Storm Surge

Bobby Willover

 

Connor watched ESPN SportsCenter while eating his plain bagel with veggie cream cheese. Daphny sat on the porch drinking her matcha tea and listening to the sounds of the Southwest Florida coast. Her chipped Dollywood mug warmed her hands against the cooling sea breeze. 

 

“Did you empty the dishwasher?” Connor yelled from the couch.

 

“I got my dish out,” Daphny replied with a smirk on her face. 

A loud sigh drifted from inside. Daphny chuckled. They were boarded up and ready for Ian hidden beyond the horizon but quietly approaching. 

 

Before heading inside, a thin obsidian line outlining the horizon was visible. The birds weren’t as vocal and the beach’s demeanor was different. The coast was emptying for the approaching storm. A chill ran through her hands even against the warmth of the ceramic mug in her hands. 

 

The Gulf of Mexico pulled back like a sheet and exposed the brown and green seaweed covered ocean floor. Palm trees swayed at 40 mph; 65 mph and branches broke with thunderous cracks; At 100 mph, a terracotta planter shattered against the siding like a gunshot; Roofs peeled off like a lid on a can at 125 mph. Then, with the intensity of a stampede, the water surged onto the shoreline and rampaged further inland. The surging water forced its way into beachfront homes once thought secure. Any hope of escaping the barrier island was now impossible.

 

The rising water forced Connor and Daphne to the second floor. The sinking feeling in

his gut was the only thing holding him down in the warm water.

 

Daphny’s knuckles were white as she gripped the banister, her breath came in shallow and jagged. He grabbed Daphny’s hand, his eyes locking onto hers for a fraction of a second before he hauled her toward the stairs. The water made its way up the staircase, and before another hour had passed, they were in waist high water.

“Connor!”

 

Windows were breaking from debris being flung around. There were lawn chairs. Car

bumpers and pieces of roofs looked like pool toys. The water was chest high on Connor.

Daphny’s quiet tears mixed with the splashing seawater. The house groaned and shifted. It was close to lifting off its foundation. The house would become a mixture of salt water and debris and they would be inside of it. In the next surreal moment, the wall split open. The wall ripped open, a momentary vacuum pulling the breath from the room. The interior stood exposed to the watery cemetery outside. The air thickened with the brine of the Gulf, stinging the back of Connor’s throat and left a gritty film of salt on his skin. Salt and wind tangled her hair. He ran his fingers through it to calm her. There were only two choices: drown inside or brave the

outside. Without thinking or saying anything, Connor moved toward the window.

 

The window groaned. They fought the seal, shoulders strained against the glass, until the frame finally gave. The Gulf roared in. She pointed towards their neighbor’s house. The wind and water had lifted it off its foundation and were drifting across the island towards the bay. It was now or never. Connor grabbed Daphny’s hand and squeezed tightly.  She was now treading water, as the water was too deep for her to touch the floor. He was the first one out the window in the storm. The howling wind stripped the words from Connor’s lips. Debris streaked past. He was barely keeping afloat in the churning dark water above what was in their backyard. He helped Daphny through the window. He attempted to turn around and swim towards the roof with her behind him. He was swimming towards the roof that should have only been a few feet away but was now over ten feet and getting further away. The storm surge. It was pulling them along. They were flotsam. Daphny screamed but Connor couldn’t make it out. The shrieking winds drowned out everything.

 

A portion of a roof was floating towards them. The current was too strong for them to

avoid it. He pulled Daphny close to him. He held her tighter as he tried to stay afloat in the raging surge.

 

The roof’s impact shot pain throughout Connor’s body. His arm twisted and he couldn’t hold onto Daphny. Daphny thrashed in the churning dark, her limbs angled at impossible directions as the current dragged her away. Her mouth was agape, but the storm stole her words. Through stinging saltwater assaulting his eyes, a flash of her shirt bobbed in the foam, shrinking into a speck before the black curtain of rain swallowed it entirely. His stomach turned to tungsten as the dark water swallowed her whole. He tried swimming but his legs shot back pain and ultimately were not responsive. Again, he tried to yell her name but nothing came out. His body went limp and became like the flotsam he had seen so many times from the porch. He drifted in and out of consciousness and was bashed into pieces of furniture, debris, and myriad other items. The waters began to calm and even through his swollen eyes he felt the warm streaks of sun. After an eternity bobbing in the dark waters, Connor recognized a familiar sound. A boat engine. It was approaching from behind him. He tried to turn around but struggled. The boat pulled up and several strong hands pulled him into the boat.

 

He hurt everywhere and could barely breathe. Pain shot through his legs. Every time he tried to shift, the fractured ends of his femurs grinded together, a dry, grating sensation that sends blinding pain behind his eyelids. Each breath was forced and painful. He gulped air like a fish struggling to breathe on land.  A male voice was talking to him but he couldn’t make it out. It took an abnormally long time but he finally managed to audibly say, “Wife?”

No answer.

 

The realization settled in his chest, heavier than the water, even as the rotors of a Chinook began to thrum above. In the hospital bed after emergency surgery to fix both broken femurs, the morphine drip broke the rhythmic hum of the dim fluorescent lights. The ICU was a tomb of white light and hums. Two more surgeries waited in the darkened future—ghosts of procedures that promised only more pain. He woke up after hitting his hand on the bedrail because he was grasping for Daphny like he would have every night. It was there in the sterile room that he fully acknowledged Daphny was gone. Tuesday was the smell of antiseptic and the stillness of the hospital. Thursday was the grinding of his femurs against the physical therapist’s demands. Looking back, September 28th was the only date that still had a heartbeat.

 

Connor’s legs gave way again and again, his knees hit the rough linoleum with a dull thud that vibrated through his jaw. He fell and oftentimes didn’t want to get up. Why should he? One time he fell and started crying and repeated “I can’t” over and over. It was in that moment of hitting rock bottom he remembered how Daphny would have a look of fake pity when Connor complained. The memory was bittersweet. He fought to walk again; life wasn’t the same. He couldn’t watch Sport Center without breaking down. The frantic trumpet of the SportsCenter intro theme now was a taunt. 

 

Rehab was painful but the therapy was harder. A nice enough therapist tried to help Connor process his grief. He was afraid of the grief. The grief seemed insurmountable. The therapist said this was normal but normal was gone. 

 

Connor was able to go back to what was left of his house once the residents could safely return to the barrier island. The demolition hadn’t happened yet. He was waiting on the insurance company to finish their inspection. He looked through the remnants for anything and after about half an hour he found something. It was Daphny’s Dollywood mug. The handle was gone but otherwise it was fine. The faded emblem stood against the sand, mildew, and dirt. He clutched it tightly and softly cried. 

 

The lot sat empty now, save for a small RV; a house would have been a shell without her. Jagged, faded scars stood stark against the tanned skin of his legs. He sat on the edge of the tide in a folding lawn chair. With each rumble of thunder, Connor gripped the broken Dollywood mug slightly tighter and whispered Daphny’s name. 

Bobby Willover is a native Floridian and Appalachian transplant. He graduated from Western Carolina University with a BA in English and an MFA in Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte. His work can be found in Southern Review of Books and Appalachian Journal. Bobby lives and works in SWFL.