After the Typhoon

The red warning alert from the weather app flashed on my phone screen just as I was calling Tom Shawn. It rang five times with no answer, and the wind slamming against the window grew louder, like countless hands clawing at the glass. I gripped my phone tighter, my knuckles turning white. Mom lives in an old house by the sea. Last year, the typhoon flooded right up to the doorstep, and the wooden wardrobe inside got soaked and covered in mold. This time, they're forecasting the strongest typhoon in a decade, with tsunami warnings too. I couldn't stop worrying—I didn't even have time to button my jacket properly before rushing out. I changed into a pair of non-slip sneakers and grabbed the emergency kit I had packed a long time ago—inside were Mom's usual blood pressure meds, a flashlight, and a few packs of compressed biscuits. As I picked up the car keys, my fingers brushed against the jar of pickled radish Mom had brought yesterday—the glass cool, but still warm from her hands. The trees along the road were bent crookedly by the wind, and a branch from an old locust tree suddenly snapped, crashing onto the roadside guardrail with a loud clang. A plastic bag was wrapped around the branch like a tattered white flag, fluttering wildly in the wind. My hands gripping the steering wheel were slick with sweat. I tried calling Tom Shawn again, but still no answer—only a monotonous busy signal in the receiver. I had no choice but to call Mom first. As soon as the call connected, the howl of wind gusting through the window came through the line. "Tina, you don't need to come pick me up. This house is sturdy—your dad built these walls himself back in the day."Mom laughed over the phone, but her voice trembled a little. "No, I have to come get you. Let's go to the new house at Joy Residence. The land there is higher, and there's an underground garage—it's safer." I emphasized my words, pressing harder on the gas pedal as the rain outside began to slash against the window. Joy Residence is the villa Tom Shawn and I bought in our second year of marriage. From the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, you can see the artificial lake. We had just finished renovations at the end of last year. Tom deliberately picked a traditional style that Mom loved, saying, "Once spring arrives, we'll bring Mom here to live. She's sure to love it." But so far, no one has officially moved in. Tom Shawn was the one overseeing all the renovations. I'd only been there twice, and each time he held my hand and pointed to the chandelier in the living room, saying, "It's crystal. It shines especially bright at night. Mom's eyesight isn't good, so this makes it easier for her to read." At the time, I even teased him for being so meticulous, but looking back now, those words felt like needles, piercing painfully. When I got downstairs to Mom's place, the door was slightly ajar. She was leaning against the doorframe, looking down the stairs, her hair wild and tousled by the wind. She wore a camel-colored wool sweater—that birthday gift I bought her last year. In her hand was a cloth bag, the zipper left partly open, revealing half a knitted scarf I'd started for her. "The wind's so strong, and you still came? The road's really dangerous."Mom held my hand—her palm warm but trembling slightly. "You're my mom. If I don't come, then who else will?"I helped her put the cloth bag into the car, guided her into the front passenger seat, and turned the air conditioning up a couple of degrees. As we drove toward Joy Residence, the rain kept getting heavier, and even the fastest wiper setting barely cleared the windshield. Mom kept staring out the window, occasionally asking, "Is the new house far from here?" She reached into the cloth bag to touch the scarf and said, "Once this typhoon passes, I'll finish knitting it for you." I smiled and said, "Not far, just twenty minutes," but inside, I was starting to panic—Tom Shawn still hadn't replied. He said he had to handle something urgent at the office this morning, but with such a powerful typhoon, the company should've closed ages ago. In front of the main gate of Joy Residence, the security booth light was on. The guard was bent over, fixing a sign at the entrance, his raincoat hood flipped up by the wind. I rolled down the car window. He looked up at the license plate, recognized my car, quickly raised his hand to let me through, and called out, "Ms. Lincoln, drive carefully—the roads inside are slippery." "This neighborhood is really beautiful— even prettier than on TV."Mom's eyes brightened as she gazed at the greenery by the road. She reached out and pointed toward the artificial lake nearby. "Are there fish in that lake?" "Yes. Once the typhoon passes, we'll bring some breadcrumbs to feed the fish and then wander through the garden. There are your favorite gardenias there, too."I said this as I drove toward the villa's building, but a heavy sense of unease was gnawing at me. Just a few dozen meters from the villa, I spotted warm yellow lights glowing in the yard, with faint laughter drifting through the air, mixed with the smoky aroma of barbecue. I frowned. Tom Shawn never said he'd be bringing friends over. He clearly knows we haven't officially moved into the house yet. After parking the car, I helped Mom walk toward the yard. The closer we got, the clearer the laughter became, and someone shouted, "Vivian, grill two more skewers of chicken wings." The iron gate to the yard was left ajar. I pushed it open, and my steps froze instantly, as if my blood had turned to ice. A silver barbecue grill sat on the lawn, sparks leaping up and splattering onto the white sunshade nearby. A group of young people were gathered nearby, laughing and chatting. Some were wearing my loungewear, others were swinging Tom Shawn's golf clubs around. Empty bottles and trash bags were scattered everywhere, and there was even a girl walking back and forth across the freshly laid wool carpet in my high heels.