Chapter 44 - The Storm Before the Celebration
The ten-year anniversary of my studio arrived during hurricane season.
Naturally.
The forecast originally called for rain.
Then tropical storm warnings became flood warnings.
By Friday afternoon, Richmond schools closed.
The James River rose.
Our anniversary fundraiser was scheduled Saturday.
Hundreds of donors.
Families.
Former foundation recipients.
We canceled immediately.
Safety first.
Then the basement of the Elise Mercer Foundation flooded.
Dad called me from the building.
“Water’s coming in through the east wall.”
“Get out.”
“I can stop it.”
“Dad.”
“I have pumps.”
“GERALD.”
Mom grabbed the phone from him.
“I’m dragging him out.”
By midnight, six inches of water filled the ground floor.
Boxes floated.
Furniture ruined.
Some archival photographs of Elise were stored upstairs safely.
Others weren’t.
Camille stood outside in the rain crying.
“My mother’s negatives.”
We couldn’t enter.
The fire department refused access.
At sunrise, the water finally began receding.
Damage was enormous.
Insurance would cover part.
Not all.
The emergency housing wing was unusable.
Four families staying there needed relocation.
Before I could make calls, my phone began buzzing.
Daniel.
“We have two spare rooms.”
Sunny.
“My hospital network has temporary housing.”
Raquel.
“Tobias’s company has empty corporate apartments.”
Mrs. Gable.
“Our church guest house is available.”
Even the Midlothian garden club offered help.
By noon, every family had somewhere safe.
Then volunteers arrived.
Dozens.
Then hundreds.
People who had received grants.
Parents.
Teachers.
Photographers.
Construction workers.
Former postal employees who knew Zora.
Dad stood ankle-deep in muddy water giving instructions like a general.
“You were told to stay home,” I said.
He looked offended.
“I am chief fix-it officer.”
“You invented that title.”
“Still valid.”
We worked for days.
Matilda carried bottled water.
Sawyer labeled salvage boxes.
Mom washed mud from picture frames.
Camille found one surviving negative of Elise beneath a soaked archive box.
She held it toward the window.
Elise was laughing behind a camera.
Still there.
Damaged.
But visible.
Camille smiled through tears.
“Perfect.”
I looked around the destroyed room.
“No.”
She glanced at me.
“Not perfect.”
I pointed toward everyone working.
“Real.”
One week later, we held the anniversary fundraiser anyway.
Not in a ballroom.
Not inside the foundation.
In the parking lot.
Folding tables.
Food trucks.
String lights.
Mud still visible near the building.
Dad grilled chicken.
Mom served lemonade.
Zora sat under a canopy giving orders nobody requested.
The fundraiser raised three times our goal.
Enough to rebuild.
Enough to expand flood protections.
Enough to create another temporary housing site.
At sunset, I stood on a small platform.
I looked at the crowd.
Ten years earlier, I thought independence meant doing everything alone.
I had been wrong.
Strength was not refusing help.
Strength was building a life where help could travel in every direction.
Then Matilda tugged my dress.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Grandpa is burning the chicken.”
May you like
Of course he was.
Some traditions survived everything.
