The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors

by Michele Young-Stone

  Colin backed away, knocking his head into the telephone. The receiver clacked to the floor. Becca looked to the window, at the unrelenting rain, at the puddle of water at her feet, at her white tights, at her own knees dropping to the linoleum. She could hear Whiskers upstairs, whining. Her world was slowing down. “Mom,” she said. “Mom?” She wiped at the sticky crust around her mother’s mouth, pulling her mother’s robe tighter and cinching the waist. She lifted her mother’s head, propping it upright against the cabinet. Earlier tonight, when she’d felt anxious about the dance, she’d wanted to be a little girl again. She’d wanted to nuzzle against her mother, to hear her mother say I’m proud of you or something encouraging. Now, Becca indulged in that missed opportunity, resting her head on her mother’s lap, holding tight to her waist, pretending she was an innocent girl and her mother was proud and doting. Becca shut her eyes and waited for whatever will be, will be; the future’s not ours to see. Que sera, sera. There was nothing else to do.

  Becca was eleven when she found her mother slumped against the kitchen cabinet, when she lost her mother’s favorite brooch racing through the woods, when Colin Atwell waited with her for the ambulance to arrive. When Colin said, “I’m sorry. I need to call my dad. I don’t want him to worry.” When the paramedics roused Mary from her stupor and insisted on taking her to the hospital. When the ambulance drove away and Colin left with his father, and Bob and his cheating whore wife stood in the drizzle, gawking at the red ambulance lights. When one of the paramedics suggested Becca wait with the neighbors across the street, and Becca waited in her bedroom instead for her dad to come home. She got out her sketchbook, composing a poem:

  Do you think he’s gonna go?

  Do you think he’s gonna leave?

  Do you think if he goes

  I can still believe?

  Beside the poem Becca drew an imposing man with a thick head of black hair. She sketched an Austin Healey on his right and a strawberry on his left, then, staring at the sheet of paper, eventually scribbled over his face. Crying, she realized that no matter how hard she tried, it is nearly impossible to hate one’s father.

  She didn’t know when he’d be home. She stared at the raindrops beading on the windowpane, pressing her cheek against Whiskers’s cool, wet nose.

  She was eleven the next day and for the rest of that year, when Mary promised to pull herself together, that things would get better; when Becca chucked her drawer full of useless watches and fed chocolate chip cookies to the mourning doves in the backyard. When Becca felt that she’d lost something more than her love of cookies, something more important, something irretrievable, but she didn’t know exactly what it was. When her mother said, “I’m really sorry. I’m so embarrassed. I’m going to be a better mom, a better wife, a better everything.”

  When Mary asked Becca, “Where’s the butterfly brooch?”

  “I’ve got it. I’ll get it.”

  When Colin Atwell found the brooch beneath a pile of leaves and remembered Becca wearing it at the dance.

  He tried in vain to return the brooch to her. She wouldn’t speak to him, let alone look at him. It wasn’t him. It was her. He was part of an event she wanted to forget.

  Every few years, he found the brooch like new, remembering the downpour, the Old Well struck by lightning, and crazy, beautiful Becca Burke running for home.

  Excerpt from

  THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS

  Recently, a small group of lightning strike survivors have connected with former electroshock patients, discovering that the volts of electricity, whether rendered by man or storm, have similar effects, including (some already mentioned) memory loss, numbness, tingling, poor circulation, difficulty concentrating, and inexplicable health problems like headaches, difficulty socializing in groups, and other forms of anxiety.

  A few cases I researched indicated that the lightning strike victims, rather than gaining respect for Mother Nature, and rather than fearing storms, felt superhuman. Approximately 1 out of 200,000 people in the United States are struck each year.

  You are far more likely to be struck by lightning than attacked by a shark. If you are at the beach and you see storm clouds approach, seek shelter immediately. It doesn’t matter if it’s not raining. A cloud can produce electricity without producing rain.

  [14]

  Adios, 1973

  Joan Holt said, “We’re neighbors with the Mexicans, but that doesn’t mean our cultures are anything alike. Take, for instance, tacos. I don’t go in for the soft kind, and I’ve never seen a real Mexican taco that wasn’t soft. I like a crunchy shell, like the kind you get at Rio Grande downtown.”

  Buckley was pretending to listen, scheming how to get two dollars so he could buy Flamehead a hot fudge sundae.

  Joan Holt said his mother was “getting all dolled up for Paddy John again.”

  Buckley said, “Paddy John’s all right,” adding, “Do you remember that girl Marty Bascott who was hanging out with us last week?”

  “Flamehead? I’ve known her and her mama since Flamehead was a baby. What about her? Who the hell knows where she got that red hair?”

  Buckley shrugged. “I was thinking …” he began, “that it would be nice if I could …”

  “If you could what? Are you starting to stutter?”

  “No,” Buckley said. Sometimes Joan Holt was difficult to deal with. “I was thinking that maybe I could earn some money somehow, like two dollars, so that I could buy Flamehead a hot fudge sundae at the Dairy Queen.”

  “When you ask a favor, it’s best to spit it out. There’s no sense prolonging the discourse.”

  Buckley would’ve asked his mother for the money. She was making great tips, but if he asked her, she’d say, If you can do me a favor and spend more time with Tide. That little boy needs a good influence like you. He admires you. In addition, you might be nicer to Paddy John. He’s never been anything but kind to you.

  No, Buckley preferred asking Joan Holt—just so long as his mother didn’t find out about it.

  Joan said, “Get my purse. It’s in the kitchen, and while you’re out eating ice cream, I’ll come up with a list of chores for you to do. I don’t think there’s any better way to learn the worth of a dollar than to work for it.”

  Buckley set Joan’s purse on her lap.

  “I’ll give you five dollars and you can clean both of the bathrooms later this evening. I hate cleaning the bathroom.”

  Buckley brightened. “Are you serious?”

  “That can be your weekly chore.”

  “Are you serious?!” He could take Flamehead to the movies. He could buy her a necklace or a ring or lip gloss or some other junk girls like.

  “I’m not the one stuttering around here.”

  His mother had confided long ago, “Joan’s a screwball.” No, Buckley thought, she’s a dream.

  Flamehead ate her hot fudge sundae, even the maraschino cherry and the wafer cookies. She ran her finger along the bowl’s interior for the last melted bit of ice cream. Buckley got a soft serve cone.

  Setting down the glass dish, Flamehead said matter-of-factly, “My sister did it with her boyfriend.”

  “It?”

  “In my parents’ bed.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I watched from the window.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Not one bit.”

  “What did you think?”

  “I thought it was disgusting. Her boyfriend is so ugly, and he was all sweaty, and I could see his butt. It was enough to make me retch. Of course, I didn’t actually retch.”

  “Of course.” It dawned on Buckley that his mother and Paddy John might be doing it. The thought made him want to retch. He dismissed it immediately. They were both far too old to be doing it. He wondered if Flamehead really did go to second base. What exactly is second base? Buckley said, “Are you going to wait until you get married before you do it?”

  “Are you kidding? Of c
ourse not. I’m going to wait until I’m in love.”

  “Me too.” He liked Flamehead.

  Sitting outside, she leaned in without warning and stuck her tongue, cold and sweet, between his lips. Unsure what to do, Buckley opened his mouth. She tasted like ice cream. Her tongue sat in his mouth. Is this second base? She retreated. “You’re supposed to move your tongue around.”

  “I know that,” he said.

  She leaned in again. Buckley moved his tongue in rhythm with hers, following her cues. When she stopped, he stopped.

  “You’re a pretty good kisser,” she said. “Do you have any gum?”

  “Sure.” He pulled a pack from his back pocket, remembering the reverend and his disdain for gum chewing. Screw you, Reverend Whitehouse.

  “I like your T-shirt,” Flamehead said.

  “This thing?” Buckley looked down. It was a gift from Paddy John. By far the coolest shirt he owned: Jimmy Page playing guitar.

  “Did you have a girlfriend in Arkansas?”

  “Not really,” he said.

  “Do you want one now?”

  Buckley leaned in, taking the initiative. He put his hand at the back of her neck, like he’d seen in the movies, and kissed her without even thinking about how he was doing.

  As he released her head, she was breathless.

  “Does that answer your question?”

  Buckley R. Pitank was in heaven.

  Buckley saw Paddy John at the laundromat.

  Paddy John said, “It’s a small world.”

  “I guess. Where’s Tide?”

  “With Sissy. Where’s your mom?”

  “You’d know better than me.”

  Buckley put his T-shirt and three pairs of jeans in the washer. Paddy John folded his pillowcases and sheets. Buckley spotted one of his mother’s blouses among Paddy John’s bedding. He said, “She’ll never marry you.”

  “You don’t think?”

  “I’m just saying—if you were thinking of asking.”

  “I was going to ask your permission first, seeing as you’re the man of the house.”

  “She can’t marry you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She just can’t.” Abigail was still married to John Whitehouse. It was strange to think that he and his mother were missing persons. They might have been on milk cartons somewhere, if anyone had bothered to take their pictures ever.

  “How come? Explain it to me. I love your mother. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  Paddy John’s laundry was neatly sorted and folded. “You guess? Don’t guess, son. Jesus Christ! Gusto requires certainty, and life ain’t worth living without living it with gusto.”

  “What ever you say.” Buckley stuffed an Oreo in his mouth, black crumbs tumbling down his chin. “Maybe you should write a book.”

  “Maybe you need your mouth washed out with soap.”

  He would’ve said Fuck you to Paddy John, but he knew that his mother would never forgive him. He never spoke disrespectfully to his elders, but he was changing. Simply put, he didn’t care what Paddy John thought of him. It was wonderful not to care. For the first time in his life, he felt free from dread. He had two best friends and a girlfriend. He had long hair, a cool hangout, and the ocean. He had a surrogate grandmother—who was paying him five dollars a week to scrub the toilet. He had the May 1973 centerfold of Barbi Benton in his bedside drawer.

  In July, a month shy of her and Buckley’s one-year anniversary in Galveston, Abigail lit a candle in her bedroom on Sealy Street. She looked in the dresser mirror at herself and the flame. She wished for Buckley to grow up happy and good. She wished for Paddy John to always love her. She crossed her fingers and blew out the candle. Running a brush through her dark hair, she wondered if she could somehow send divorce papers to John Whitehouse without revealing her whereabouts. She didn’t know how legal matters worked, but she couldn’t face that man or her mother again. She liked to pretend that, except for Buckley, the past didn’t exist.

  Meanwhile, Paddy John made plans for their anniversary. He bought a secondhand picnic basket and a new (new to him) shirt at Harborside Thrift. He bought an eight-dollar bottle of sparkling wine and a dozen fudge brownies from Betty’s Bakery on Nineteenth Street. He told his buddies Jake and Saul (and his feminist friend Sissy) that he loved Abigail more than anyone but his own son. “She’s a spitfire, that one. I can see spending the rest of my life getting to know her.” Maybe in another six months, he’d propose. She made him feel energized, which was good, because he was not an old man but he tended to act like one.

  He and Abigail had been dating for eight months. This anniversary was important to Paddy John, who’d never before kept track of such things. Having a kid at home had changed him. He told Abigail, “Bring Buckley tonight. He’s your family so he’s my family.” Paddy never criticized Buckley in front of Abigail, but he worried that without a male influence or some level of discipline, Buckley would falter in this world. The boy seemed apart from the earth. Paddy John couldn’t put his finger on it, not knowing how many years Buckley had spent with his face pinned to the red clay of the earth, not knowing how Buckley reveled in being apart from the earth.

  Finding Abigail at the vanity, brushing her hair, Buckley said, “I don’t want to go tonight. Paddy John is boring. You’ll just make vomit eyes at each other.”

  “Vomit eyes?”

  “All lovey-dovey.”

  “That’s what you and Marty Bascott do.”

  “She’s not a hundred years old.”

  “Neither am I.”

  Buckley sat on his mother’s bed. “You lit a candle?”

  “I said my prayers.”

  Buckley smiled. “Will Tide be there?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “He’s annoying.”

  “He’s five years old.”

  “He had a birthday. He’s six. But, it doesn’t matter how old he is. I don’t want to go.” Buckley flung himself, arms overhead, back onto Abigail’s comforter.

  “Do this for me.”

  He got up. “Fine.”

  “And be nice to Tide.”

  “I’ll be nice to Tide. I’m always nice to Tide. Poor Tide. He’s had such a bad time.”

  Abigail whipped around. “Don’t be a smart aleck.”

  Buckley said, “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “I expect more from you.”

  “I’m sorry.” He left, closing the door behind him. He never wanted to upset or disappoint her. He was being a jerk, and he felt guilty.

  For the past eight months, when Buckley wasn’t with Charlie, Eddie, or Flamehead, he was keeping an eye on and entertaining Tide McGowan. At the drive-in, his mother said, “Take Tide to the swing set.”

  “I’ll miss the ending.”

  At Brown’s Lake, his mother said, “Take Tide to the concession.”

  “I’m playing with my friends.”

  “Let Tide play.”

  “Tide’s too little.”

  “You were little once too.” She whispered, “His mom didn’t take good care of him.”

  Tide was not Buckley’s responsibility, but he recognized that as he and his mom had run away, so had Tide’s mother. It made him wonder if Paddy John was anywhere near as bad as the reverend, and they just hadn’t seen that side to him yet. People, Buckley knew, have dark sides.

  Paddy John opened Abigail’s door. “I got some wine. I got some snacks for the boys. I got the radio and the cake, and check me out: I got all dressed up.”

  Abigail grinned. She wore a sleeveless bluebird-print dress. Her skin was tauter, her face youthful. “You look handsome,” she said. “So what’s the surprise?”

  “Well, as you know, back in my wilder days, I was a sailor. I have connections.” He beamed. “You, my sweet Abby, are having dinner on a thirty-six-foot fiberglass boat, top of the line, with yours truly at the wheel. There might even be champagne on board.”

  She grinned. “Seri
ously?” She’d seen the ocean. She’d walked through the waves as far out as her waist, but she’d never been on the ocean in water so deep she couldn’t plant her feet on the sand.

  Buckley, Tide, and Abigail followed Paddy John down the dock. Buckley, as instructed, carried the picnic basket, and Tide dragged the cooler. The sky was white: not gray, not blue. There were no thunderheads, no visible clouds, but at twelve seconds past 4:45, forty-eight seconds before 4:46, lightning struck Abigail Pitank. She had one leather sandal on the starboard side of the boat and one on the dock when she was hit directly, the lightning entering through her skull. She toppled and splashed into the water. Her one-hundred-thirty-pound body was pinned between the piling and the boat. Silver minnows, startled by the lightning and the dead weight, darted. Paddy John, blind from the lightning’s strike, dropped into the water after Abigail. Rain fell: a drip, a drop, a downpour with gusts exceeding twenty miles an hour. Paddy John was wet and numb, oblivious to the rain and wind. Buckley was frozen, watching, knowing that Paddy John would save his mother.

  Paddy John grabbed Abigail’s arms and waist from the murky bottom, dislodged her chest from between the piling and fiberglass. He had trouble holding his breath, but he pulled until he had all of Abigail floating with him toward the surface. Lifting her head out of the water, needing a miracle, he saw her skull split open, charred black in spots. He held her body against his body. He was strong. He was muscular. He was a seaman, and he couldn’t save the woman he loved. He kissed her parted lips, still warm but muddied. “I fucking love you.” He punched the planks. She was gone. His raven-haired beauty had departed this world as quickly, shockingly, and mysteriously as she’d entered his life. He cried, but just a little. The time was not now. He said, “Buckley, I need help.”

  From the dock, down on his stomach, Buckley reached for his mother’s arms. He was certain she’d be all right. He saw Tide standing there on the dock, the boy’s bare knobby legs smudged with some kind of dirt, the boy’s hands in fists. The boy doing nothing to help. Paddy John’s working hands lifted Abigail at the hips, but her waist bent and her head and chest flopped forward. Buckley stopped her from landing face-first onto the dock.