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I laugh because her question sounds slightly ridiculous.
“Umm, no. But Ihaveexperienced rainstorms before, so I think I’ll survive.”
“Isn’t your house in the valley?” she asks, seeming more concerned than I think is necessary. “And isn’t it kind of —don’t take this the wrong way—falling apart?”
“It’s notfalling apart,” I scoff, feeling a little defensive about my little cottage. “It just needs a few repairs.”
“Okay well take the umbrella and maybe stop to pick up a couple of candles on your way home in case you lose power.”
“Lose power? Because of a rainstorm?” I ask, feeling as if she has to be overexaggerating this.
“Welcome to the mountains,” she smiles.
I take the umbrella and shake my head as I leave. It’s cloudy out, with a nice, cool, overcast gray sky that makes me feel all cozy and calm, but it’s not even sprinkling out yet. I bet that Chad’s house will have a nice, toasty fire in a huge hearth tonight.
On my drive home, I stop to pick up a couple of candles in accordance with Tori’s advice, just in case. I highly doubt that I will lose power, but you never know with old electrical wiring. Just as I pull into my driveway, the sky opens up and a deluge of rain starts to fall.
“Huh, Tori was right,” I murmur aloud as I take out the umbrella to use as I walk into my cottage.
The night is indeed a stormy one, and I love how relaxing the patter of rain and the echo of thunder sounds. Tori was right about another thing—the rainstorms in the mountains are different than they are back in upstate New York. The rainfall sounds deeper, and the winds howl as they whip between the mountains and eventually circle around down in the valley. It’swonderful.
I read a little, write down a few things in my journal that I want to get done this weekend, and start on a new painting—enjoying the creative muse that the storm is offering without thinking too much of being productive until tomorrow. Sure, there are a few leaks in the cottage, but I put down buckets and tarps where necessary and will mop any water up tomorrow. The small holes and cracks aren’t enough to cause any massive damage.
Then, I fall asleep to the backdrop of pattering rain, feeling as if I have found my forever sanctuary.
But in the middle of the night, all of that changes.
At first, I think that I am dreaming, I actuallyamdreaming that I am floating on rolling waves of stormy seas and looking up at a moonlight-rich sky permeated with the glint of tiny stars. It’s a beautiful dream, one that I would like to paint. But then the feeling of wetness crosses over into reality, and I open my eyes to find that I amactuallyfloating. The water in my house has risen to the level of my bed. And although I am still laying on my mattress, my hair and clothes are swishing recklessly all around me as the water continues to pour in.
I gasp and fumble to get to my feet, standing on my bed because the floor isn’t even visible anymore.
How in the world did this happen? How couldsomuch water come inside my house?
Outside, I can still hear the storm raging on, and it doesn’t sound nearly as peaceful as it had earlier. I have no idea what time it is but I’m guessing it’s in the wee hours of the morning before dawn. I carefully step down off my bed, wading through water that is rushing around me and pulling at my waterlogged pajamas. And when I make it over to the window to look outside, I am instantlyterrified.
Thisis what Tori meant. It’s not the mountains that cause the rainstorms here to be so violently different than back home—it’s thevalleys. All of the water from the lasting rainfall is pooling in the valley, flooding everything aroundincludingmy little cottage. Even my van is swimming around outside. And I have absolutelynoidea what to do.
The water is continuing to rise, and I have no idea where my phone is to call for help. I try to make it back to my bed, but the moving water slides my feet out from under me and for a second I am submerged. When I pop back up and get back to my feet, I grab onto the nearest thing that I can reach—my bookshelf. It’s nailed to the wall and sturdy enough for me to climb onto.What was I thinking buying a little cottage at the bottom of a mountain valley?
I reach out around me, salvaging a few precious art supplies and finding my phone before climbing up to the top of the bookshelf where I sit huddled with my handful of possessions like a goblin hoarding its treasure. I am soaked, scared, and have never dealt with anything like this before. All at once, a million thoughts flood my head. How high is the water going to rise before the storm stops? Will anyone even realize if something happens to me here? What kind of damage is this going to do to my cottage and how in the hell will I ever be able to afford to repair it now?
Iwouldstart to cry, but there is already enough wetness here as it is. So instead, I sit up here on the top of my bookshelf, arms bursting with art supplies, soaked to the skin, and watching with wide eyes as I wait for the water to recede. I’m guessing that this is not the smartest idea or the best course of action, but I don’t know what else to do.
It seems likehourspass even though I realistically think it’s probably only been several very long minutes, and the water continues to rise as my new little home continues to take on more damage. I don’t know how I will ever be able to dry it all out after this. Maybe this is a sign that I got too comfortable here too quickly. Maybe the water isn’t going to stop, and this new beginning here is going to turn into my watery grave. Yes, of course I realize that I am being dramatic, but it’s a dramatic moment and more severe than anything I have ever encountered before.
“Seraphine?” a voice calls out to me.
I am so startled that I nearly fall off the top of the bookshelf and back into the water. The last thing that I expected to hear was someone’s voice shouting above the sound of the storm.
“Seraphine! Where are you?”
It’s Chad.
“I’m here!” I call out, my voice cracking because I am so relieved to see him come through the doorway that I nearly cry. The water is almost up to his shoulders as he pushes through it to the base of the bookshelf.
“Get down from there, what are you even doing?” he shouts as if he’s angry at my ignorance.
“It seemed like a good idea to go higher up,” I answer, feeling stupid.
