Aftershocked

By Francesca

Italian women are stereotypically over reactors. My mother, for example, makes nuclear reactors seem reasonable. But I pride myself on being the cool-headed one. I can win any argument, or at least whip my mom into a frenzy, simply by remaining calm. So I always imagined I’d perform well in an emergency. I finally got my test case in an East Coast earthquake

I was writing on my laptop, when all of a sudden I felt as if the floor was swinging. I thought it was in my head, maybe a migraine or caffeine overdose. But then I saw the ripples in my water glass, and if Jurassic Park taught me anything, it’s that when that happens, it’s time to get out of the jeep.

In the next moment, my TV started wobbling and my picture frames fell off the shelves. I had no idea what was happening, but I wasn’t sticking around to find out. I leashed Pip, grabbed the keys, phone, snatched a pair of flip-flops, and flew down six flights of stairs barefoot, like a monkey down a tree.

I skidded outside on the sidewalk, bewildered and out of breath, only to find everyone else going on his or her merry way, oblivious. Excess adrenaline coursed through me, but there were no opportunities to be heroic—no child trapped beneath a car, no unconscious adult in need of a fireman’s carry, not even a kitten in a tree. In fact, no one seemed concerned at all.

Fear made room for embarrassment, as I became aware that a) I was apparently the only person who had almost wet herself in the last minute, and b) I was not wearing a bra.

I’d like to say I was raised better than this, but the last time my mom went to the ER, she wasn’t wearing a bra either. It’s practically family tradition.

Pip, also unconcerned, pulled at the leash, so I crossed my arms and walked him around the block. The dog looked for spots in need of pee while I looked for anyone whose look of panic matched mine; Pip found several lucky lampposts before I found a single comrade-in-alarm.

There’s a new restaurant under construction on the ground floor of the building next door. The head contractor always tries to chat me up when I walk by, so normally I avoid the corner, but when he greeted me today, I didn’t let him get a word in.

“Hey, hey, hey. Guillermo, hey, it’s Francesca, hi, c’mere.” I tried to slow my speech, but after being struck dumb with fear, my tongue decided it was its turn to freak out. “Did you just feel anything, like, shaking?” I realized my hands were shaking, which I hoped he took as active storytelling. “Did you guys just bust out a wall, or drop anything heavy, or something?”

He shook his head.

“Oh, okay, because, well, this is gonna sound crazy—” I tried to toss off a laugh, but it missed casual by an octave and came out at loony-bin pitch. “But I swear the walls of my apartment just shook.”

He frowned, looking a bit skeptical, so I threw in my trump card:

“A picture fell off the shelf!” The gravity of the statement diminished when I said it aloud.

“Well thanks for letting me know, I’ll ask my guys,” Guillermo said. “In case I find out anything, how about you give me your phone number?”

“Good thing one of us keeps calm in emergencies.”

“Okay, good idea.”

Yes, if you catch me in an emergency, I am this naive.

I had just handed the pen back to him, when my cellular service returned and a text message from my mom chimed in:

“U heard about earthquake in VA/DC? Aftershocks on E coast. Turn on TV. Love you!”

Finally, an explanation! But my next thought was for the victims in Virginia and D.C. Surely any earthquake whose aftershocks scared me so must have unleashed utter devastation at its center. Is the White House a pile of rubble?

Oh no? It’s totally still there, really? Everybody pretty much a-okay, huh? Well, thank God! Glad to hear it.

So maybe I over-reacted a little. But it’s not my fault.

I am the granddaughter of Mother Mary, once dubbed “Earthquake Mary” by The Miami Herald, because she was the only person in Miami to feel an earthquake that occurred four hundred miles away in Tampa.

You can’t fight genetics.