Emily Nelson

The Flood

            I’m five years old and washing sand out of Papa's gloves in the half-bath sink. The door is open, so I can hear, in the kitchen, Mama and Papa talking. “The water is within inches of the seawall.”

            We went downtown once when the sun was out, and the river had come up into the town. “No, Emily, you can't go play in that water.”

            Papa says we have to be prepared for if it floods here, but I don't understand that. Nothing is happening on our street. Will the water wash down over the hill? Will it be like a swimming pool? I'd like that.

            Mama was going to help with sandbagging the river, but Papa said he would go instead. When he comes home at night, it's very dark, and he's very tired, and I wash sand out of his gloves in the half-bath sink.

            The text from John says, “The survey is due by close of business Monday; everyone, please complete it.” I'm done working for the day, but I sit on the living room floor with the laptop on my legs and turn it back on.

            (Was I done working? I haven't been in the office in over a week. I don't get up early to commute anymore, but days spent uncomfortably hunched over a laptop that barely works tire me out anyway. The days melt together until I start to forget things like my email address. Was I done working? I'm at home, but that's not a distinction between “Yes,” and “No,” any longer.)

            “You have been identified as potentially essential staff for the Department.” I'm supposed to teach new employee orientation; I'm not one of the people keeping things running. Tammy told me we've waived all registration and taxes for trucks carrying paper products and food. I'm not maintaining the roads; I'm not slaving over the network, trying to accommodate so many people logging in from home at once; I'm not at the epicenter, making sure supplies get where they're needed.

            “Do you possess any of the following skills?”

            “HR/Personnel expertise?” Well, a little.

            “Motor vehicle repair?” No.

            “Radio operation?” No

            “IT Support? Procurement? Emergency Management?”

            And then.

            “Admin support?” I was a secretary for five years. What do they want me to do, fill up coffee? Type meeting minutes? I don't think I'm what they're really looking for, but when the world is melting around us, every clean body counts.

            I click expert, and the next question asks, “Are you willing to be called upon to work in a crisis?”

            This is what I went into government for, isn't it? All the cover letters where I concluded saying, “I believe in State service,” and unlike most people, I wasn't even lying. When I go to work, I feel like I'm helping someone, somewhere. Some of my coworkers have already said they won't go, won't even fill out the survey. I have reasons not to, either. I want to see my mother again, and I can't if I'm contaminated. I want to get my book published. Who will feed my cat?

            I click “Yes,” and hit submit. Someone has to fill the sandbags.

–

This piece was written at the beginning of the pandemic, the third week of March 2020. Two days after it was written, the author was asked to return to the office to support emergency efforts.

Bio

Emily Nelson received her MFA from Goddard College in 2017, and currently resides in the Willamette Valley with a very grumpy cat. Her work has appeared in The Writer in the World. She can always be bothered @nelson_e_d on Twitter.