The Last Karankawas(57)
NUESTRA
Carly
Rain slams against the glass panes of Hector’s house, peppered with hail, maybe. Carly cannot tell. Beneath the sheets of the pullout couch, Jess slips his hand under the T-shirt of his she wears, but she is not in the mood and tells him so. The power has been out for hours, so why get sweaty? He heaves a dramatic sigh but lets her curl in. She rests her cheek on his chest, in the curve of his collarbone where her ear fits perfect as a seashell. She knows neither of them will sleep. He twirls her hair around his finger, and she listens to the drumming of his heart and the hail.
* * *
“Maybe it will weaken over Cuba,” he said—was it just a few days ago? And she had told him, “We won’t be that lucky.” She couldn’t pinpoint how she knew it, but she knew. She watched the news in the early hours of darkness during her night shift, coffee growing cold in her mug. The storm drew strength from the warmth of the Gulf waters, the weatherman said. Ike once again claiming Cat 2 status, curling steadily toward Galveston.
So it began. Jess called Hector, living with his wife and baby in Sealy. Hector told him yes, don’t be stupid, they should get their asses there pronto quick once the storm prep is done. His parents and his grandmother were already there, but they could have the pullout in the living room, just bring extra sheets and supplies. “This one looks bad,” Hector said, whistling. When she saw Jess’s mouth taking the shape of another Ike-Turner-better-not-beat-the-living-shit-outta-us joke, Carly leaned in and kissed him so he would shut up. Later, after he spoke to his mother, learned she and the girls were hunkering down at Yvonne’s two-story house—“It will be fine, Jesusmaría, for God’s sake, don’t worry so much”—Carly kissed him again, this time to soothe.
It was all-hands-on-deck at UTMB once the evacuation order came down. Overnight she moved machinery, handled IV tubes and caths, loaded the babies from NICU into evac choppers and ambulances bound for Austin and San Antonio and Dallas. She wasn’t assigned to emergency crew, so she could leave with Jess instead of having to sleep at the hospital. Evacuation ate up her whole shift, but Jess knew what needed to be done. By the time she made it home, he had hammered boards over the windows, emptied out the refrigerator and freezer, and unplugged all the electronics. She took a quick shower as he packed; she hadn’t slept in eighteen hours, but she was running on adrenaline. While he loaded up his truck, she threw clothes and toiletries into her duffel, then remembered her nursing diploma.
She knew where Magdalena kept the waterproof lockbox; dust bunnies made Carly sneeze as she maneuvered it out from under her grandmother’s bed. She carried it and her duffel out to the truck where Jess was waiting. He locked up, and she traced the sign of the cross into the lintel by the front door. Jess saw, placed his palm against the screen door for a beat longer.
As they began the crawl north on the causeway, surrounded by other evacuees, her cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Miss Castillo?”
“Yes.”
“This is Evelina Reyes, at Bay Pines Care.”
Carly listened for a few moments. When she hung up, turned to Jess, her eyes were snapping. “We have to go to League City.” It would slow them down, stopping, but it had to be done. “She tried to burn the fucking thing down.”
* * *
She stopped first at the manager’s office. It took nearly half an hour to listen, to argue, to insist and plead with bleached-blond, stern-eyed Evelina Reyes that her grandmother wasn’t a threat. Yes, it was terrible that she tried to start a fire in the piano room; no, she couldn’t understand how it happened, her grandmother was always so gentle, so timid. Yes, she was aware of the zero-tolerance policy for offenses, but was trying to light a candle atop the baby grand really an offense? What palm fronds? No, she had no idea where Magdalena could have obtained those. Where was the day nurse Magdalena liked, Kristin? She could explain the old woman wasn’t a threat. But Kristin had evacuated and would not be back at work for days.
In the end, Mrs. Reyes agreed one more chance could be given—the small patch of burning palms had been put out quickly, the fronds themselves hardly singed, and Magdalena had not been belligerent. Actually, she had seemed calm, watching quietly as the orderlies smothered the fire, explained to her why that was not allowed, and led her back to her room. Carly knew that was the medication, the steadier demeanor, the longer spells of gentleness between bouts of confusion and irritation.
No more chances would be given from here on out, Mrs. Reyes warned. Carly shook the woman’s hand and thanked her profusely. Inwardly, she seethed.
Magdalena was watching a novela in her room when Carly walked in. A man was shouting; a woman was crying. That was nothing new. The woman stiffened and, with a look of righteous fury, slapped the man. He stared. She lifted her chin. Commercial break.
“Grandma.”
Magdalena turned with a smile. “Ni?a.” She reached up for her hand, tugged her down for a kiss, but Carly snatched her hand away.
“I heard what you tried to do. Are you kidding me with this shit?”
Her grandmother’s mouth fell open, and her eyes sparked—not with irrational rage from the dementia, but with normal anger, like they used to when Carly came home after curfew or back-talked as a teenager. Now Carly was the grown one, looming tall, frustration spreading like a rash over her cheeks, her throat.