In between things

Yesterday the power went out. The quiet was instant and slightly oppressive, the way it feels when the door clicks shut behind you in a sound-proof room. Those first few moments in a sound-proof room can freak you out, with the buzz of silence in your ears and the deafening little smacks of your own saliva threatening to derail you, until suddenly, you get used to it. It's only in these instances that I realize how much NYC literally hums around me at all times.

With the sudden quiet came the familiar adrenaline rush that accompanies that kind of instant shift, the moment between 3:31pm on a Wednesday when everything's normal and 3:32pm when everything appears to have irrevocably changed. Happily, this time the feeling reminded me of the unforgettable block party that was the blackout of 2003, instead of that other day in 2001 when everything changed in an instant, when New York City became a small town, wracked with sorrow. For me, the first few hours of the blackout of 2003 were terrifying, bringing up horrible memories of 9/11, until TT finally arrived after his long walk home from work carrying not batteries, lighters, protein bars, and water (which I had run around frantically buying, heart beating a mile a minute, in between trips up and down the 11 dark flights of stairs to our apartment to fill the bathtubs with water--no elevators in a blackout, and when the tank runs out, no more water) but a 6-pack of Budweiser tall-boys. He was right, I was wrong. Shortly thereafter my dad (unable to go home to New Jersey) arrived from his long walk, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, and we met him outside our building with a cold one ready and waiting. Hours of absolute hilarity ensued--one of my favorite nights after 12 years in this city.

So yesterday the power went out during Belly's afternoon nap, shutting off the Restful Rain ipod loop to which we have made her profoundly addicted, but she didn't wake up. The apartment was still bright but the hallway was dark as pitch, and when I crept out there with my flashlight, looking for news that could only be found in the lobby 11 floors down, I listened to the nervous voices stuck in the frozen elevator, checked on our elderly, deaf neighbor, and went back inside. Heart racing, I started making calls, assessing the situation. I watched people in the building across the street standing up against their windows as I was, talking on cell phones, craning their necks to view the chaos at the busy intersections suddenly without traffic lights. The horns and sirens that I am so used to sounded much louder against the quiet.

TT was stuck in Chicago, so I began to picture how the night would unfold with Belly, in the dark, the intense heat, food and milk in the fridge spoiled, changing diapers by flashlight, inching down 11 flights of stairs in the pitch black just to get some air, and the real nightmare, trying to explain to her the utter and complete lack of music or Restful Rain. I started gathering batteries, thinking of strategies, devising contingency plans. But then the power went back on. There was the AC, the fridge, the lights, the computer, the general electric buzz...I reset a few clocks, and all was normal. It was strangely disappointing.

They're saying the power could go off again tonight. There is a big storm on its way and my stomach is in knots, but I'm not sure that's why. I signed a contract for a house in the suburbs tonight, and wrote a check so big (for me) that I wasn't actually sure of the correct way to word it. I have been dreaming about moving to a house for a long, long time. I love this house, it's small and sweet and perfect, in a great neighborhood in a wonderful town that TT and I have been thinking about for years. I know I'm ready, even though I do wish that we could bring our super and a few of our doormen with us.

The sellers are still aggressively showing this house, so we have to move at lightening speed. I had to print out the contract from email the second it arrived, eyeball it while Belly played with her puzzles, sign it (without TT) while feeding her dinner, and hightail it to Kinkos/FedEx before she melted down or the sky exploded.

I have been waiting for this storm all day. This morning my mom called: horrible thunderstorms are coming, you should finish your errands by noon. Our spooky Irish doorman warned: they say the winds will be 60 miles an hour. The radio cautioned: more power outages should be expected. Then, with the contracts splayed out in front of me, Belly pelting peas, my mom called again: you really need to hurry, honey, they're saying hail.

So tonight we ran through the streets, Belly in her stroller, the sky still blue but the air so humid it felt like the molecules within it were sweating, the atoms couldn't breath. Or maybe that was me. We mailed the contracts and the check, ran home, I put Belly to bed, and here I am. Waiting for something. I usually adore the excitement, the majesty of big thunderstorms. I love the adrenaline rush that comes with change. But not tonight. I don't want to lose power. TT is still in Chicago, and my stomach is a cauldron of swarming snakes. Did I sign in all the right places? Did I pay close enough attention when the inspector described how the water heater works? Will we be able to pay the mortgage? Will I make new friends in this town? Will I be able to see my dear friends in the city as much as I've been saying I will? This new phase of life, that I have been craving for so long, suddenly feels as oppressive as the quiet of a blackout, or a suburban street after 11pm. I know I'll get used to it. I know I'll love it. Just like I love being a grown-up, being married, having a child, no matter how scary or far away these things used to seem.

But tonight a storm is coming, the molecules in the air are full to bursting, and I want to stay safe in the hum of my apartment, and my city, and keep the power on.