A Light in the Storm

by Christine Amsden

I didn’t expect them to come, not after the bitterness and harsh words, but I hoped.

     Outside, the wind has already picked up and rain pelts the roof.  Each drop is a vivid reminder of how I failed, and how it’s costing me now.

     I hate you, Mom, the rain seems to say. You never think of anyone but yourself.

My hand shakes as I pour hot water into a tea cup, sloshing boiling liquid onto the hand clutching the side of the cup. Tears fill my eyes as I set the kettle down and go to the sink to let cold water wash away the sting of the heat. I’ve always been clumsy, but I haven’t always had to clutch the side of the tea cup so I can feel when it’s full. All I can make out now, when I return to the ceramic mug I’ve used for years, is a bright white blur and spots of pink I know to be flowers.

Clutching the cup once again, I successfully fill it, wait for it to finish steeping, then take it with me into the dark living room to await the coming storm.

      The tea smells strongly of jasmine and grass, and tastes bitter on my tongue, but I never sweeten it. Because my kids were right. I did this to myself.

      At least it isn’t wine. It hasn’t been for two years, but they don’t know that. They never will. That’s what happens when you run out of chances.

      From a nearby end table, my home assistant screams yet another emergency alert: “A mandatory evacuation is in effect for Charleston County.”

      There’s no way to turn off the warning, at least as far as I can tell. My husband used to help me with that kind of thing, before he died.

      I consider turning on the TV, but they’re only going to tell me what I already know: That the hurricane is poised to be the first in history to reach category 6 and everyone needs to get out.

      Easy for them to say. It isn’t as if I can hop in a car and drive out of here. It isn’t as if there is anyone left to care.

      And whose fault is that?

      The wind begins to whistle and shake the house, and I wonder when the evacuation order will change to shelter in place. I’ve ridden through hurricanes before – so many I’ve lost count – but never one like this.

      I ask the home assistant to call my son again. I’ve called my daughter too, but he’s more likely to answer. I don’t need or want them to come. There’s every chance the storm will kill me, and whatever they think, I’m not so selfish that I want to take them down with me.

      I just want to hear their voices one last time. To say I’m sorry. Again.

      The call goes to voicemail again; this might be my only chance. Who knows how long I’ll be able to get a call out? But it’s not that easy. It never is. If “I’m sorry” fixed anything, it would have done it by now.

      When I hesitate for too long, the assistant disconnects.

      I’m sorry is easy to say. So easy it’s manipulative. Or so my daughter told me the day I drank my last glass of wine. You can’t just say you’re sorry anymore, Mom. You have to prove it…No, I don’t know how you do that.

      I hold the cup of bitter tea in one hand and think. If I left a message, what would I say? I’ve rehearsed it a thousand times and still have no idea.

      There’s a rattling sound outside, and the house shakes. I startle, sloshing more tea onto my hand, but it’s not too hot now.

      The dim lights flicker, but don’t go out. Like they’re warning me that this is my last chance.

      I call my daughter. When I’m prompted to leave a message, I hesitate, clear my throat, and begin. “Hi, it’s Mom. Hi. I-I just called to say I miss you. And I-I love you.”

      I tap the assistant to disconnect before I can say anything else. Anything that would even hint at our old pattern. When my meds were working, things would be okay. When they weren’t, when I found other crutches, well, the mistakes I made could fill a library.

      The wind rattles the house again, bringing with it an unexpected pounding from the front door. That last message to my daughter still rings in my ear so it can’t be her, but for a moment, I wonder…

      Setting the cup down near the home assistant, I rise to my feet and go to the door. Opening it a crack, but leaving the chain in place, I ask who it is.

      “Police, ma’am. We got a call from your son asking to check up on you and help you get out.”

      “He called you?” I ask.

      “Yes, ma’am. This house isn’t safe. I can take you to a shelter.”

      I think of refusing. I think of demanding to talk to my son first, before agreeing to leave. To hear his voice for myself.

      I think of staying, of completing my self-imposed penance.

      Then I think of the chance, however remote, to say I love you in person, not just in a voicemail.

      “Ma’am,” the officer says.

      “Yes. Let’s get out of the storm.”

__________________________

About the Author

Christine Amsden is the author of nine award-winning fantasy and science fiction novels, including the Cassie Scot Series. In addition to writing, she is a freelance editor and political activist. Disability advocacy is of particular interest to her; she has a rare genetic eye condition called Stargardt Macular Degeneration and has been legally blind since the age of eighteen. In her free time, she enjoys role playing, board games, and a good cup of tea. She lives in the Kansas City area with her husband and two kids.