"Nobody's taking that one away from us," I said.
She traced the faded stars on the cover with one finger. "You can't promise the rain won't come."
I wished she had been less accurate. "No. But I can promise we have a plan, and I won't leave you alone with it."
The storm began a little before midnight and built steadily. The gutters overflowed despite being clear, and the street drains took on more water than I liked. By one in the morning, I could hear the pump cycling almost without interruption. At two, the water rose against the lower-level doorway; by three, it had pushed past the garage threshold and reached the playroom again.
I carried sleeping Emma upstairs to the room nearest mine and wrapped her in Sarah's old purple throw. Then I went back downstairs and made the difficult decisions people make when they realize they cannot save everything. Tools could be replaced. Boxes of old tax records could be scanned or reconstructed. Photographs and the remaining keepsakes went above the flood line first.
In the garage sat Sarah's 2004 Subaru Outback. It was dark green, with a dent near the rear hatch from the year she had tried to park beside a shopping cart return while talking to me on the phone. I had owned newer vehicles, but I kept that Subaru running because it had carried our family through so much ordinary happiness: weekend hikes, farmers markets, school plays, one unforgettable road trip where Emma got carsick before we crossed the county line.
Sarah's hand lotion and the little lavender sachet she once kept in the door pocket had left a faint scent in the upholstery. Sometimes Emma climbed into the passenger seat just to sit there and read, one foot tucked beneath her exactly as Sarah had done. I had planned to keep the car until our daughter was old enough to learn how to drive in it. It felt less like a machine than a room in our old home that we had somehow managed to bring with us.
The floodwater reached the tires and then crept through the door seals. I tried to move the car before the water deepened, but the engine would not turn over, and I refused to keep trying while water approached electrical components. There was a dull click, the smell of wet carpet, and the terrible recognition that pushing my luck could make the damage worse.
I went back to moving the things I could carry. Later, when the storm finally eased, I sat on the garage step with my elbows on my knees while water dripped from the car's underbody. I had not cried when the first flood ruined our rug. I came close then, looking at the empty driver's seat where Sarah used to laugh at my directions even when she knew exactly where we were going.