Don’t blame me. I thought it was heroic to take the kids Christmas shopping right after Thanksgiving. The holiday had overwhelmed my wife Emmy navigating her dysfunctional family, and our two kids were feeling ignored and dejected. We’ll hustle down to Macy’s, I proclaimed, explore all the goodies on display, visit Santa.
When the weather prediction got ominous, Emmy turned off the TV, didn’t want to hear about it. “You guys have a great time with your dad. Find some good presents. Tell Santa your secrets.”
I gave her a special hug of self-satisfaction, “We’ll have a blast. You rest up, Sweetheart.”
Scott and Carrie, ages 12 and 8, were scrapping in the back seat as usual until we crossed the river and they spotted racing dark clouds blackening the water. Then they bonded in rapture; “Geez, Dad, we got a Nor’easter coming.”
“Too warm. It’ll be a hurricane.” Carrie in third grade was studying weather.
“We don’t have hurricanes in November, silly.” Scott never let his sister prevail on such subjects.
“Lookit those waves. They’re banging on the shore. Like surf.”
As for me, I welcomed the distraction that kept them absorbed, weaving my way through downtown Boston, up and up into the heights of Macy’s parking garage. I wanted to get near enough to the top to give the kids a gratifying view. Scott started agitating for the sports department, his heart set on a basketball.
But Carrie and I succeeded in dissuading him, pointing out we were here especially to find a present for Mommy. I told him to ask Santa for the basketball, but he scornfully retorted that he no longer believed in the jolly bearded elf, and would not be caught dead sitting on his stupid lap ever again.
We were heading for Housewares when everything changed. First the loudspeaker began in reassuring tones to announce heavy flooding outside the building; half a minute later, the tone rose to declare emergency and call for calm. Scott and Carrie started out with excitement and ended with panic, clinging to me with long-lost need. The lights started flickering in disco-like unreality, then went out altogether.
Scott had gone pale and speechless, Carrie was crying. Standing still, we were buffeted by crowds surging in all directions. The loudspeaker warned us away from the elevators. Some people were falling down, nobody stopping to help them. I dragged the kids to the nearest stairwell, elbowing anybody in my way. We made it to the next to last level where we’d left the car.
As soon as we stepped outside, we were knocked sideways by whipping wind. We had to shout to be heard. Other families swept by, mirrors of our buffeted alarm. I pushed the kids into the back seat, fighting to get the door shut. I enjoyed a moment of relief at their being safe and dry, before succumbing to helpless terror. What now?
Deciding I needed to know just how bad it was, I struggled over to the parapet, clutching at my hat as it flew up and away. I stared down into a black pit of surging water swirling with an array of oddly mundane, everyday things: tin cans, a chair, an umbrella, a STOP sign. Behind me plenty of yelling and screaming going on. My uppermost thought was getting hold of Emmy: poor darling must be worried sick about us. But when I finally wrestled my phone out of my coat pocket, no signal.
Heading back to the car, I found Carrie huddled in the back seat sound asleep, and Scott in the front seat beating up on his unresponsive phone. We tried the radio, rewarded with static. Then we sat silently side by side in mutual despair. “Dad,” started Scott in a whiny voice. Then he cleared his throat and tried more stoutly, “Dad, I’m hungry.” My despair sank further. My children in mortal danger, and I can’t even feed them?
The sudden apparition looming at the window was for a second like the monster image of my self-hatred. But when I opened the window, it was only a large woman in a dark uniform barking at me. “Any food?” she blustered, “We got samwiches…”
My first reaction was humble gratitude at another human presence, while Scott triumphantly shouted, “Way to go, yes, yes!”
“I’m on Macy’s garage team. Marta Morrison. We’re here to help. Three of you? Ham and cheese okay?”
Marta was middle aged, hefty and brusque, but she seemed angelic to me. I wanted to hug her. Kneel down and worship all two hundred pounds of her. “Thank you, thank you,” I blubbered as she hoisted herself away.
Minutes later, she thrust a bag of sandwiches at me. “Eat up. Cokes coming.”
That day my children and I devoured our godly gift together, to the roar of battering ocean. More together than we’d ever been.
Kitty Beer is the author of Resilience: A Trilogy of Climate Chaos. My degrees are from Harvard and Cornell. I raised my two children in New York, Montreal, and Munich. I am loving and tolerant, but I like to speak truth to power.
