Flood

Dear Dad,

Mom is hurting — physically and emotionally. She is getting hit by too much. This was supposed to be our last weekend in Long Island — our last Labor Day at the beach house. I knew it was going to be hard, but now it’s not even going to happen. Yesterday morning, G3 and I drove out to Mattituck. Mom had been here a week by herself and I know she was terribly lonely.  She was really looking forward to our company. There were still several things we needed to do in order to get the house ready to sell, but mostly we were going to go to the beach a few more times and visit some of G3’s favorite places. But yesterday it rained so we couldn’t go to the beach. Then last night the rain came down with a vengeance. It battered the house and smashed against the windows. The forecast had called for rain, but no one predicted the wrath of what remained of Hurricane Ida. Before bed, I checked Facebook and found my New Jersey friends posting disturbing videos and messages of water reaching their doors, streams raging like rivers, and cars being carried away. One friend messaged me to ask if we had flooded and she told me that there was water in her basement. I texted Kati to ask if water had gotten into our house — it hadn’t. I thought we were lucky. I was wrong.

This morning, while I was out walking Debby called Mom to tell her there was water in her basement. She never used to flood.  If water had gotten into her house, the city house most certainly was underwater. So much for a quiet, peaceful, and relaxing day at the beach. There was no question, we had to go back to Queens to assess the damage. But first, I had to take Mom to meet with the lawyer so she could sign papers for the closing. I didn’t want to go, because I don’t want her to go through with selling the house, but there’s nothing I can do to stop her. I took her and looked on with tears in my eyes as she signed the necessary paperwork.

Oh Dad, I wish you were here. I wish Mom wasn’t alone in the house because the damage was so much worse than we expected. In the forty-three years Mom has lived there, the house had never flooded as badly as it did last night. The water level on the back of the house reached fifty inches. Inside, it hit twenty-eight inches. A neighbor showed me a video of the flood last night, and the community drive looked like a white water river. The violence of it must have been intense because it broke the garage. The garage door was raised a foot off the ground and the track it rides on was busted. Mom will have to call to get a new garage door.

Most of the water inside the house had receded. But there was brown gunk all over the floor. It was gross. But considering it came from the toilet and the overflowing sewers out back it wasn’t surprising. What made the damage completely devastating was the fact that we — Mom and I — have been cleaning out the Mattituck house. The things Mom most wanted to keep, the things that most reminded her of you, she had asked me to take to the Queens house as I drove back and forth across state lines. The things that were in plastic bins she told me to put on the floor. They would be fine, she thought, if she flooded because the water never reached that high. Other things she had asked me to put on the table or the couch. Again, they were off the floor and she expected they would be safe. They weren’t. The water sloshed through the basement knocking over the bins and cresting over the table, saturating pictures and destroying electronics. The waffle iron that is older than me, the waffle iron you used to make waffles in all the time, had to be thrown away. I cried. We can get another waffle iron, but it won’t be the same. It won’t be yours. And the picture of you and Mom and Fireball that used to be on the Mattituck fireplace mantle was floating in water. All the wine corks that you saved for so many years had fallen into the sewage water. Mom had wanted to save the corks because that made her think of you but now she has to throw them away.

Because there was still enough water to cause us to slip and slide, Mom asked me to go to Home Depot to pick up a water vac and a dehumidifier. Of course, by the time I got there, they were all sold out. My brother ordered a dehumidifier online but it won’t arrive until Saturday. The water we pushed out of the house with a broom and a mop. While I was out, I stopped at Trader Joes. I knew Mom didn’t have much food in the house because she had been in Long Island. I also knew that she’d be so exhausted from cleaning that she wouldn’t want to cook, so I picked up some ready made meals. Food that would be easy and quick to heat up. 

All of the files you kept in the basement, the files that Mom updated, got soaked. Mom asked me to take them out of their folders and hang them on the clothes line. I hung them up and they dripped onto me and the floor. Nothing like having poop water drip into your hair and down your shirt — yuck!

The sewing table and the sewing machine that used to belong to Poppy were also ruined. Mom held on to them for all these years because they were her father’s and they brought back memories of him, but now they too will need to be thrown away. And the toys that my brother and I once played with, toys that became G3’s are now in the trash. Water even got into the horse. The horse I got so many years ago for Christmas, the horse Libby used to love to ride even when we were in high school, the horse that G3 used to jump on for a quick wild ride before going home is now history.

Last year, shortly after you died, the hot water heater stopped working. Mom had to replace it. At the time she felt as if her entire world were falling apart and the little things like the broken hot water heater only made it worse. The flood damaged it beyond repair and so she will have to replace it yet again. 

What hurt Mom the most was the fact that water seeped into the plastic bin in the closet that held all of her keepsakes: pictures I drew as a child, her diplomas from elementary school and high school, your baby book, souvenirs from cruises you took together, and so much more. The water was still in the bin. I’m not sure if we’ll be able to salvage much of it. It’s hard enough that Mom lost you, now she lost things that remind her of you. Even your suitcases, the suitcases the two of you took on so many adventures are ruined. Mom never expected the water to get so high, she never expected the water to breach the plastic. If only I had been there. If only we had been in Glendale instead of Mattituck, we’d have been able to race some things upstairs out of harm’s way. But by the time we got there it was too late. Mom can’t stop crying about all she lost.

We spent all afternoon and the early evening dragging things out of the house and cleaning up, but we barely made a dent. There is still water in several more bins in the closets. The bathroom is black and disgusting. But we could do no more today. Mom was exhausted and I had to get back to Mattituck. There are still things I need to take care of here. And Mom really wants me to take G3 to the beach tomorrow. She’s feeling guilty about the house as it is and she wants him to have at least one more day at the bay. I know I should be there helping her, but I can’t be in two places at once. I have lost count over how many times, since you died, that I’ve wished I could split myself in half. But there is only one of me, there is only so much I can do. So tomorrow will be all about G3. I will take him to the beach and to wherever else he wishes to go. Then on Saturday morning we’ll get up early and I’ll return to the city for three intense days of cleaning. I texted my brother to let him know how bad things are. He promised he’ll come up next week to help Mom since school will start and I’ll have to be in New Jersey with G3. Since my brother doesn’t have children, he doesn’t need to split himself in half like me. I’m glad he will be here. He’ll be able to help Mom with all the things you used to do, like contacting the insurance company.

Driving back to Mattituck, G3 cried. I have never seen or heard him cry that much, not even when you died. Through the tears he said, “I remember being so excited when you used to wake me up early in the morning to drive out to Mattituck. You’d take me out of bed and carry me to the car. And when we got out there Grandpa always gave me a hug. He’d make cinnamon buns and they’d always be ready for me. And then Grandpa would make waffles the next day. And he’d get me ice cream. I’d give anything for one more hug from Grandpa, just one. All I want is to say goodbye. I never got to say good-bye.” So it’s not just the selling of the house. The house and you are so tightly intertwined in his mind that in losing the house he’s losing you all over again. And he didn’t stop. He continued, “I’m going to miss the Easter egg hunts. And all the times Grandpa took me to the corn maze. I miss him so much. I’m going to miss the house. I can’t believe tomorrow will be my last day there. My very last day. It’s not fair.” All I could do was cry with him because I feel as crushed as he does. I too wish I had gotten to say goodbye. 

G3 is now sleeping. I’m sitting up writing on Mom’s computer because I left mine at home. I didn’t plan to do any writing this weekend. My ankle is swollen and pain is surging through my foot. It’s an old injury. Or should I say injuries. How many times did I sprain my ankle through the years playing sports? It had been bothering me for a while, but slipping and sliding and trying to regain my balance over and over again today put too much strain on it. And walking in flip-flops to carry garbage bags around to the front of the house didn’t help either. I feel like G3, how can I have just two nights left in this house? How come I still expect you to walk through the door and announce that everything will be okay?

Like Mom, I am physically and emotionally exhausted. I’m practically numb.

I miss you!