At the temple there is a poem called "Loss" carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read loss, only feel it.
—Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geish
My name is Anna. That's Ahn—a, not Ann—a. People hear my story, they say, "Oh, that's awful." They think it would never happen to them. I thought it would never happen to me, either.
But it did.
***
November 10, 2018
The newscasters spent days repeating dire warnings most people ignored. After all, we'd made it through ninety—nine percent of hurricane season without any storms traveling anywhere near us. Early November wasn't exactly known for its tropical weather in the tristate area. Still, as Mamá used to say, it's better to be prepared por si las moscas por si las moscas, or just in case.
To avoid tempting fate, I stocked up on eggs, milk, and bread
as if I'd be making French toast in a storm
, grabbed a box of strawberry—flavored toaster pastries for good measure, froze blocks of ice in plastic containers, and filled my bathtub with water. This basic nod at hurricane readiness seemed more than sufficient. It never occurred to me to cover the windows or anything like that.
When the storm hit, the entire northeastern seaboard realized the newscasters hadn't been overreacting for once. Winds howled and shrieked, shaking the house. Rain obliterated the satellite signal to my television early in the evening. Soon thereafter, I cowered in the basement of my three—bedroom house with a battery—powered lantern from an old camping trip and Hermione, my roommate's brown tabby cat.
The two of us huddled in the spot furthest from the row of tiny windows under a sea of blankets as the storm raged overhead. Not long after sunset, my house lost power. The dots of light provided by street lamps winked out at the same time. My phone provided a lifeline to the outer world for almost an hour before the service stopped working. At least the lantern gave off a steady glow.
Alone, scared, and bored, I unfairly cursed my roommate for not being with me. Tara was in the middle of nowhere, taking care of her sick mother. She lived in a tiny trailer with no TV, cell service, or Internet in one of those squarish—type states that started with a vowel. Tara probably would prefer to be with me, storm or no. If she even knew about the storm, isolated as she was.
Still, sitting alone in my basement listening to rain beating against the windows was no fun. My boyfriend, Jay, got stuck working late. By the time he left the office, the Mayor of New York City asked all residents to remain home unless absolutely necessary, keeping the roads clear for emergency vehicles. The last time I talked to him, Jay was about to walk the twelve blocks home to his loft apartment through a downpour so thick he couldn't see five feet beyond the circle of his umbrella.
Thunder crashed overhead. A streak of lightning lit up the room before the roar ended. I shivered and rearranged my covers. Using my phone as a flashlight, I picked up one of about five dozen old copies of Forbes magazine stored in our basement. My own face smiled up at me from a sidebar on the cover. When the magazine ran its feature on "Up—and—Coming Executives Under Thirty—Five Years Old," I'd warned Tara that my friends and family would read it online, but she insisted on buying all the hard copies she could find. At least Tara's mother appreciated not having to drive thirty miles into town to read about me. The rest collected dust down here, in case the zombie apocalypse came and I needed a reminder of my old life or a way to start a fire.
The house shook, distracting me from reading about "No. 17: Katherine Ashcroft." A lovely woman, by all accounts. I saw her at a networking event a while back, but we didn't talk. To block out the storm, I sat trying to remember the name of her company. It worked until thunder crashed on top of me again. The rain hit the windows so forcefully, I double—checked the latches. Something banged against the roof. Cringing, I pressed my hands against my ears. The sounds of the storm grew louder, and Hermione squirmed closer against my chest, purring. The basement door rattled in its frame.
Another crash, followed by a bang. A siren wailed next to my ear. It took a moment to realize that the blaring sounded eerily like my car alarm. Uh—oh. Hopefully the wind, rather than a real problem.
I could turn the blasted thing off from where I sat. Except I'd left my car keys on the kitchen counter. Upstairs, beyond the safety of the basement.
For fifteen minutes, I sat listening, regretting my decision to pay for the extended battery. That thing would blast all night if no one shut it off. The salesman hadn't been exaggerating. Putting my hands over my ears was about as effective as trying to put out a forest fire with a Dixie cup of water.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. With a sigh, I threw off my blankets. Hermione glared at me before tearing off toward a pile of stuff in the far corner. For her sake, I hoped it was quieter under there. My legs tingled after so much time on the concrete floor. I rubbed them, one at a time, while I willed myself to go deaf. When the feeling returned to my lower limbs and the alarm still blared behind me, I drew a deep breath, pulled myself upright, and told myself there was no reason not to venture into the house for a minute or two. I'd be perfectly safe.
My prosthetic left foot sat against the wall where I'd left it when Hermione and I settled in for the night. It wouldn't take long to strap it on, but I couldn't stand the thought of another single second listening to that siren. I'd hopped up the basement stairs before, I could do it again. The kitchen lay directly across from the basement door. Less than twenty feet of open space separated me from silence. Lots of windows, lots of potential for broken glass up there, but I had no choice. My shoes were also in the kitchen. Perhaps I should've shown the newscasters a little more respect.
A sturdy banister helped me to the top of the stairs. The basement door stuck, especially on humid days. Apparently, "humid" applied to hurricanes. I shoved with all my might. The wood didn't budge. I tried again, with the same lack of results. On the third attempt, I braced my shoulder against the door, rested the bottom of my calf against the step, and slammed my full weight against the wood. The door opened—and whipped away from me. Without the support, I stumbled out into the hall, tripping over the top step. My palms and knees slammed against the ground, knocking the wind out of me.
The kitchen wasn't overly large, and my keys hung from a hook between the French patio doors and the door to the garage. I braced myself against the gusts, wondering how many windows broke to create this wind tunnel in my hallway. Still, I needed to move forward. Either I turned that alarm off, or I'd lose my mind by morning. With a deep breath, I started across the kitchen floor as quickly as I could.
Before I made it two feet into the room, I came to a dead stop.
"¡Dios mio!"
The wind slapped my face, tearing the words from my mouth. Water drenched my hair and clothes. Shivers immediately followed. Surprised, I glanced toward the glass doors. The panes weren't broken. They weren't there at all. Neither were the doors. Or the walls, or the kitchen, or the roof. I stood, shivering, in the middle of the storm, surrounded by granite countertops, peering through the sheets of rain at our beautiful old oak tree, which lay across my newly topless Infiniti, alarm still blaring.
