The Feathered Bone (22 page)

“Did you lose your home?” I ask. Ellie watches the exchange.

“I lost it, all right. Had me one of them old wood homes. Sat up on cement pilings, you know? Down in Chalmette. Water come in, carrry my house away. Last time I saw it, it was bobbing like a fishing cork. Who knows where it ended up. Probably sitting in a cow pasture somewhere.”

“Thank goodness you weren't hurt.”

“Yeah, boy. Take my house. Take everything. It's just stuff. Never felt so happy to be alive. I tell you that. Only thing I can't replace was my dog, Heisman. He was like my son.” The man's eyes get watery and he looks away.

“You'll find him,” I say. “He's probably sitting on the porch, in the middle of that pasture, wondering where you are.” This makes the man smile, and a few others around us too.

I pass each person a flier and ask them to be on the lookout for Sarah. A couple people say they remember her kidnapping. Others nod. They do too.

We continue this process from room to room, working our
way through the massive complex. Some groups have written the name of their subdivision on a poster board and taped it to the door. Others have gathered according to town or ward, school, or church, anything that can give them a sense of home. Most people have only a blanket or a towel. There is a shortage of cots, but no one complains.

Those coming out of shock are beginning to talk about their experiences. Others listen, blank-faced and numb.

“I saw a dead cow. Twenty foot up in a tree,” one man says. “I'm not lying.”

Another chimes in. “I believe you, man. I ain't never seen nothin' like it. Until you live through it, you just can't know.”

An elderly woman nods, her dentures missing. “I been on this earth eighty-seven years, and I'll tell you, that was the longest night of my life. Stuck in my attic,” she says. “All those snakes and nutria climbing in. I was thinking,
God, what else you gonna throw at me? Survive the winds. The water. Still gotta survive the snakes?
”

“She's not kidding,” the woman's sister adds. “Worst part was, we could see boats all out there. But we couldn't find a way to get to them.”

One room at a time, Ellie and I distribute fliers and search for Sarah, hearing story after story of survival. By the time we make it to the main floor, it's almost lunchtime. “One meal per ticket,” a volunteer says, walking down the long line to repeat the instructions.

“What do you serve?” I ask him.

“Depends,” he says. “For now, we're passing out MREs, but we'll serve three hot meals a day.”

From the line, another man says, “We're grateful for whatever we get.”

Ellie and I make our way through the large space and into a
smaller room. At the back, a middle-aged woman sits alone. She asks me if my phone is working. I let her try to reach her missing son, but it goes straight to his voicemail. Others ask for a turn, and we pass the phone around, hoping someone will hear good news. The fifth caller is an elderly lady whose arthritic fingers are bent at the knuckles. I help her dial the number. When her sister answers, we all cheer. It's the first reunification for the room, and spirits are lifted.

When she ends the call, she looks at Ellie and says, “See there? Never give up.”

Friday, September 2, 2005

As we crawl through the traffic, I turn up the local NPR station and listen carefully for updates. “Tens of thousands of refugees have fled to Baton Rouge and surrounding parishes,” the reporter announces. “The infrastructure can't handle the numbers, and we've got LA-level traffic jams.” In typical NPR style, they add background sounds of car horns and diesel engines.

Another journalist says, “Baton Rouge is about an hour west of New Orleans and has sometimes been referred to as its country cousin. Tell us about that city.”

“The population of Baton Rouge was about 400,000 before Katrina. Latest estimates show as many as 250,000 evacuees have made it to this area, and let me tell you, people here are welcoming them with open arms. The response of the community has been overwhelming.”

“In what way?”

“We've seen people invite strangers into their homes. They
have been volunteering at various shelters, helping with disaster cleanup, taking in pets. There's been some chaos, but people here in Louisiana really are trying to look after their own.”

“Have people been able to get into New Orleans to help?”

“You have to understand, people here had no power. No Internet. Cell phones have been useless. Even radio coverage has been sporadic. They didn't know what was going on down there. They weren't able to see the news like people in the rest of the country. But despite all that, yes, many went to help. They were there on the ground, in their boats, leading man-to-man rescue operations.”

“And now that the coast guard and others have taken charge?”

“I just came from New Orleans. The streets are filled with Humvees. Restricted access getting in, but I'll tell you, getting out was almost more difficult.”

“How so?”

“They've set up checkpoints. Before I could exit the disaster area, my vehicle and all my belongings were searched. Anything that could potentially carry disease had to be left there.”

“Did you have to leave anything behind? In New Orleans?”

“My backpack. A Styrofoam cooler. If it could hold bacteria, it had to stay. I admit, it was a tad disconcerting to see people in Hazmat suits after I'd been knee-deep in those floodwaters for days.”

“I'll bet!” The correspondent sounds as shocked as I am. “So the hundreds of thousands who have been able to get to Baton Rouge, where are all these people staying?” She wants details.

“Everywhere,” the reporter says. “Universities. Churches. Some students at Southern have let their families move into their dorm rooms. School administrators seem to be turning a blind eye. What can they do? Every hotel room has been occupied. There are approximately five thousand people at the River Center.”

“I'm assuming the surrounding towns are absorbing a lot of people too.”

“Absolutely.”

“What about the hospital patients? We've heard conflicting stories about available medical care in New Orleans.”

“LSU has set up trauma and triage hubs, so the hospitals in New Orleans are sending patients here for treatment now. The university also set up a shelter in the Ag Center. They're taking care of stranded pets.”

“What about storm damage in that area?”

“It wasn't too bad in Baton Rouge. Just typical trees and roofs. Nothing these folks can't handle.” Outside the car, the storm damage is exactly as the reporter describes. “Now that power is being restored, people who had evacuated are starting to see the news coverage. They are devastated. Many have tried to go home and have not been allowed in. People are beginning to realize this is no temporary situation.”

“Surely they can't keep occupying dorm rooms and hotel suites. Where will they stay long term?”

“We are hearing that asked again and again.” Then he introduces a city official who discusses plans to bus people west to San Antonio and Houston, where he says many refugees have already found shelter. “There simply isn't room here for all the people in need,” says the politician. “This is a disaster of catastrophic proportions. We'll be relocating people across the US and these could very likely be permanent relocations. Most of these people will be starting their lives over from scratch. With nothing. They thought they were leaving home for a day or two. Now they have no home to go back to at all.”

The reporter takes over again. “In the meantime, locals are trying to get back to their normal routines, but there's nothing normal right now about their city. Gas stations have sold out of fuel. Grocery store shelves are empty. It's starting to sink in that Baton Rouge will never be the same.”

Carl turns off the radio. “We'll never get through this traffic.” We've been stalled for ten minutes at least. Beth and Preacher are a few cars ahead of us, trying to reach the next shelter. “You do realize how ridiculous this is, don't you?”

I lean my head against the window and sigh.

Ellie speaks up from the backseat. “What if it were me instead of Sarah? Would it be ridiculous then?”

This silences Carl for a minute. Then he looks in the rearview mirror with soft eyes and says kindly, “I'm glad it isn't you.”

Chapter 15

Wednesday, September 7, 2005

B
ETH AND
I
WORK TOGETHER IN THE CHURCH
,
WASHING LINENS
for the families who are now calling our Sunday school rooms their temporary homes. I add a towel to the basket. “We've closed the clinic all week. Still too many clients without power. Or taking care of relatives from evacuation zones.”

“Yeah,” Beth says with a monotone voice and a stare to the side. It's clear her thoughts are elsewhere.

I try to draw her back. “How long do you think people will need to stay here?”

“Months, maybe. The ones who have insurance are getting the runaround. Can't move home. Can't afford to start over. Some are trying to get trailers from FEMA. In the meantime, they're stuck.” Beth folds a fitted sheet while I tackle the flat one.

“How do you do that?” I tease her. “Martha Stewart couldn't fold a sheet better than you.”

She shrugs. “Mama taught me.” This tugs my heart. I remember my own mother teaching me to do the laundry.

“My mother always thought of you as the model wife. Said you were the poster child for Proverbs 31.”

Beth's forehead wrinkles and she shakes her head.

“It's true,” I tell her. “I should be more like you.”

Now she laughs. “You know Proverbs 31 is taken the wrong way. It's not supposed to be a bullet list defining how to be a good woman.”

“I know that. You know that. But Mom didn't know that. She was terrified I'd end up in her situation. Divorced. Poor. Single mom.”

“She was a wonderful mother. And wife. It wasn't her fault he left.”

“Again, we know that. But she didn't. One of the last things she told me before she died was that I should always try to be the perfect wife, no matter how hard it may be. She was so afraid I'd end up alone.”

Beth's entire demeanor has been flattened since Sarah went missing, but now, as she looks at me, her facial muscles sink. A sadness moves through the room. “Amanda, you are the perfect wife. And mother. And friend. Just as you are. You don't have to try.”

I've lost Beth's daughter, and she's telling me I'm the perfect friend. I'm overwhelmed with emotion, but I don't let it show. Instead, I stack a folded sheet atop the pile of fresh linens and pull another towel from the dryer, eyeing the board of photographs. “Hard to believe so many people got separated from their families. Just from a hurricane.”

“Yeah. There's a mother here in the nursery. Arlene. Did you meet her?”

“The tall one? With the PhD?”

“She's only got three of her four kids with her. Her husband passed away last year, and now she's got no idea if her oldest daughter is dead or alive. She's sixteen. Left the house with friends after the storm. But then the levees broke. Arlene hasn't heard a word since.” Beth points to the board. “Thankfully, she had a photo we could share.”

I shake my head and stare at the faces, each one tagged with a
name, age, and contact information for the person hoping to reconnect. “Just look at all those pictures.”

“Hard to imagine, isn't it? All those other moms out there, feeling just like me. On account of a storm. Never imagined anything like that could happen.”

“I never imagined any of this,” I admit. “Yet here we are.”