One Friday, August 25, 2017, 1:30 p.m. The world was ending. The instant meteorologists upgraded Harvey to a Category 2 hurricane, Houston residents stopped dismissing weather advisories and promptly dialed their fears up to apocalyptic levels. Rows of barren shelves gaped in supermarket aisles, muddy footprints streaked the floor, and cash registers beeped like heart rate monitors. "Honestly, ma'am," the young cashier said, "you will not find drinking water anywhere in the city today." Jia Shah's shoulders slumped. "Can you please check again?" Her damp hands were clamped around the handle of a steel cart, empty but for a soaked umbrella. While the HEB store clerk clacked away on his keyboard, Jia held her breath, waiting for the tap-tap of his fingers to conjure an aisle number with the last case of bottled water. When he shook his head without looking up, she sighed. "Do you know when you'll get restocked?" He shrugged and looked past her, exhaustion etched on his boyish face. "Lady, if you ain't buying, move!" someone chided from the rear of the line. "Ma'am, please," the cashier implored, his expression equal parts exasperation and pity. "Yes, yes, I'll get out of the way," Jia said, cheeks warming. Jia did not blame the cashier. She must cut a pathetic figure-a frazzled Indian woman dressed in a sweat-stained flannel shirt and mom jeans. Her curly hair, grayer than warranted by her thirty-six years of age, was tied in a frayed scrunchie. Six months postdivorce, her signature look was of a woman barely holding it together. She jostled her way to the back of the store, the cart's rusty wheels squeaking like a faulty air conditioner. She needed that case of water. Spotting a mis-shelved bottled water pack tucked behind canned beans, she felt elated, and pushed past another shopper to grab the case. The woman glowered, and Jia was about to issue a hurried apology when a solitaire diamond snug on the woman's ring finger caught her eye. Jia's remorse evaporated. This irate shopper had a partner to commiserate with over her encounter with the rude woman at the store, someone who would tsk-tsk at all the right moments in her story. All Jia had was an ex-husband hovering like a vulture over the carcass of her deteriorating relationship with her preteen son. Earlier that day, Jia had been sitting at her desk, busy copying numbers into a spreadsheet, when she noticed the new email waiting in her inbox like a stealth bomb, ready to detonate her life with one mouse click. Subject: Re: Case #9950 Custody evaluation. Dear Ms. Jia Shah, Based on the recent events at his son's school, my client Dev Banerjee has no choice but to revisit your custody arrangement. It is evident that my client's son is not being provided the best care by his mother. Given the circumstances, it is in the child's best interests to request a thorough custody evaluation. Custody evaluation. A bolt of anxiety shot through Jia thinking about these two words. It was just like her ex-husband to use her son's suspension as leverage to take him away from her. The move to Houston was supposed to be a fresh start for her and Ishaan. Jia had wanted to divorce Dev in order to keep Ishaan away from his father's malignant influence, so Ishaan's suspension, after less than a year in her sole care, felt like a slap in the face. Her ex's name, "Dev," was aspirational. His parents, zealous believers of Hindu astrology, who would refrain from emptying their bowels at inauspicious times were it possible, had consulted a Brahmin priest to find out the Sanskrit characters associated with their baby's moon sign before choosing the name "Dev," a Hindu synonym for "god." Yet for all their efforts, their choice was anything but felicitous. For much of his adult life, Dev had acted in decidedly ungodly ways. He'd spied on her in the past when they'd both still lived in Chicago, using ostensibly friendly drop-in visits from their common friends to keep tabs on her, but how, Jia wondered, had he found out about the suspension from all the way across the country? Her phone buzzed. "Seema" flashed on the cracked screen. Jia's chest constricted. She swiped left, shoving her sister's call to voicemail. Seema, a Houstonian for over a decade, likely had crates of water stowed away in her kitchen pantry. Normally, in a situation like this, Jia would be camped in her sister's well-lit, well-stocked house in the Sugar Land suburb, lounging on a handcrafted wood swing, royal-red cushions soft on her back, warm hands cupped around a steaming mug of chai. Instead, she was canvassing every grocery store within a ten-mile radius and ignoring her sister's calls. But the specter of facing her brother-in-law, Vipul, chilled her. Regret curdled in her stomach. The cover-up was worse than the crime, and even worse were multiple cover-ups, every missed opportunity to come clean to Seema another brick of guilt erecting a wall between them. Now, given the choice, hunkering down on Galveston Beach, staring into the eye of the storm, was a more appealing option than a night under Vipul's roof. She was crossing the dairy aisle, nose scrunched at the funk of sulfury stress sweat mixed with rainwater dripping from the shoppers' clothes, when her phone vibrated again with another call from Seema. Seema Joshi was nothing if not persistent. She would keep calling till Jia picked up. On the fourth ring, Jia answered. "Where are you? I've been calling you since forever," Seema intoned. Her sister often had a teenager's grasp of time. "Sorry, my phone was on silent," Jia said, surprised by the way the lie slipped out easily, plucked from a panoply of her usual excuses: busy at work, lost track of time, poor network at the apartment. She lied on autopilot, but there was no getting used to the uneasy feeling that rose in her throat on deceiving her sister. "You must come stay with us tonight, okay?" Seema's orders often masqueraded as questions. "I don't think that's necessary." Jia fidgeted with the sleeve of her rumpled shirt. Seema was only a year older than Jia, yet Jia was used to playing the role of a dutiful soldier. Even now that they were both adults, Jia had to fight the instinct to comply with Seema. "You're all aloooone." Seema's inflection turned ghoulish on the last word. For Seema, married for over a decade, the lives of single mothers were filled with unfathomable horrors. Like first world residents rage-tweeting about the plight of refugees, she had plenty of sympathy to dispense but not an ounce of empathy, because Seema sure as hell was not walking in a single mother's shoes. "I'm not alone, I have Ishaan," Jia said, checking her watch. She had to get home fast to pick him up from Ms. Nikki's house. "Okay, fine, I mean you and my dear nephew are both alone." Isn't everyone alone by that logic? Jia pursed her lips. She stepped aside as a child zoomed past her, knocking down boxes of Froot Loops. Seema continued, "Vipul says it's the storm of the century. He suggested I call you immediately." "Did he now? That's very kind of him." Jia said, keeping her tone measured, even as her mind churned, scrambling to decipher the subtext of his words. "Thanks for the offer, but we'll be all right." "Okay, fine," Seema said, her gruff tone suggesting the opposite. Acquiescing to Seema was a dynamic easy to fall back on, like slipping into a pair of old, well-worn yet comfortable jeans. But this time Jia had good reasons to stand her ground. "Did you fill your bathtub?" Seema asked. "What? Why?" "You'll need water to flush the toilet if you're stranded in your apartment without running water." "Please tell me you're joking." Jia pinched her nose. The exigencies of a hurricane baffled her. The clamor for stocking up on water with the entire city under the threat of submersion seemed counterintuitive. "You're not taking this seriously enough. You will be safe in our house. It's dangerous out there." "Umm, yeah, I'll definitely think about it." "So basically, you'll come up with a last-minute excuse." A loud exhale on the other end. "Listen, if you decide to come, have dinner with us." Ending the call, Jia exited the store and stopped mid-stride, sucking in her breath. Although it was only five in the evening, complete darkness greeted her. Thick billowing clouds eclipsed the sun. The last vestiges of daylight had dispelled hours earlier than usual for August. The air was thick with dewy petrichor. The light drizzle of the morning had progressed to steady rain, fat waterdrops falling en masse to the ground, bursting into diamonds. As she dashed toward her parked car, a violent gust whipped her curls and turned her umbrella inside out. She plugged her key into the ignition, bringing the car's radio to life: "Folks, we have an important update. Hurricane Harvey has now strengthened to a Category 3 hurricane, with winds up to one hundred twenty miles per hour. Oil refineries have been shut down. It is anticipated that schools will stay closed for weeks. Stay tuned for more details . . ." A slew of incoming messages from Seema buzzed her phone like a vibrating restaurant beeper. It's a Cat 3 hurricane now! They've started canceling flights from Corpus Christi. Come here ASAP. And in perfect Seema fashion, she followed the alarming warnings with a sanguine Boomerang clip: Seema in her living room, two fingers V-shaped, expansive glass windows behind her reflecting a silver blur of rain, a single tree rocking sideways in the wind. The video's caption: "#glamping." Jia swallowed, tossed the phone on the passenger seat, and tuned in to Radio Mirchi station. An upbeat RJ ran through a playlist of rainfall-themed Bollywood songs. Jia increased the volume as the singer crooned, earnestly thanking God for blessing the barren lands with rain. But the throbbing beats were not enough to distract her from Seema's warning. It's dangerous out there. Her phone pinged with an email notification. Her throat turned dry. Mandatory Evacuation Per the latest guidance issued by the governor of Texas, we hereby require all residents of Shadowland Apartments to evacuate the premises immediately. Gather your loved ones, pets, and emergency necessities and leave the evacuation zone as soon as possible. Please note that Shadowland Apartments will not be liable for trapped tenants who choose to ignore this order. Heat crawled up her neck like a bout of fever. Scrolling through her contacts list, she reached the end in two pathetic thumb strokes. Then again, she had never needed to go past her sister's name in the favorites tab. Seema was truly her emergency contact, her first call when a driver scratched her car in the parking lot of Patel Brothers store or when she and Ishaan needed a place to crash after Texas's electric grid failures stripped their apartment of power. Seema's offer bubbled to the surface like suppressed vomit. Like a radio station tuned to the frequency of Jia's lowest vulnerability, her ex-husband's words broadcast in her mind. You cannot raise Ishaan by yourself. When you screw up, I'll be there to take him away. He had said "when," not "if," as though her failure was an inevitability. Jia's body tensed. The custody evaluation was a storm cloud hovering above her. Every decision she made tonight was crucial. A single mistake could lead to the worst outcome, she and Ishaan trapped alone in darkness, the stench of rotting vegetables filling the air, rationing water while they waited for rescue. She could imagine the follow-up email from Dev's attorney. It is evident that the mother's poor judgment led to her son being trapped in a flooded apartment for days. Jia straightened her spine. If Dev wanted to take Ishaan away, she was not going to make it easy for him. Her options whittled down; a decision was made. She would pick up her son from Ms. Nikki's house and go to stay with Seema. Even if that meant coming face-to-face with Vipul. Two Her nose inches from the steering wheel, Jia squinted at the windshield that remained stubbornly blurry despite the urgent swish-swish of the wipers set at full speed. Blinking red sockets of malfunctioning traffic signals seesawed under the pressure of fierce winds. Jia's sedan trundled along Highway 6, in her best estimation of the middle lane, cutting a path through floodwater. The car jerked as if a malevolent spirit were pushing it into a ditch. Currents of churning waves swelled from all directions. Incessant flash flood warnings made her phone jump in the cupholder like a frog in boiling water. DON'T DROWN, TURN AROUND. A glance at her son in the passenger seat instantly calmed her nerves. His lanky frame angled sideways, he peered out the window, shoulders slouched under phantom backpack handles. Loving Ishaan was a lesson in perception. He bore a striking resemblance to Dev, with his sharp aquiline nose and messy hair, but the same features she had come to revile in her ex, she adored in her son. When Jia gently nudged the accelerator, a tidal wave of water splashed against the bonnet. The car sputtered for a second. She licked her dry lips. Damn it. If the engine flooded and stalled, she and Ishaan would be stranded on this dark street as the car slowly filled up with water. That is, if the rising waves did not sweep them away first. Thanks to his Sunday lessons at the YMCA, Ishaan was a good swimmer, but Jia's mom, in a misguided attempt to keep her daughters away from water, had never taught Seema and Jia how to swim. Jia pictured herself flailing in the murky depths of the flooding road, silt entering her lungs, desperately trying to come up for air, trying to get Ishaan to safety as all remnants of life deserted her body. He would claim not only the last minutes of her life but also her death, for a young mother's obituary elicited sympathy in readers for a life cut short, but the real sadness, that pang in the heart, was reserved for the children left motherless. Get a grip on yourself. Jia herded in her spiraling thoughts. Suddenly, Ishaan yelled, "Mom, watch out!" Jia gasped. Farther ahead was a street she had taken countless times, but now there was no road. The street was a river. Her jaw dropped. A sliver of a car's roof bobbed in the water. Angry waves splashed against a half-submerged stop sign. A downed tree connected the opposite footpaths. Her knuckles ghost white, Jia swerved the car in a sharp U-turn and scrambled to find alternate directions on her phone. Ishaan said, "Mom, listen, let me help you. If you take a left on the next light, it connects to the same street." Excerpted from The Night of the Storm: A Novel by Nishita Parekh All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
