somebody save me

That’s the tree covered in Kudzu. The water is down now. But that’s some of the stuff we swam through to get to her.

You really had to look to see it. Faith. This little kid (blonde—skinny) slapping at the water as she doggy paddles and then reaches for us on tippy toe. Flagging. Glue hair pasted down with debris. Leaf. Beetle legs. Wasp wings.  My sis—sister. Gulp. Crumple—lips. Can’t. SWIM! A whisper scream. HELP. Can you? Please? 

You really had to look to see it. Hope. The Swannanoa mouths and jaws at the cliffside. The Azalea Road bridge is swaying but still there. Logs pile and jam. Jenga. That’s what I think. I always lose at Jenga. 

If this were a movie—and I wish to fuck it was—it would be the younger Fannings playing the parts. Dakota and Elle. And—action. It would be a classy old lady in Blundstone rain boots and a fuzzy cardigan played by someone who knows how to work a cell phone even when the all the lines are down. Let’s do Blythe Danner. Very capable. Very demure.  She got a-hold of 911. I’ll give her that which is something that in the aftermath I couldn’t seem to do.  Shivering. Shaking. Did you know? The intestines do some crazy shit when you almost die. They go liquid gold. But that’s besides this point. 

The script. The characters. Next an oldish bambino type woman played by any actress who hasn’t taken a knife to the face.  Oh what the hell. Pamela Anderson. No makeup but add forty pounds give or take. Which come to think of it is basically Anna Nicole Smith. On a bad day. And Ohad will be played by Pedro Pasqual because honest to Christ that’s who he looks like. He’s the spitting image. Two Bit the rescue mutt will play himself. I’ll teach him how to dissociate later. Throw a chuck-it ball. Or a Jenga stick. 

We’re on our marks (get set go) at the edge of the sidewalk where asphalt and cement are disintegrating at the cellular level. Everything solid is turning into the sands of time. Bone and broth. I think about pulling the drain or the plug or whatever we need to do here to dry out.  In times of trauma I am irrational at best. I have bathtub vertigo. A log floats by. A bed frame. A groundhog soaked and stunned stands frozen on a hill. Whiskers plastered to his pointy face. Starfish moles float by. They never stood a chance.

The day before the dams and levees. The day before the slurry of mud slides and flash floods. That day that was forever ago. I saw him. The six hundred pound black bear the park ranger (Michael) always mentions but no one has ever seen (except for Michael who—in case you wondered has 226 days to go until retirement with full pension). He’s legendary. He’s so fat he crawls on his belly when he’s eating acorns. Well I should have known some apocalyptic shit was going down when he lumbered into Wednesday. The way he blubbered catty cornered across the soccer fields—ignoring the old guy doing frisbee golf in his compression socks and hearing aids to the tune of the Bee Gees. Staying Alive. Staying Alive. And me there doing burpees. Planks. Air squats. Enter Sandman. Metallica on replay. Hush little baby don’t say a word. 

So I shoulda known. But none of us did know. Flood warnings are a dime a dozen in these parts. And nothing ever happens. Nothing. Ever. Happens. Until it does. 

And Dakota she just comes up out of nowhere shedding her little girl skin. Like a seal selkie.  And the water. The water is rising to the tune of a dull roar that feels like it’s coming from middle earth. And I hate to use the word biblical but it’s got that feel to it. That kind of raining down destruction. That bat shit crazy Noah’s Ark feels. That world war feels. The whomp-whomp of helicopters. If there where a director it would definetely be a war buff. Oliver Stone with narraration by Robin Williams. Good Morning Vietnam! Black hawks. Chinooks. Ospreys. I’ve learned a thing or two about copters this go-round. 

And action. I’m ever so slightly hung over and possibly still high from the night before. Just walking my dog. Checking out the swollen river from up high where it’s safe. I basically and selfishly just want Two Bit to shit or get off the pot but he’s nervous from what papa bear told him the day before. Go high. Go hill. Go mountain. But here we are down low because I’m a dumb human. 

Fuck, I think. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Tell me where you think she is. I ask.  I’m hoping she’s right behind floating on a raft or log or something. Titanic style. Or in an inner tube as if this is a lazy river in Vegas with frozen drinks that cost 50 bucks a pop. But of course she is not. She is nowhere to be seen.

Dakota starts crying and hopping from one bare foot to the other. She can’t swim. She has to pee. She’s back there. You have to get her. She’s my sister she says. And says and says and says.  

We aren’t moving fast enough. She turns back. Her eyes wild. Seeing what we see. Which is nothing but up shits creek with no paddle. Ok. Imagine you take a river you pour boiling lava into it. The lava strips bark from trees. The lava peels back the astro turf and flips it into the air. No more soccer field burpees. This is what I think. I think about my workout routine. Like a dumb basic bitch. I thank Christ the Starbucks with the Pumpkin foam is on high ground (little do I know the google maps road to Starbucks will be anhiliated in a matter of a few hours). 

I reiterate. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I did not want to be brave. I’m literally not in the mood to be brave. But here we are. The main characters in this storm chaser flick. Tornado. One. Two. And Three. Hollywood can’t take a hint. Hurricaines are trending. 

Let’s take the trail behind my house I say to Pasqual. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Maybe we can see something. He starts trotting. I try to keep up. Two Bit bounces alongside in his brand new blue ruff harness. Sounds of sucking water. Sounds of beating hearts. We run. We crouch. We holler. And then I see her. 

The elbow crooked out. She waves. Pink sweatshirt. Arm sleeved with mud. Help she says. Help. And makes a move towards us like she’s going to step into the water. But we’re all the way across the spanning yawning hungry thing. And she’s all the way over there. Hug the tree I scream. Don’t move! STAY! STAY! Dog and girl. You stay!

You had to be there to get the feel of it. Trust. The way the adrenaline speeds through the veins. The way you bellow from the belly. Like how you tell big fish stories over the bottle neck of Jack Daniels when you’re twenty-something and think you know a thing or two.  Hold the tree. Hold the line. Dig fingers into vine. Don’t Move I yell when she moves a muscle. She freezes. She’s a good listener. 

You really had to be a piece of shit to think what I was thinking. I’m soooo not in the mood for this search and rescue. But here we are fanning the card’s we are dealt and stripping down to the bare necessities. You really had to think twice about tying your dog to a tree just above the water line because there is no time. You really had to pray and hope he sits. And stays. And the water doesn’t come up too quick. You really had to have faith that at least if you might drown the kid and the dog will live. 

You had to close your ears when you waded into the raging river and looked at the tall tall tree covered in Kudzu. A log rolls by. Lazy. Deadly. You try to swim. Pasqual tries to swim but it is branches and brambles and trash and trees floating with roots submerged. Pasqual rolls over the tree sideways. And I think oh. I did that for my Spartan race. Just roll and crawl under the barbwire. I roll over and try a breast stroke. But now we are caught in a massive tumbleweed crown of thorns. The only way is through. So we do that. That’s going to leave a mark I think. Skin tearing.

And as I’m swimming towards this kid I think about the Spartan race. Honest to god. That’s what my brain does. Pretends I’ll get a medal for this competition. I do that until Pasqual gets to her over yet another fucking log. He hands her to me. I tell her—you know how to go piggyback right? She nods. Wrap your legs I say. Hold tight I say. And say and say and say.

Pasqual is cool as a cucumber. His brown eyes calm. We get to the middle and I hear this rasping guttural sound. It’s me. Lungs heaving. I’m gassed out. I’m going under which means she will go under. I kick my feet. Heavy with socks and running shoes. Why didn’t I take them off? Why? Chin and mouth dip under. Nose just above the water line. I hand her to Pasqual. He takes the harder hardest part. Because what we didn’t know was that the water was rising so quick. The dynamics back were a whole nuther ball game. He’s struggling too. Mouth just above water. I scrabble for his belt loop thinking I can pull him up. It’s no help and no use. A tarantula sized spider pregnant in the belly hops on Elle’s head. She’s just along for the ride. All things being equal I can’t blame Charlotte. She lost her web. We all did. 

My brain is so pragmatic. Who will take Two Bit (I wonder) who will tell my kids I did this dumb thing. It’s a weird feeling being so close to death. Then push. Push. Push. Alls I can think is push them to the bank. We are both heaving. Elle is holding on for dear life. I shove them from behind. The river is so hungry. So so hungry. This cannibal. This monstrosity.

I’ve always been a water girl. But maybe now I’m not. No. I think. No. No. No. Pasqual gets his hands on land. And I am scrabbling on this thin wisp of a tree branch that I think might save me. There’s no hold and all give. And I think about my kids. And my dog. I think. Huh. This is actually it. This is how I go. But then I think NO. And I just heave and claw and scrabble and somehow there I am. On solid ground. 

Pasqual sees Charlotte perched on the crown of Elle’s head. He flicks her off gently. Where’s my sister? She stands up. Scans the shore. Her teeth chatter. Her skinny legs barely holding her up. Is my sister ok? She says and says and says.

That was a week ago and she’s all I think about and I think about Ohad. His bravery. His calm. How two strangers trusted each other enough to do the thing. I think about everything we’ve lost. I think about love—a love greater than me. A love that only a child can give. There is faith. There is hope. There is love.