huge. Looks

9:27

like a horse poop, honestly.

9:29

He paused. He'd found the paper bags,

9:31

unfortunately.

9:33

I had to talk him out of this quickly. No

9:35

horses around here anymore. Had

9:38

to be a dog. Not sure

9:40

who owns a dog that big. It's fine.

9:42

The rain will wash it away. Besides,

9:44

mom doesn't want you going out in the rain.

9:47

She was still yelling from upstairs. Neither

9:49

of us were really listening to her at this point. But

9:52

I think that was the gist of what she was saying.

9:55

Dad sighed and put the bags back. Okay.

9:58

But if you see them letting their dog poop out. out there.

10:01

Do me a favor, throw it back onto their front

10:03

porch, okay?"

10:05

I started to hate the boxes in the basement. Dad

10:08

was growing increasingly more obsessed with them.

10:11

It was the chemo, Mom said. It

10:13

was stressful, and he didn't feel well, and

10:15

he was finding other things to be concerned about.

10:18

It wasn't logical, but none of what

10:20

was happening to our family made sense anymore.

10:23

We just had to get through it, and in the meantime,

10:26

if it made Dad feel better to do something about

10:28

the basement, then we'd just go along with it.

10:31

She'd rent a storage unit if she had to, if

10:33

that made him stop fretting about it.

10:36

She was afraid he'd go down there and start unpacking

10:38

them himself. I was afraid of

10:40

the same thing. The last thing I wanted

10:42

was my cancer-stricken father carrying fifty

10:45

pounds of plates and bowls up and down the stairs.

10:48

So after I finished sending out some job applications

10:50

and scheduling interviews from the few replies I'd

10:53

gotten, I went down into the basement

10:55

with a box knife to see what was inside them.

10:58

As expected, there were a lot of plates.

11:00

I set most of them aside in a to-get-rid-of

11:03

pile. There was a green-tinted

11:06

glass serving platter that I set aside

11:08

to check if it was some kind of vintage or

11:10

antique that might be worth saving. Then

11:13

three boxes of dishware down, I got

11:15

to the photo albums.

11:17

They weren't in great shape. The plastic

11:19

cover for each page had fused with the

11:21

faint layer of glue.

11:23

I flipped through a handful of them, seeing

11:25

photos of my birthday parties and my first

11:27

ballet recital. They appeared

11:30

to be in chronological order, so I

11:32

dug deeper, curious to see how

11:34

far back they went.

11:36

The photos grew steadily more washed

11:38

out, the colors fading and finally

11:40

turning into sepia tones.

11:42

I finally paused on a page containing photos

11:45

of my grandmother as a much younger woman,

11:47

her hair dark and curly, holding

11:50

a toddler on her knee. I eased

11:52

the plastic off the page and pried the photo

11:54

off with the tip of the knife. I checked

11:56

the back. My dad was a little

11:59

obsessive with writing. reporting dates on things, and

12:01

sure enough, I found his handwriting

12:03

on the back with a year.

12:05

He would have been three in this photo by my

12:07

math.

12:08

I took the album upstairs with me and found Mom.

12:11

Uh, we need to do something about these. I

12:13

said, flipping it open. The page protectors

12:16

are starting to break down, and I'm worried they'll

12:18

damage the photos.

12:19

Oh, yeah, we should store them in

12:21

something else. How many did you find?

12:25

Lots. She took the photo of

12:27

Grandma when I handed it to her. Who

12:29

was that lady behind the couch? I

12:31

asked.

12:32

She was leaning over the back, smiling broadly

12:34

and staring at my dad. Her hair was chestnut

12:37

in color, short and curly. I'm

12:39

not sure.

12:40

Why don't you ask your dad? He might

12:42

be awake. I took the photo upstairs

12:44

with me. I put on one of the surgical masks

12:47

we left hanging on the doorknob to Dad's bedroom

12:49

before pushing the door open. They

12:52

turned the office into an additional bedroom, putting

12:54

a bed in there before I showed up so Dad

12:56

could isolate when he wasn't feeling well or asleep

12:59

without being disturbed by anyone else in the family.

13:02

He was indeed awake, sitting propped

13:04

up in bed and listlessly watching something

13:06

on the TV. He looked inhumanly

13:09

pale in the lurid glare of the screen

13:11

and I averted my eyes.

13:13

I didn't like seeing him like that.

13:15

I found this photo in the basement.

13:18

Can I turn the lights on?

13:19

He nodded, not really taking his eyes

13:22

off the TV. I flipped the switch and

13:24

walked over, sitting down on the chair next

13:26

to the bed. Just a few more months

13:28

I thought. A few more months and he'd be

13:30

done with this.

13:32

Who is this?

13:33

I pointed at the woman in the photo.

13:35

He took the photo from me and stared at her for a long

13:37

time. I think that's my aunt.

13:40

He finally said, I don't remember her that

13:42

well. She died when I was young.

13:45

He laid his hand back down on the bed.

13:47

I waited a few minutes as he stared at the TV,

13:50

waiting to see if he'd remember anything else. Then

13:55

I noticed the steady rise and fall of his

13:57

chest. He'd fallen asleep again.

13:59

man, probably for the best. I

14:02

quickly took the photo, turned out the lights, and

14:04

left him to sleep. After

14:07

that, I started setting aside photos of her

14:09

when I found them. I didn't

14:11

know my dad had an aunt, it was understandable

14:13

that he didn't talk about her much, if he didn't

14:16

remember her all that well, and if she'd

14:18

died young then it was likely grandma didn't

14:20

want to bring it up.

14:21

Still, she fascinated me.

14:24

She always looked so happy in the photos.

14:27

I found a couple of her with horses, leading

14:29

them by the reins with my dad in the saddle.

14:32

I asked him if he remembered the horses, and

14:34

he didn't,

14:35

but he said there used to be a horse farm not far

14:37

from where they lived.

14:39

I drove by there one afternoon to see if

14:41

I could see any horses or maybe recognize

14:43

the big oak tree in the backyard of some of the photos.

14:46

Instead, I found some empty posts where

14:49

a sign might have once been, a gate

14:51

and a no trespassing sign.

14:53

Oh yeah, the farm shut

14:56

down.

14:56

Dad said when I told him about it.

14:59

They sold that property long ago, and the

15:01

people that own it now aren't that friendly. Dad

15:04

told me as a kid I wasn't allowed to go over

15:06

there, I'd be grounded for life if I

15:09

did.

15:09

Grandpa wasn't mean, my dad

15:12

was just a handful as

15:14

a child as I understood it. The

15:16

threat hadn't stopped my dad, he'd gone

15:18

there anyway and hopped the fence and looked around.

15:21

He'd found the horse barn, but it was collapsed

15:23

by then and was nothing more than sagging

15:26

walls and a flattened roof.

15:28

The entire thing had smelled of rotting hay,

15:30

he hadn't gone back after that.

15:33

There wasn't much to see, just an empty

15:35

field and a dilapidated building.

15:37

After that, it began to rain in earnest.

15:40

We weren't halfway through Dad's treatment.

15:43

He slept a lot, and when he was awake, he

15:45

told long, rambling stories from his

15:47

childhood. I thought it was the rain

15:49

that was doing it.

15:51

It seemed to make him remember his mom and

15:53

her dire warnings to stay inside.

15:55

He mentioned it often, shaking his head

15:58

and saying it was the only time she was really

15:59

really ever strict with him.

16:01

No going outside, he said.

16:03

That was her thing.

16:05

The flood must have been traumatic for them, I thought.

16:08

It was starting to look like it might flood again.

16:11

I didn't walk down to the bridge anymore, but

16:13

when we drove past it, I saw the city had

16:15

erected barriers.

16:17

It was getting close to the bottom of the bridge.

16:19

Mom didn't say anything about it, but I saw

16:22

her glancing nervously at it. I

16:24

don't think Dad noticed at all. He was

16:26

usually trying to not throw up on the way back

16:28

from chemo.

16:30

After about three days of constant downpour,

16:32

the rain stopped. Its absence

16:34

was so stark that it woke me in the night.

16:37

For a moment, I was disoriented by the

16:39

uncanny silence when I realized that

16:41

I could no longer hear the raindrops beating

16:43

against my window. I lay wide

16:45

awake in my bed, listening to the quiet

16:48

outside and the beating of my own heart. Then

16:51

the night was punctured by a shrill noise, distant

16:54

and unfamiliar. Some kind of animal,

16:56

I thought. Maybe a coyote? There

16:59

were plenty of those around here. Then

17:02

another cry, and another right after

17:04

it. I sat up in bed. Maybe

17:07

it wasn't as far away as it sounded, I thought.

17:09

I could feel my breathing and heart speeding

17:12

up.

17:12

Some instinctual part of my body growing

17:15

alarmed at the noise. It was fine,

17:17

I told myself. I was inside. It

17:19

was nothing.

17:21

I took a deep breath.

17:22

In fact, I thought it might have just

17:24

been the TV.

17:26

Dad had taken to falling asleep with it on.

17:28

Mom sometimes turned it off during the night,

17:31

but I always slept through it.

17:33

I got out of bed, trying to walk softly

17:35

so the floor wouldn't creak and entered

17:37

the hallway. I crept into Dad's

17:40

room, putting on my mask first to be

17:42

safe. The TV was on, and

17:44

I couldn't see much in the sudden glare, my

17:47

eyes slow to adjust. I fumbled

17:49

around for the remote and turned the power off. The

17:52

screams continued. That's what

17:54

they were, I realized. Some kind

17:56

of animal screaming.

17:58

It wasn't coming from the TV either.

17:59

and Dad wasn't asleep in his

18:02

bed.

18:02

It was empty. Anxiously,

18:05

I hurried from the room. I glanced

18:07

into the master bedroom where my mom was still asleep

18:09

before I descended the stairs. The

18:11

cries were louder now. They were growing

18:13

closer. I found Dad

18:15

in the entryway. He was looking outside

18:18

through the windows to either side of the front door.

18:21

I came over to stand next to him, looking

18:23

outside at the street. There was

18:25

a haze in the air, thick coils

18:27

of fog wrapping around the nearby houses

18:30

and turning them into hunkered shadows in the

18:32

night, indistinct and ominous. Mom

18:35

always said I couldn't go out when it rained.

18:38

Honestly, I didn't want to

18:40

go out there.

18:41

Not when it rained like this. Because

18:44

of the flood? I remember screaming.

18:47

There was always screaming when it rained.

18:51

Only I heard it.

18:52

There was a current of water in the street.

18:54

It lapped at the edges of the curb, roiling

18:57

past the tires of parked cars,

18:59

and continued on and out of sight. Like

19:01

the river, I thought. It

19:04

reminded me of the river.

19:06

Then it started to rain again, returning

19:08

in a violent curtain of water and the cries

19:10

were drowned out in the thunderous downpour.

19:16

It began to feel like Dad was made

19:18

out of glass. He wore layers

19:21

because of the cold, and it was like the clothing

19:23

swallowed him up.

19:24

It felt like he'd shatter at any moment, and

19:27

all those shirts and jackets were just padding

19:29

so nothing could hurt him.

19:31

Mom and I worried a lot, in quiet,

19:33

when he wasn't within earshot. She

19:35

marked the days off on the calendar, counting

19:38

down until he was done with his chemotherapy.

19:41

We were over halfway done, she'd say. Almost

19:44

there.

19:45

Then, one evening, I called

19:47

for Dad to come down for dinner, and he didn't.

19:50

After about ten minutes of waiting, I went

19:52

to check on him, thinking that maybe his TV

19:54

was up too loud.

19:56

He wasn't really watching anything he enjoyed most

19:58

of the time, it was just something.

19:59

to keep him distracted.

20:01

But he wasn't in the room. I

20:03

went back down and told Mom. She

20:06

sighed dramatically and asked if I'd checked the basement.

20:09

Maybe he was obsessing over those boxes again,

20:11

she said.

20:12

He'd better not be trying to lift them.

20:15

With that grim warning hanging over my head,

20:17

I headed down into the basement, hoping

20:19

he wouldn't be down there.

20:21

I didn't want to be around that particular argument

20:23

between them.

20:24

The smell of hay hit me when I stepped off

20:27

the stairs.

20:28

It was almost overwhelming. This

20:30

time, it smelled musty with a

20:32

faint hint of mildew. I

20:34

felt sick inhaling it.

20:36

I navigated around the shelves and stacks

20:39

of boxes, looking for either my dad

20:41

or some evidence of a leak. Dad

20:43

wasn't down here, but I took my time inspecting

20:46

the walls.

20:47

We had been getting a lot of rain lately and

20:49

I didn't want to overlook any problems.

20:52

I had just finished a lap of the basement when I

20:54

paused by the windows. They

20:56

were narrow slits at the top of the wall, just

20:58

barely above the ground level on the outside of the

21:01

house.

21:02

Very little light came through in them with

21:04

the storm clouds overhead,

21:05

but it was making strange patterns on the ground.

21:08

I stared at it for a second, watching

21:11

as the faint traces of remote sunlight

21:13

swayed across my shoes.

21:15

Like I was underwater. Startled,

21:18

I jerked my gaze up to the window. Water.

21:21

There was water covering them. I

21:24

ran up the stairs. I didn't say anything to

21:26

Mom. I just ran out through the back door and

21:28

to the side of the house. The grass squished

21:30

and gave under my feet, but when I rounded

21:33

the corner, I didn't see any standing

21:35

water. The windows were fine.

21:37

The ground was saturated, but we weren't flooding.

21:40

Not yet.

21:42

Is everything okay? Mom asked

21:44

when I came back in. Yeah, I

21:46

thought I saw something outside. I looked in the

21:49

garage. The car is gone.

21:51

I replied as I wiped my feet dry. What

21:54

had I seen? I wasn't sure anymore.

21:57

Dad had left the house. There

21:59

was no No reason he couldn't, obviously. He

22:02

was a grown man, and sure he was

22:04

exhausted all the time, but that was the

22:06

chemo, and if he felt strong enough

22:08

to run an errand then why shouldn't he? I

22:11

saw the worry in mom's face though. He

22:13

hadn't told any of us. He'd been acting

22:16

a little erratically since the cancer treatment had

22:18

started. I gave up on drying

22:20

my shoes and went to the hallway to get my jacket.

22:23

I'll go see if I can find him. Call

22:26

me if he comes home.

22:27

I checked the grocery store, the nearby

22:29

gas station. I went to the dollar store.

22:32

I checked every place I thought that someone

22:34

bored and anxious for a quick change of scenery

22:36

might visit.

22:37

Nothing. There weren't many

22:39

cars in the parking lots, on account of the

22:41

weather, and their car wasn't among them.

22:44

Then I had a thought.

22:46

I called mom and asked what the address

22:48

to dad's childhood home had been.

22:50

He had been reminiscing a lot, I said, and

22:53

perhaps he'd gone there.

22:55

I had to drive slowly, for there was

22:57

standing water in the road leading to the old

22:59

house.

23:00

The neighborhood was sorely neglected.

23:02

There were some houses, but most of them were

23:04

vacant and had signs attached to the doors

23:07

indicating that they were condemned.

23:09

This area had never recovered from the flood

23:11

and no one was trying to rebuild it.

23:13

It had been abandoned.

23:15

I felt that was understandable, considering

23:17

how badly the road was flooding already.

23:20

I eased the car up out of the water and

23:22

into the crumbling driveway.

23:24

Dad's car was there,

23:26

and dad was standing at the edge of the driveway,

23:28

staring at the concrete foundation that

23:30

was all that remained of his childhood home.

23:33

He looked so small in the rain,

23:35

like a sandcastle being slowly washed away.

23:39

I felt if I waited too long, he'd

23:41

simply dissolve and drift away in the runoff.

23:44

I got out of the car and walked over with an umbrella.

23:47

He was shivering underneath his raincoat.

23:49

Had my dad always been this thin? Did

23:52

I just not notice the chemotherapy eating

23:54

him away in tiny slivers?

23:56

Mom is worried. I said, standing next to him, staring

23:58

at the concrete foundation that was all that remained

23:59

the empty plot of dirt and young trees

24:02

that were slowly reclaiming where his house had

24:04

once stood.

24:05

They swam in growing puddles of standing

24:07

water.

24:08

Sorry, I just

24:10

had a sudden idea to come out here. I've

24:13

been thinking about death a lot. You're

24:16

not going to die. I know.

24:20

Only one month left. But I

24:22

don't know. Something like this.

24:25

It just makes you think about it. But

24:27

why here? By the old house. I

24:30

licked my lips nervously. What

24:32

happened to your aunt?

24:34

She drowned.

24:36

My dad told me when I was in college.

24:40

During the flood? During the flood. She

24:43

was helping my parents get some things from

24:45

the house before it completely flooded. They

24:48

weren't able to save a lot because the water was

24:50

rising too fast and they were afraid of being

24:52

trapped inside. So

24:54

they'd given up after only a few trips

24:56

and were about to leave when she heard

24:58

something. The horses.

25:02

They were still in their barn and the river

25:04

was consuming the pastures. She

25:07

went to free them and perhaps

25:09

she succeeded. They found her

25:11

body some distance from the horse barn.

25:14

They'd made it out of the pastures even. But

25:16

at some point, they'd

25:18

possibly been cut off

25:20

and she had been swept away and drowned. They

25:23

found her body caught on a tree when the waters

25:25

receded.

25:26

They never found the bodies of the horses.

25:29

We should go home.

25:30

Mom's keeping our dinner warm.

25:32

I'm not hungry anymore.

25:34

I know. That was all I could say.

25:37

I didn't know what else to do so I

25:40

hugged his shoulder and we stood there for

25:42

a bit until he began to shiver.

25:44

Then he reluctantly went back to his car,

25:47

saying he'd better at least try to eat or Mom

25:49

would be sad. I waited a moment,

25:52

glancing back over the remains of his home one

25:54

last time and then followed in my own

25:56

car.

25:57

He was thinking about death. I understood.

26:00

I understood, logically, why, but

26:02

it still bothered me.

26:04

All I wanted to think about was his last

26:06

day of treatment and when this would all be

26:08

over.

26:09

It was like our entire lives had been put on

26:11

pause and I was holding my breath and waiting

26:13

for everything to start moving again.

26:16

I glanced at the vacant houses as we drove

26:18

slowly past them,

26:20

like driving through a cemetery of lives

26:22

uprooted, I thought.

26:24

Little wonder Dad came here if he was

26:26

in a morbid mood.

26:28

Then I slammed on the brakes. Someone

26:30

was staring at me through one of the windows. The

26:33

condemned notification fluttered on the door.

26:36

The ink faded into near-eligibility.

26:39

A pale face with dark hair.

26:41

I couldn't make out anything else through the rain. Then

26:45

I saw Dad's brake lights up ahead as he stopped

26:47

to wait for me. I glanced at them,

26:49

then glanced back at the building.

26:52

The face was gone.

26:53

I kept driving.

26:55

We had a few weeks of sunshine and

26:57

Dad's chemotherapy progressed.

27:00

It was a small town, but it was still big

27:02

enough to have its own hospital not far from

27:04

downtown.

27:05

They only allowed one person back

27:07

with the patient, so Mom would go with Dad

27:10

and I'd take a walk.

27:11

The hospital was close to Main Street that stretched

27:14

all the way through downtown.

27:16

A bridge went over the river and I'd walk

27:18

down there, watch the water for a bit, and

27:20

then walk back. I began to notice

27:22

that even with the sunshine, the river

27:24

wasn't receding.

27:26

It was still raining upstream. One

27:28

of the locals commented one day when we

27:30

were both staring over the edge of the bridge and

27:32

into the water.

27:34

He hadn't seen it this high in a long time.

27:37

He was older than my Dad, so I asked

27:39

him about the flood. A

27:40

lot of people lost their houses, he

27:43

said, sucking his teeth. And

27:45

there was that business with the horses.

27:48

I think that was my great aunt.

27:52

He looked at me closer.

27:53

I remember you now. Didn't

27:55

recognize you all growing up.

27:58

I had no idea who this man was.

27:59

was, but clearly he remembered me

28:02

as a child. It was an uncomfortable

28:04

feeling, and I concentrated on the

28:06

river instead, watching the water

28:08

churn as it passed beneath the bridge.

28:11

He pointed at the water, where it turned

28:13

into a white froth at the bridge supports.

28:16

I squinted, unsure of what I was looking

28:18

at. Something dark, something

28:21

dark in the water. Then

28:24

a hard edge broke the water's surface, and

28:26

I saw a black vacant hole, like

28:28

an eye, and the ivory of bone.

28:32

A flash of teeth and a distant shrill

28:34

sound like the wind, or scream

28:36

from a rotting throat. I

28:38

thought of my dad, swallowing his soup,

28:41

his skin stretched tight like plastic

28:43

wrap over his esophagus.

28:45

Then the creature vanished beneath the water again.

28:48

The man said, It's gonna flood again. Just

28:51

you wait and see. Tell

28:53

your parents, I said, hi.

28:55

Then he walked off, and

28:58

I didn't want to call after him and ask who the

29:00

hell he was. I just wanted to leave.

29:03

I stopped walking past the bridge after that.

29:06

As the old man had predicted, it

29:08

started raining again, and it began

29:10

to flood.

29:11

We saw in the news that the river had overflowed

29:13

the bridge, and they were asking people to evacuate

29:16

the downtown area. Dad grumbled

29:18

about the basement, and I silently went

29:20

to carry the remaining boxes upstairs without

29:23

really knowing where to put them. Never

29:25

made him feel better,

29:26

because Mom's assurances that this house

29:28

was well out of the flood zone wasn't doing

29:31

much to calm him. A hundred

29:33

year flood.

29:34

We were in a hundred year flood.

29:36

There wasn't a lot we could do but wait.

29:39

We still had to make it to Dad's chemotherapy

29:41

appointments, but we couldn't take the bridge

29:43

through downtown anymore. We had to

29:45

drive around instead, out to the highway

29:48

and then back. It took an hour,

29:50

and on the way back, Dad would groan

29:52

and turn a sickly green color as he struggled

29:55

with nausea for the duration of the long drive.

29:58

I didn't have anywhere to take walk.

29:59

box now, so I sat in the waiting room

30:02

with my mask on.

30:03

I could stay with Dad for a little bit while they

30:05

got him ready, but when they took him back

30:08

I'd have to leave.

30:09

That was how I was there the day they couldn't

30:11

find his vein and kept trying and trying.

30:15

I saw blood spots spreading underneath his

30:17

skin, and then when they finally got the

30:19

IV in I quietly excused myself,

30:22

telling my Dad cheerfully that I'd see him

30:24

when he was done.

30:25

I started crying as soon as I left.

30:28

I couldn't stay here.

30:29

I thought desperately. I couldn't

30:31

just sit there and cry, think about how the

30:33

chemo was eating up my Dad and how

30:35

we could only hope it killed the cancer faster

30:38

than it killed him.

30:39

So I left. I left the

30:41

hospital and started walking.

30:44

It was drizzling, but not heavy enough

30:46

that I needed an umbrella.

30:48

I walked down Main Street to the edge of the flood.

30:50

The surface of the water was placid, moving

30:53

sluggishly among the buildings.

30:55

Like a giant puddle, I thought. Just

30:57

a giant puddle,

30:59

like the kind I'd splash around in when I was

31:01

a kid. The water was to my

31:03

ankles before I realized that my body was

31:05

still moving.

31:06

I paused, confused, staring

31:09

down at my shoes that were barely visible beneath

31:11

the murky water. What was

31:13

I doing, standing here like this? Then

31:16

I looked up, and there he was. Dad.

31:19

My heart skipped a beat. His back was

31:21

to me, and he was walking into the water. I

31:24

hurriedly weighed after him, the flood water

31:26

growing deeper with every step. It splashed

31:28

noisily around my knees, and I called to him,

31:31

yelling that he needed to go back, that the

31:33

nurses were probably wondering where he'd gone, that

31:36

it was okay, that he'd finish his chemo

31:38

and everything would go back to normal, and we'd all

31:40

just move on from this long, horrible nightmare.

31:43

But he kept walking, and I kept going,

31:46

until the water was up to my waist. Only

31:49

then did I pause, and so did he. He

31:51

stood there, and it was like his body was

31:53

the same color as the water. His

31:56

dark, curly hair, the only bright

31:58

spot on its muddy surface. It

32:01

was like I was in a dream and I couldn't wake up.

32:03

This didn't seem right. His hair,

32:06

his dark and curly hair. Bikimo

32:09

had taken his hair already. He

32:11

was bald now. This wasn't

32:13

my dad. My dad was

32:15

back at the hospital with an IV pumping

32:17

medicine into his body. They

32:19

turned to look at me. Their hair was

32:22

the same color as my dad's had been and

32:24

was curly like his, but it was a

32:26

woman and her skin was flush with

32:28

color and the chemotherapy

32:29

hadn't eaten away at her cheeks and

32:32

left her as nothing but a bundle of bones.

32:35

She looked frightened. The water was

32:37

at her chest. I reached out my hand

32:39

to her, opening my mouth to call to

32:41

her and tell her to come towards me, but

32:43

nothing came out. And then the water

32:45

turned turbulent around her, the tops

32:48

forming white peaks and her entire body

32:50

jerks to one side. She toppled

32:52

into the water and vanished beneath its murky

32:55

surface. It was like the dream

32:57

was broken. I screamed. I

32:59

waded into the water, thrashing desperately

33:01

towards where she'd been. It was

33:03

past my waist now. My heart was pounding.

33:06

I couldn't go further. I

33:08

might get swept away too, but where was

33:10

she? Where had she been swept away

33:12

to? Then something hit my

33:14

legs. Something large. My

33:17

knees crumpled and I went backwards into the water.

33:20

I righted myself just as quickly as I'd fallen,

33:22

getting my head above water, but the current

33:25

had quickly carried me deeper into the river's grasp.

33:28

I couldn't find the ground beneath me anymore.

33:29

I flailed, trying to grab

33:32

hold of something, or anything, as I

33:34

struggled to find the ground with my toes. I

33:36

could feel the tips of my shoes scraping pavement.

33:39

I just wasn't quite tall enough. Inextricably,

33:42

the water drew me towards the center of the river

33:44

and the churning current that overwhelmed the bridge,

33:47

where I'd seen trees being dragged underneath

33:49

the water the days prior on the news.

33:52

Frantically, I'd tried to swim, tried

33:54

to direct myself in a different direction. I

33:57

was so small, though, so small and

33:59

weak against the water.

33:59

water's pull. It felt like I couldn't

34:02

breathe, and I thought that this couldn't be happening.

34:04

That I couldn't drown when we were so close to being

34:07

done with all of this. When we were so close

34:09

to finishing his treatment and slipping through

34:11

Death's fingers and escaping. But the

34:13

river was in control now, and my arms and

34:15

legs were burning with exertion. I could

34:18

barely keep my head above the surface of the churning

34:20

water. Then my hands touched something.

34:23

Something solid. I grasped at it. I found

34:25

that it was broad, and I threw my arm around

34:27

it. It surged up, breaking the

34:29

surface

34:29

of the water next to me. A

34:32

horse. My arm was wrapped around

34:34

the neck of a horse. It rolled

34:36

its head to look at me, and I expected to see eyes

34:39

wide with terror, lips peeled back

34:41

in its frenzy. I stared

34:43

instead into empty eye sockets, the

34:45

flesh peeling back from the bone in shades

34:47

of gray and green. Tiny holes

34:50

dotted its sagging cheeks. Little

34:52

pinpricks where worms burrowed their tunnels

34:54

into its decaying muscle. Its teeth

34:56

were bared because the lips had long ago

34:59

slopped off.

34:59

And where my arm touched it, where

35:02

my fingers dug into its neck in a desperate

35:04

attempt to find something to cling to, the

35:06

flesh gave. I felt cold

35:09

liquid spilling out from where the skin tore

35:11

open, as cold as the water around

35:13

me. The water churned all around.

35:16

More heads broke the surface, their

35:18

manes falling out, their ears missing,

35:20

and their empty eye sockets turning toward the sky

35:22

and the rain falling overhead. They

35:25

clustered tight around me, their bodies

35:27

bumped into mine and their legs thrashed at the

35:29

water,

35:29

desperately trying to keep their heads aloft. The

35:33

herd, I realized. The herd

35:35

that drowned. They were still trying

35:37

to escape the floodwaters. I

35:39

heard the noise of an engine somewhere behind me.

35:42

I twisted, still holding tight to the horse's

35:44

neck. Two inflatable boats were

35:46

heading towards me. I raised an arm

35:48

and waved at them, yelling, and one of the

35:51

men in a bright life vest waved back. They

35:53

saw me. They were coming. The

35:56

horses sank below the waters just before they

35:58

reached me. I watched their skulls

35:59

vanished into the water. I felt the

36:02

firm pressure of one of them as it slipped

36:04

underneath me, putting its back under my

36:06

feet, and with one last push, it

36:08

shoved me out of the water and into the boat. My

36:12

great-aunt had tried to save them so long

36:15

ago, and now they were trying to save

36:17

me. Hands grabbed my arms

36:19

and shirt, and they heaved me the rest of the way

36:21

in, and I sat there in a soaking, shaking

36:24

heap among the rescue team. There

36:26

was a woman, I cried. She

36:28

was in the water, so I was trying

36:29

to get to her and bring her back, but she

36:32

got pulled under. I was trying to reach

36:34

her when I lost my footing. One of the men

36:36

spoke into a radio. The other boat broke

36:38

off and began piloting downriver, following

36:41

the current and the direction I pointed in.

36:43

They'd look for her. My rescue were promised.

36:46

They'd get me to safety in the meantime.

36:48

No one saw anyone else, though, someone

36:51

said. We got the call when you were swept

36:53

away, but they didn't say anything about anyone else.

36:56

She was there. I saw her. We'll

36:58

keep looking.

36:59

He promised me.

37:01

They wouldn't find her, I realized.

37:03

She was as trapped here in the waters as the

37:05

horses were, trying to reach them, trying

37:08

to save them.

37:09

What about the horses?

37:11

I said,

37:12

did you see the horses?

37:14

My rescue team glanced at each other.

37:16

No, they said. There was just

37:18

me. Just me and the churning water

37:20

around me.

37:22

I refused transport to the hospital and,

37:24

instead, a stranger offered me a ride

37:26

home. I called my mom using

37:28

their phone, told her I'd dropped mine in the

37:30

water and that I was going to catch a ride to a repair

37:33

place and see if it could be fixed and

37:35

I'd meet them at home.

37:37

I didn't tell them I'd almost drowned.

37:39

I didn't tell them about my great aunt or the

37:41

horses.

37:42

A lot of houses were lost in the flood.

37:45

There was only one drowning death and

37:47

I read about the announcement anxiously, trying

37:49

to see if they had dark and curly hair.

37:52

It was a man, though.

37:54

A young man that had stayed behind to try to

37:56

get more of his things out of the apartment before it

37:58

flooded.

37:59

of a woman, and they didn't find

38:02

any bodies even after the water receded.

38:04

Dad finished his chemotherapy.

38:06

I stayed for a few more months while he recovered

38:09

from the ordeal, and then I got a job

38:11

offer, and it was time to move on to somewhere

38:13

else and start the next part of my life.

38:16

I packed up my things, but by

38:18

then we'd sold or donated most of

38:20

the dishware and other assorted things in the basement.

38:23

There weren't any boxes to move back into my bedroom.

38:27

I went back into the basement one last time though.

38:29

I took a few deep breaths. I didn't

38:31

smell anything. There was no trace

38:34

of the smell of hay, and outside,

38:37

I backed out of their driveway and drove

38:39

away in the bright sunlight with not

38:41

a cloud in the sky.

38:59

you