I feel as though I’ve written this before, but I can’t find it.
This occurred before I was in school, so I think I was about 4 years old.
We had an air conditioner in our room, my sister and I. When I was young central air was still a luxury – we had a window unit. An ancient, grey, heavy thing – when my father installed it annually we were forbidden to go outside lest it accidentally fall from the window and crush our heads. Our bedroom window was directly above the back porch so walking into the back yard immediately placed us in harm’s way. The unit did not properly fit into our window – there were gaping holes on either side. After the main install my mother would fill the holes as best she could with plywood and children’s stacking blocks. Every year it seemed to require a few more blocks to hold steady and immense gray box.
Sometimes my mother would fail to seal the window completely, which meant that our room never properly cooled off and elements from the outdoors were allowed inside. Such as – bees. We often had a beehive right outside our window, and bees would fly in through a gap and tour our room. I was terrified of bees. My mother taught us girls that, if we found a bee near us, we should freeze until the bee flew away – swatting at it or running would only make it mad, which would ensure we’d be stung. I remember lying in my bed during naptime watching a bee hover right in front of my face. I was too scared of being stung to even pull the covers over my head, and instead remained motionless, staring, hoping my mom would come in to rescue me. I couldn’t even call for her, though – so I held my breath and prayed to God not to let me get stung, and for naptime to end soon. My sister Stef, who was not as good at listening as I was, would duck under her covers for protection. I instead stared and stared, willing the bee to fly away, trying to even avoid blinking – wishing it would lose interest in me and leave me alone. Luckily, I was never stung. Invariably, when I’d tell my mom about the bees and how she needed to seal the hole better, she’d reply “oh Amy” with a wave of her hand, which meant I was complaining about nothing.
Rain could also fly in through the window holes – soaking our floor and beds. (Years later, when our roof slowly began to fall in, rain became a much more permanent fixture in our room). As a small child I found the indoor drizzle enchanting – something magical in spite of the chilly wet discomfort. But this enchantment applied only to light summer showers – thunderstorms were a different matter entirely.
I never knew quite what to make of a daytime storm. The thunder unsettled me, but as long as there was daylight I felt somewhat safe. Nighttime storms, though, were the things of walking nightmares – I was absolutely petrified of the dark. I was grateful that people slept through the dark, so they did not have to face it head-on. A night storm reduced me to a quaking, crying mess – sure that nothing in the world could possibly be as frightening.
One night, I woke up to the sounds of thunder-explosions and the sensations of rain beating my face and hands. Almost immediately after I awoke, my mom came into the room – our air conditioner had just been installed a couple days prior, and she had not yet filled the windows with plywood or blocks. The storm was pouring into my sister’s and my room, and the wind was threatening to rip the conditioning unit from our window. Mom was rushing in to try to steady the grey box so it would not crash to the ground – we could not have afforded to buy a new one.
Now, the main piece of plywood which was used to fill the window gaps was kept in the center of the basement, in our laundry room. What we referred to as a “basement” might more properly be termed a “cellar”, and the laundry room was its own separate cave – lighted by its own single bulb, powered by yanking on a single string I needed to jump up to reach. The plywood rested up against the air vent on the far side of the room. At age 4, on the best of days – in the middle of the afternoon, on a clear, sunny, happy day – with every light in the basement on – I would not have entered the laundry room without my mother nearby. I would have exited it at a run, afraid of what lurked in the shadows and cobwebs behind me.
Now – it was the middle of the night – dark, windy, storming. Thunder and driving rain slammed into walls already being punished by the wailing wind. I was in my own bed yet cold, wet, and confused. Luckily, my mom was there to help me, I thought.
“Amy,” my mom said, grabbing the air conditioner; “This is going to fall – you need to go get the wood for the window. Do you know where it is?”
I wanted, for a moment, to claim that no – I did not know. I wanted to say that I needed her to show me – that I could not possibly find it on my own. But instead the picture of the wood burned in my mind’s eye – down in the basement, on the far side of the laundry room, swallowed by the storm and the dark. I nodded my head. Mom let me know that I needed to be a big girl and go get the wood – so she could seal the window and prevent the a/c from dropping. Normally I obeyed my mom immediately and with little question, but this time before I left the room I thought of one thing – one single chance of saving myself from the trip down the basement stairs. “Can Daddy help?” I asked.
“No, Amy” my mom said. “But you can ask him if you want to.”
My mom didn’t need to tell me the answer was no. I knew if before I even asked the question. I knew, even at age 4, I was selfish and silly to ask, since I already was aware of the answer anyway and was wasting time trying to avoid my task. But the thought of entering the laundry room – CROSSING the laundry room – in the middle of a stormy night so frightened me I had to ask it anyway.
Accepting the fact that my mom was not going to leave the air conditioner, and realizing that my younger sister was – amazingly – still asleep through the storm – I alone made my way into the living room. The lightening caused enough shadows that I could find my way down the stairs without trouble. I repeated Hail Marys in my head, and told myself I was a big girl. I could do this – I could help.
In the living room, my father slept – half on the couch, half on the floor – his glasses hanging off his face. He was twisted and snoring, beer cans stacked on the TV tray table next to him, spilling on to the floor. I knew the beer cans were too many in number, and I knew they were responsible for my twisted, semi-prone father. I didn’t know much beyond that, although I strongly suspected my mother was right – my father would not help me. I determined to try anyway.
I rushed over to him. “Daddy,” I whispered, directly into his ear. “Daddy,” I shook him, as hard as I could. He stirred.
“It’s raining,” I said, thinking he was awake. “It’s raining and mommy needs the wood for the window.”
“Good night, Amy” he muttered. He slumped all the way on to the floor.
I was disheartened, but growing ever more scared and desperate. “Daddy!” I said, much more loudly this time. “Mommy needs the wood for the window! It’s in the basement!” I shook him, but could barely move his shoulder. This time he did not respond. I wondered how in the world he could sleep through the storm.
I looked into the kitchen, towards the basement door. I started to cry.
I’m a big girl, I told myself, wishing the storm would please just suddenly end. I’m a big girl. I can do this – if I run it will be very quick. I’m a big girl.
I crossed the living room into the kitchen, and went to the basement door. I opened the door and immediately jumped to turn on the light. The light switch at the top of the basement stairs was one of the few I could reach in our house; even though I knew it was bad (not allowed) to turn on a light switch at night, I had no intention of going down those stairs in the pitch dark. I missed the switch on the first jump, but hit it on the next. Of course, the power was out. I had no choice. The light was not going to come on. The storm was not going to stop. My dad was not going to wake up. I was crying very loudly now but not even that helped. I needed to head downstairs, into the dark, by myself, and get the window wood for mommy. I was a big girl. I could do this.
Too blind to run, I walked as fast as I could down the steps. Hanging on to the railing offered a sense of safety. At the bottom of the steps, I faced the laundry room and, after a small pause, I ran as fast as I possibly could towards it. I strained to see anything in front of me – although by now my eyes were adjusting to the dark so it was not as difficult. An occasional flash of lightening through the window-wells offered some guidance – I ran to the wood, clamped my hands on it, and lifted as best I could. It was large, heavy, and unwieldy and I could not possibly carry it and run at the same time. So instead of carrying I opted to drag it, as fast as I could, scraping the wood across the concrete floor – shuffling my small feet back towards the stairs. I was all but screaming my sobs, praying over and over to not be afraid.
I pulled the wood back up the stairs, one step at a time. At the top of the stairs I slammed the door shut and scurried across the kitchen and through the living room. My father had not moved from his slumped position on the floor. I banged the wood back upstairs to my bedroom, lugging it to my mom. I tried to not cry as loudly, so I wouldn’t get in trouble for waking my sister.
“I got the wood, mommy,” I said, shaking and beaten.
“Good girl, Amy.” She replied. “You are a very big girl. Thank you.”
After some struggle, she managed to place the wood so it covered most of the window. It was now only raining a little bit in our room, and the noise faded as well. She gave me a big hug, tucked me back into bed, and told me to go to sleep. I squished up against the far side of my bed, away from the window, where my sheets were dry.
Years later, it occurred to me that – as sharp and significant a memory as this is for me – half of my family (at the time) would not ever remember it occurring. In fact, once I left my bedroom for all intents and purposes I had been alone – no one else had run into the basement with me. I asked my mom if she remembered that night – almost to prove to myself that it had indeed happened.
“Oh yes, I do.” She replied.
“I was so scared,” I said; trying to explain how I’d felt. But she wouldn’t say anything more.