Dispatches From the Edge_ A Memoir of War, Disasters, and Survival - Anderson Cooper [74]
The Banes’ bodies lay in their house for five days. During that time someone tried to steal Christina Bane’s van from the driveway.
The house has now been stripped, the wallboard and insulation removed, the flooring cleared. All that remains is the wood frame and the exterior walls.
“The insurance man came today and he said he doubts they could help, except for just little pieces of shingles that are missing off the roof. My parents didn’t have flood insurance,” Laura says.
Laura is living in a hotel room with her three children. She has until tomorrow to get out. Serena is staying at a friend’s apartment with eight other people. They’ve applied for a FEMA trailer but are still waiting to hear back.
“Before I go to sleep I’ll pray and I’ll talk to her,” Laura says of her mom, “and I can just feel them just hover over me. I think they want me to know that they’re okay.”
Serena is unsure what she is going to do. She still finds it hard to believe her mother is dead.
“If you needed anything, all you had to do was say, ‘Mom, I need this,’ and my mom would be at my house with it,” she says, crying. “And now it’s like, if I need something, who do I call?”
I SIGN OFF from Waveland, Mississippi. Tomorrow I’ll return home. My office is insisting I come back, “at least for a little while.” That’s what they say, but I know it means it’s over. They’ll let me return, visit from time to time, do updates, but soon there will be other headlines, other dramas, and those who weren’t here will want to move on.
When the final broadcast is done, we’re standing on a destroyed street. There are about a dozen of us—producers and cameramen, engineers and satellite truck operators. It’s near midnight. No one else is around. All the homes have crumbled. Everything is black, silent. We break down the equipment, wrap up the cables, and turn out the lights. Neil Hallsworth, one of my cameramen, takes out some beers from the cooler in his truck and passes them around. Someone cranks the radio on the dashboard of one of the rented SUVs. The Talking Heads echo in the dark.
“Into the blue again / after the money’s gone / Once in a lifetime / water flowing underground.” Bottles are opened, glass clinks against glass. “Nice job.” Awkward handshakes. A few hugs. We promise to exchange photos. Some talk of other trips. The spell is quickly broken.
We pile into our SUVs and head in different directions: Baton Rouge, New Orleans, Biloxi, Mobile. Taillights grow distant. The promises won’t be kept, the names remembered, or the photos sent. Memories will fade until the next time the storm bears down, the edge appears, and we rush to reassemble—a small band, knockabout boys, battle-scarred and full of what we’ve seen.
We are survivors, lucky and happy to be alive. It seems inappropriate against this backdrop of destruction. My muscles are taut, my mind wound tight. I’m ready to spring. I want to cry. I want to shout. All I can do is laugh. For a moment I’m back in Sarajevo, tumbling down Mount Igman, howling with my driver after exposing ourselves to snipers.
Driving through deserted streets, the SUV’s headlights shine on splintered wood and collapsed homes. I don’t want to leave these colorless streets, the mud and debris, cars hanging from trees. I don’t want to return to the cleanness, the convenience, the traffic rules. I want the roadblocks, the hassles, the heartache, the look in peoples’ eyes—thankful you’re there. There is no good that comes from the storm, no silver lining, no Hollywood ending. Death descends. Lives are lost. No good comes of it, but you meet good people along the way. They open up their homes, they cook you food, give you a cot to crash on. I was honored to be here, privileged to have been a witness to so much feeling, so much kindness, so much heroism.
Back home it’s petty, small—morning meetings and celebrity stand-ups. The clicking and clacking of tongues. Freshly scrubbed faces. It’s hard to imagine going back to that. I turn on the radio, searching for news, another spot on the map to head for.