The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors

by Michele Young-Stone

  Excerpt from

  THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS

  After I was struck, I lived dangerously. I couldn’t sleep, so I went out to bars. I cheated on my girlfriend. I did things I wouldn’t have thought about doing before the strike.

  I was a lifeguard. It was thundering, but way off in the distance, so I didn’t think to tell the kids to get out of the pool. I could’ve blown the whistle. Instead, my whistle melted into my chest. My head and neck were wet and burned. The current traveled through the lifeguard stand and me. No one died, but one boy has permanent brain damage. I have guilt. I should’ve gotten all of them out of the pool.

  I don’t sleep. I take tranquilizers, but still at night I feel awake. I feel that whistle burned into my chest. In a semi–dream state, I think my heart might stop any second. Everyone thinks I should be better. It’s been two years, but I’m not close to better, and it seems like yesterday.

  Account by Shankleford J., Austin, Texas

  [29]

  Double, double, toil and trouble, 1987, 1990

  The Belle Tara Gallery sits back from Washington Street.

  In front of the building there’s a small seasonal garden. Today there are daffodils, hyacinths, and tulips. The smell of hyacinth sticks to his clothes. It’s 1987. Colin Atwell is eighteen. He didn’t go to college in the fall like the rest of them. Instead, he’s helping his dad build a tree house for their neighbor’s six-year-old son. He’s helping his dad clean out the basement. He’s reading Gardner’s Art Through the Ages and researching the children’s drawings saved from the Nazi camp and ghetto Terezín in Czechoslovakia. His heart breaks again and again at the hope the children kept.

  To date, he’s written twenty-seven letters to his mother: it’s his own little bit of hope. He doesn’t know where she is, so he hasn’t sent one letter. He keeps them in his underwear drawer beside Becca Burke’s butterfly brooch. If he ever has a girlfriend, maybe he’ll give the brooch to her.

  His dad is teaching him economics and civics by letting him play the stock market. He’s bought shares in Trojan, the condom maker. He’s taking a cooking class at the community college and teaching one of his cousins to skateboard.

  Last year, after working at Big John’s Burger for four years, he hired a private detective to locate his mom. The dick, Nathan Lantree, part-time cabbie, part-time private eye, said, “I tried. I just can’t find her.” Still, he charged Colin for expenses.

  Colin has no future plans, only immediate ones: He’s going to see Rowan Burke’s photographs at the gallery. There’s also an artist, Kate Mammet, he wants to see. He’s getting a haircut. He’s going to take a walk around the university. He’s going to read “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas for the fourteenth time in two days—to learn it by heart—a practice he has. On his way into Belle Tara, he recites, “Though wise men at their end know dark is right/Because their words had forked no lightning they/Do not go gentle into that good night.” He thinks about the children in Terezín and how they raged through their art. Do not go gentle. Never.

  If Paddy John knew Colin Atwell, he’d describe him as “a bleeding heart.” As was Abigail—all the better still. The world has too many soldiers and too few peacekeepers.

  Colin Atwell is adept at playing the stock market. Investing in safe sex was a good idea. Within three years, he makes his first million.

  At twenty-one, he married Brittany Smith. She wore her hair in ringlets. She wore low-cut blouses. Sometimes skirts with jingling bells, like a Dead Head, except she didn’t listen to the Grateful Dead. She bubbled. She sucked on Ecstasy like hard candy. She told Colin, “I’m almost always happy or I’m out of my mind.” Wearing brown tights, her legs were made of chocolate. When she wore yellow, she tasted like lemon or sunshine. She said, “I smell like the beach.”

  Colin’s dad said, “When I said all women were crazy, I didn’t mean that crazy.”

  Colin insisted, “I love her. She’s a free spirit.”

  “A little too free, if you ask me.”

  They bought a house on the shore. She wanted her own studio. “If that’s all right?” She wanted nine hours a day to herself. “If that’s okay? For meditation and work.” Twice he found her naked, laced with red seaweed, lying on the sand.

  He said, “Get up. Come on.” She bubbled like fluorescent froth. He said, “I’m worried about you.”

  She snapped, “Get off my back!”

  Colin was lonely.

  They had a grand house. He had an expensive car and a big boat and he wanted a partner for life. He wanted to know what happened to his mother. His millions of dollars failed to buy him either of those things. He still thought about Becca Burke. Holding her brooch in his palm, he noticed that the pin was slightly loose. He’d fix it. He wondered how Becca was doing.

  It was pathetic: thinking about a girl from middle school. Depressed, he telephoned his father, asking him to come for an indefinite visit. Colin and Brittany had already toured Eu rope. They’d been to Mexico, and Colin knew there was no place in the world that could heal him. He couldn’t keep babysitting Brittany alone. Sometimes he imagined kicking her in the nose.

  Last week, she’d seen him with Becca’s brooch and commented, “That’s pretty. I really like it.”

  He said, “It belonged to this girl I knew a long time ago.”

  “It’s beautiful. I bet it’s antique.”

  “It is.”

  “I like it.”

  What did Brittany think? That he’d give it to her? Colin would never let Brittany touch, let alone wear, Becca Burke’s brooch.

  Excerpt from

  THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS

  THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING

  One of my favorite things about Manhattan is the Empire State Building. When I was a kid, I saw that movie An Affair to Remember with my mom. She loved when Deborah Kerr was running for the building, and her character, Terry, said, “Oh, it’s nobody’s fault but my own! I was looking up … it was the nearest thing to heaven! You were there …” My mom cried.

  She never got to see the Empire State Building, which, for our purposes, is hit an average of 25 times a year!

  Once used as a lightning laboratory, it’s not where you want to be during a thunderstorm.

  On another personal note, I’ve been to the top. If you’re ever in New York, and the line isn’t too long, you should take in the view.

  [30]

  Stoned, 1989

  Buckley sat on Mia’s floor, taking bong hits with Mia and her friend Paulo. His back against the sofa, he felt like he was melting into it. “I don’t like this,” he said.

  Paulo said, “You don’t like what?”

  “Feeling weird.”

  “But you are weird. We’re all weird.” Paulo was twenty-nine, Buckley’s age. “If you want to feel something different, get up and drink a soda or have a beer or turn on the TV. If you want to stop feeling stoned, go to sleep.”

  “Clementine,” Buckley said, “did a lot of drugs, but I don’t think she smoked marijuana.”

  Mia said, “What kind of drugs?”

  “She liked pills,” Buckley said, remembering her legs, how they looked scrubbed clean the day she died. He glanced at Mia’s legs. Her calves and knees were exposed between her plaid skirt and black boots.

  Paulo said, “Buckley’s checking you out.”

  Buckley averted his eyes.

  Mia straightened her legs. “Stop it, Paulo. You’re such a fucking pervert. Buckley and I are good friends.”

  Buckley got up. “Maybe I’ll have a beer.”

  Mia said, “Then you better split.”

  “How come?” Buckley opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for a twelve-pack of Black Label beer, two sticks of butter, and a plastic pitcher of tap water.

  “Sheila’s coming over when she gets off work. She wants to play Clementine with you.”

  Buckley felt sick to his stomach. “Clementine
isn’t a joke.”

  “I know that, and you know that, but Sheila is seriously psycho—like, she’s been diagnosed with every kind of mental disorder currently known to the psychiatric community.”

  Buckley popped the beer open. “What should I do?”

  Mia said, “I’ll take care of it. Just go home.”

  Paulo said, “What are you going to do?”

  “I have a plan.”

  Buckley took his beer and went across the hall to his apartment. He locked the door. He wanted to watch television, but afraid Sheila might hear, he sat reading The Catcher in the Rye, a gift from Mia.

  He heard Sheila banging on Mia’s door, asking “Where’s Buckley?” The apartment walls were paper thin. He heard Mia say, “Come on in,” and he heard Mia’s door shut.

  Inside Mia’s apartment, the bong water had been dumped, the bong had been stashed under the sofa, and Paulo sat in Mia’s kitchen bathtub, pretending to read Newsweek.

  Sheila said, “Where’s Buckley? When I called, I thought I heard his voice.”

  Mia said, “He hasn’t been here. Not since last night.”

  “What are you guys doing?”

  Paulo said, “We’re getting ready to take a bath.”

  “We’re going to take off for Central Park. Get some fresh air.”

  Paulo dropped the Newsweek on the kitchen floor. “Do you have a hat I can borrow? The sun is terrible for my complexion.”

  “I’ll find something.”

  “Well, let’s get Buckley.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” Mia said.

  “Why not?”

  “I hate to tell you this, Sheila, but last night Buckley and I had sex.”

  “What about Luke?”

  Mia said, “Please don’t tell him.”

  Sheila said, “You and Buckley?”

  “Yeah. He’s madly in love with me—like, obsessed with me. You show some guys a little kindness and they go overboard.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Mia shook her head that she was not.

  “But what about Luke?”

  “I don’t know. I might break up with him. I just don’t know.”

  “Goddamn it, Mia. You knew I liked Buckley.”

  “But I might like him,” Mia countered, “and I always get what I want.”

  “You can be such a bitch.”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  Paulo, climbing out of the bathtub, said, “She really can be a major bitch. It’s a fact.”

  “I want to talk to Buckley.” Sheila was petite, with thin lips and blue eyes. She repeated, “Let’s talk to Buckley.”

  Mia said, “It’ll be awkward.”

  Mia kicked Buckley’s door. Even though she could’ve knocked and he would’ve opened up, she never did. “It’s me,” she said.

  Buckley assumed that she’d gotten rid of Sheila. He opened his door to see Mia, Sheila, and Paulo standing in the hallway. He was still stoned and lacking words. Fortunately, he didn’t have to say anything. Mia pressed her chest against his, draping her white hand with black fingernails over his head, and kissed him, tongue and everything. Feeling her hip against his, Buckley tingled. It was a long kiss. Buckley was melting into black-clad Mia.

  Mia said, “I told Sheila that you belong to me now.”

  Buckley had black lipstick on his face. He nodded.

  Sheila said, “Fuck both of you,” and ran down the hall.

  Mia and Paulo laughed. Buckley smiled. He was grateful for the ruse. He was grateful for the kiss.

  An Excerpt from

  THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS

  With yearly cloud-to-ground lightning strikes, injuries, and fatalities on the rise, I have written to the National Weather Service asking them to do more to educate people about the risks of lightning.

  I received a prompt and concerned letter back, indicating that they have plans to increase lightning education, thus preventing injuries and fatalities.

  On a personal note, I am pleased to know that there are individuals and organizations like me who comprehend lightning’s impact. Together, I know we can prevent injuries and death.

  [31]

  This Artist’s Life, 1989

  Apple Pie screwed up.

  He said, “Christ, Becca, you knew I was fucking married.” He stood in her loft.

  She said, “The married part is why you’re Apple Pie and not Professor Lord. Your wife’s Betty Crocker. You drive an Alfa. I hate you!” He was Kevin Richfield all grown up, with artistic talent. If she could call it that—talent. “I fell in love with you!”

  “We can still be together, but you have to calm down.”

  “How will we be together?”

  “Like before.”

  She said, “I’ll lay it out for you. You’re going to help me.”

  He laughed.

  “You’re going to help me become a successful artist.”

  “Private lessons?”

  “Patrons.”

  “This isn’t the seventeenth century.”

  “I’ll call your wife. I’m not stupid.” She wasn’t. She knew better than to make threats to tell the university. Like they’d do anything. They’d discredit her. She’d talk to Mrs. Apple Pie instead.

  He said, “You wouldn’t!”

  He didn’t know her.

  “Let’s work it out.”

  She said, “I’ll tell you how it’s going to work. You’re going to bring wealthy art-loving buyers to see my paintings, and you’re going to tell the truth or lie … I don’t care which … but you’re going to say that I am the most talented upcoming artist you’ve ever had the pleasure to teach.” She said, “Go home now and make some phone calls.”

  Apple Pie delivered Roderick Dweizer—art lover, philanthropist—to the student gallery on Twenty-third Street.

  Becca had six paintings hanging up, Fish, Number One through Fish, Number Six. None of them was exactly right, but she was too attached to each one to throw any of them away. There was something good in each.

  Roderick Dweizer looked at Fish, Number Six. “What is it? Oils and what else?”

  “Graphite,” Becca said. “Fish, Number Four’s my favorite.”

  “Six is tremendous. The light right here.” He pointed to the upper right corner of the Fish, Number Six canvas.

  Apple Pie checked his watch, pacing the floor. “Roderick, we’ll be late for lunch.”

  “Nonsense. You’re the one who brought me here.” To Becca, Roderick said, “He thinks you’re quite good, you know? He’s never asked me to look at a student’s work before.” Apple Pie struggled to smile.

  Roderick Dweizer said, “I’m quite taken with this one.” Fish, Number Six still. “What do you think, Chris?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re never short on criticism.”

  “I think it’s simple.”

  Dweizer said, “I like the simplicity.”

  “It doesn’t say anything. It’s immature.”

  Becca shook her head. He wasn’t following her rules. She asked Mr. Dweizer, “Do you know Mrs. Lord?”

  “Quite well. She’s a wonderful woman.”

  Becca said, “She must be.”

  Looking at her painting, Roderick Dweizer said, “The fish is dying.”

  Apple Pie said, “It’s death-obsessed, envisioned by a morose, pouting teenager.”

  Dweizer said, “I don’t think so. Note the contrasts here. There’s all this darkness and death, and over here, we’re blinded with light. The light’s almost barren in contrast to the complexity of color here.”

  Becca’s work spoke for itself. No matter what Apple Pie said.

  No stranger had ever complimented her work. She smiled and stepped back behind Roderick Dweizer, folding her arms at her waist. She did what an artist is supposed to do: step back and wait, answer questions, seem confident. She didn’t care if this man bought Fish, Number Six. It was enough to know that he liked it.
It was enough to know that he gained something from it. That he appreciated it. That he could enjoy it. Apple Pie had taught her well. She was nineteen. She knew that Apple Pie expected Dweizer to tear her paintings apart, and he hadn’t.

  “Why did you do this?” Dweizer asked Becca, pointing to the red spot of paint, so thick and potent, it rose off the canvas.

  “Because I felt like it.” Not what Apple Pie had taught her to say about her art.

  “I like it.” He paced the canvas. “I would like to buy this Fish, Number Six for my daughter if it’s for sale. Do you have a price sheet?”

  “Do you see the light?” Becca asked.

  “The light is why I want to buy it. And the darkness.”

  “I’m giving it to you.”

  “You don’t give art away.”

  Apple Pie said, “I would give it away.”

  Dweizer shot him a look of contempt.

  Becca said to Dweizer, “It’s yours.”

  “Let me write you a check.”

  “It’s yours.”

  Apple Pie felt sick. Why did you ask me to bring him here? You can stand on the street corner and give your paintings away. “Becca,” he said, “Roderick came to see your work. If he likes something, you don’t have to give it to him.”

  “It’s a gift from me to you.”

  “Thank you.” Dweizer added, “We should all go to lunch to celebrate your fine student and my fine gift. I’m famished.”

  “I am too.”

  At lunch, she told Roderick Dweizer the story of the fish on the beach and how during that same vacation her father’s mistress came to the restaurant where they happened to be. She told him that for now she was painting fish exclusively, but one day, when she felt ready, she’d paint something else.

  “I have a friend who owns and manages a small gallery in Soho. I want you to go see her. She’s always looking for young talent. I’ll give her a call. Her name’s Sue.”

  Apple Pie had three vodka tonics at lunch. How had Becca managed to charm Roderick Dweizer? Then she realized: easily. She had charmed him, and she was the first of Apple Pie’s bevy of special students to get the better of him.