NEW YORK — Gazing at her bungalow, swept from its foundation and tossed across the street, Janice Clarkin wondered if help would ever come to battered Staten Island, off the coast of Manhattan.
"Do you see anybody here?" she asked, resignation etched on her face. "On the news, the mayor's congratulating the governor and the governor's congratulating the mayor. On what? People died."
Staten Island was devastated beyond recognition by Hurricane Sandy and suffered the highest death toll of all of New York City's boroughs, including two young brothers who were swept from their mother's arms by the swirling sea and drowned. Yet days after the waters receded, residents feel forgotten.
That sense of isolation is deeply rooted on Staten Island, a tight-knit community that has long felt cut off from the bright lights of Manhattan.
"It's always been that way. We're a forgotten little island," said Catherine Friscia, who stood with tear-filled eyes across the street from the Atlantic Ocean in front of homes filled with water and where the air smelled like garbage and rotting fish.
"Nobody pays attention to any of us over here. Nobody."
In the shadow of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, dazed survivors roamed Staten Island's sand-covered streets this week amid ruined bungalows sagging under the weight of water that rose to the rooftops. Their contents lay flung in the street: Mud-soaked couches, stuffed animals and mattresses formed towering piles of wreckage. Boats were tossed like toys into roads.
Spray-painted on the plywood that covered the first floor of one flooded home were the words: "FEMA CALL ME."
Homeland Security Secretary Janet Napolitano visited Staten Island on Friday, touring a shelter and a Red Cross distribution center where storm victims lined up to get food, water and clothing. A short distance away, a long line of cars snaked down the street, waiting to get to one of the few gas stations with fuel.
"We know that Staten Island took a particularly hard hit from Sandy, so we want to make sure that the right resources are brought here as quickly as possible to help this community, which is so very strong, recover even more quickly," said Napolitano, who was joined by Red Cross CEO Gail McGovern and Staten Island borough president James Molinaro — who a day earlier had sharply criticized what he said was the Red Cross's inadequate response in Staten Island.
Sticking together in the aftermath of the storm has kept Staten Islanders who lost everything from completely falling apart. Self-reliance is in their blood just as the island's very geography lends itself to a feeling of isolation from the mainland: the only way to get on or off is by car, bus or ferry.
Most of the deaths were clustered in beachfront neighborhoods exposed to the Atlantic Ocean along the island's southeastern shore, an area of cinderblock bungalows and condominiums. Many of these homes were built decades ago — originally as summer cottages — and were not constructed to withstand the power of a major storm.
Diane Fieros wept as she recalled how she and her family survived by huddling on the third floor of their home across the street from the ocean, watching as the waves slammed into the house and the water rose higher and higher, shooting through cracks in the floor. A few blocks away, several people drowned.
"The deck was moving, the house was moving," she said. "We thought we were going to die. We prayed. We all prayed."
Fieros rode out the storm with her two sons, her parents and other extended family members. She pointed to a black line on the house that marked where the water rose: at least 12 feet above the ground.
"I told them, 'We die, we die together,' " she said, her voice cracking. "You saw the waves coming. Oh my God."