The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(7)

Dorothy frowned as she passed a hoggish woman struggling to steer a shopping cart loaded with what appeared to be every bag of rice in the store. Then a man with bloodshot eyes wandered by, happily eating a strawberry Pop-Tart from an open box.

By the time Dorothy made it to a checkout line, twenty worried shoppers deep, all she’d been able to scavenge into her shopping bags were two cans of chopped clams, a jar of instant decaf, a package of tofu, extra firm, and three loaves of dark pumpernickel on clearance. Evidently urban Seattleites would rather starve or wait for the Red Cross to open a mobile kitchen than eat a loaf of stale bread labeled Dark Pump.

When Dorothy stepped outside, rain still poured from the October sky, which was now the color of a day-old bruise, black and blue and horrible to look at. The air felt warmer than when she’d gone in, muggier, pressing on her from all sides. In that blanket of humidity, she felt a whisper of déjà vu, a nudge, a jostle. Something to do with the weather, perhaps, a memory of her gap year in college, when she left Seattle, after a breakup and a breakdown, to spend a rainy winter in Myanmar. Like so many mishaps of her youth, the trip seemed like a good idea at the time.

As Dorothy looked for her partner, violent gusts of wind sent dead leaves, fast-food wrappers, and littered cigarette butts swirling into the air. The gusts nearly blew her into the loading zone where Louis said he’d wait, but their Tesla SUV was nowhere to be found. Neither was their five-year-old daughter, Annabel, who had been in the back seat. Dorothy frantically composed a text, chewing her lip, then realized there was no signal. Curtains of rain washed over the city, and she imagined cell towers being scraped off the tops of buildings like barnacles from a ship’s hull.

He just left me. Something must have happened. He had to get Annabel home. Dorothy tried to convince herself, but she remembered how, when they were first dating, Louis used to drop her off at the entrance of restaurants and theaters. He’d leave to find parking wherever he could, often blocks away, then walk back through the downpour to join her. That seemed like a lifetime ago.

Dorothy found the nearest subway stop, but metal pylons blocked the entrance. She remembered that during Typhoon Ebisu, two hundred people—including forty-seven children—had drowned in the train tunnels while trying to evacuate the newly established flood zone. Since then meteorologists had stopped calling these new weather patterns ARkStorms. While technically correct, since they were cyclones hijacked by the arctic jet stream, that unfamiliar term had not elicited sufficient concern.

As pedestrians ran by, Dorothy looked up and down Western Avenue, which was quickly becoming more river than road. She felt sorry for motorists still stuck in traffic, idle as the salt water kept rising, a ticking clock to when they might have to abandon their electric cars, which floated surprisingly well. So well that during that previous storm, four years ago, dozens of extended-range vehicles—with passengers still inside—extended their range into the middle of Elliott Bay. Most were rescued by the Coast Guard the next day. An unlucky few were never found.

She tried not to worry as she flipped up the cowl of her jacket, wrapped her arms around her reusable shopping bags, and began the mile-and-a-half-long journey home.

As she walked, Dorothy saw flashes of lighting reflected in the steely glass of skyscrapers as businesspeople poured out, hastening past college students who were soaking wet in basketball shorts and Sounders hoodies. Dorothy smiled. She admired their joyful innocence, envious of their indifference as they took selfies, bracing against the elements. Then she stepped into a puddle that was hiding a deep pothole, tripping, falling, scraping her knee and flooding her boots.

She cursed amid the thunder.

In her frustration, Louis came to mind again. Being stood up by him or left behind was nothing new. In fact, to Dorothy, him leaving her to walk home in a torrential downpour was the cherry on top of the melting sundae of their six-year relationship.

She felt a strong hand on her arm.

When she looked up, she wasn’t sure which was more depressing—how her heart raced for thinking it might be Louis, or how she knew it wouldn’t be him even before she saw the tall police officer helping her to her feet.

“You know, I find it quicker to walk to where I’m going,” he shouted above the sound of the rain. “Though they say swimming burns more calories.” His smile was comforting even as the sky’s underbelly lit up with electricity hiding somewhere within. “You know, you look somewhat familiar. Have we met before?”

No. Yes. Dorothy nodded, then shook her head. Maybe.

“I’m fine,” she snapped as she pulled her arm away. “I don’t know.”

She felt like crying, and maybe she was, it was hard to tell. The last time she’d spoken to a police officer was June of last year. She had a bad fight with Louis and dissociated so badly that someone found her asleep a day later in an alley near Rainier Avenue. The police report said that she thought she was in Baltimore, a place she’d never been. Her shoes and socks were missing and she had no recollection of how she got there. Local newsfeeds about Seattle’s Missing Poet Laureate were gentler than Bellevue College, which gave her a leave of absence for the last month of the semester. Then failed to renew her contract, citing budgetary concerns.

The officer picked up her bags and handed them to her. “Hey, tofu. My favorite. There’s always room for tofu.” He smiled again, trying to calm her down. “Look, I know it’s a mess out here, but take your time, okay? It’s just rain. God-awful buckets of rain. Some nasty wind. Maybe some scary lightning. But the worst of it won’t make landfall until tomorrow. Until then just get to high ground and stay put, okay?”