Buckley pulled and Paddy pushed until she was out of the water.
Tide began to cry.
“Mom?” Buckley said. “Mom? It’s me. I’m here.” She wasn’t allowed to leave him. She’d promised she’d never leave him. She’d said never. She’d promised! Padraig John, aware of the futile gesture, gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Buckley said, “She’s going to be okay. Tell me she’s going to be okay.” Paddy John said nothing. Buckley took her cold hand; the rain pelting his neck and arms. Paddy John wrapped her head with a towel—like a turban—to cover the blood. Buckley seethed when Paddy John stopped mouth-to-mouth. “You’re a piece of shit!” Buckley screamed. “I hate you.” He started to run away, but a crowd had gathered. Paramedics pushed through. “She’s my mom,” Buckley said, standing helplessly on the wood planks. The crowd whispered. Some strangers cried. Some people said they’d seen the lightning hit. Buckley didn’t remember much. He rode with his dead mother in the ambulance. At the small hospital, they called her DOA, dead on arrival. Buckley sat in a waiting room, waiting for nothing. She was dead. He covered his mouth, clasping his thumbs, his two hands like wings, fluttering. He sat for a long time, refusing to speak to anyone, until Joan Holt and Sissy came for him. Sissy was petite, but she picked him up, hoisting his thick legs around her waist. “It’s all right,” she said, knowing nothing was all right, but there are things a body needs to hear. “We love you,” she added. “We love your mama.”
Joan Holt said, “I am sadder today than when my Walrus died. He was old, and we had no children to miss.” She coughed. “This is wrong. It’s all wrong.”
It is, isn’t it? Buckley thought. When he woke up tomorrow, it might be different. If something is so wrong, can it be righted?
In the days that followed, Buckley was emotionally mute. He could not explain to Padraig John, Joan Holt, Sissy, or Jeanette that he didn’t want to leave Galveston, that he didn’t want to leave Charlie and Eddie and Flamehead or the ocean that his mother loved. He could not speak up. After the funeral service at Whitaker Memorial, he sat in Joan Holt’s living room, his two hands in her hands, their four hands in her lap, his head at the bend in her waist, while his mother’s friends whispered and ate food and tiptoed down the hall. Joan Holt said, “You can stay here, Buckley. With me. You’re my grandson.” He heard Padraig John in the kitchen. “Goddamn it.” He heard Padraig John crying. He heard Sissy say, “Life isn’t fair.” He heard Tide laughing somewhere in the house. He wondered about Charlie and Eddie and why he hadn’t heard from them. Did they know about his mom? They must know. It was in the newspaper. He heard Padraig John say, “I loved her.”
Joan Holt stayed at Buckley’s side, cradling his head. There were no words for mending.
Why hadn’t Buckley’s friends called? Why was his mother dead? For the last two nights, he’d hid beneath the covers, expecting that when the sun rose she would be standing over him. Hoping it was all a bad dream, but it wasn’t. There was a funeral. There were carnations and angel food cake.
The night of her funeral, Buckley went to bed knowing she wouldn’t be there ever again. She was dead. He got down on his knees, closed his eyes, clasped his hands, and prayed, “Dear God, you are Job’s god and the reverend’s god, and you did this to me. I guess it was wrong of me to try and be happy. I guess it was wrong of me to enjoy myself. I give up.”
Three weeks later, he rode in the passenger’s seat of the reverend’s station wagon back to Mont Blanc, Arkansas. He thought about the last things he’d said to his mother. “I don’t want to go.” He hadn’t. He’d been rude. She hadn’t deserved it. He’d wanted to see Flamehead. He still hadn’t gotten to second base (now that he knew what that was). He couldn’t help but wonder: If I hadn’t complained so much, if I hadn’t made her late to the dock, would she still be alive?
It was Buckley’s decision to confess to Joan Holt and Padraig John about his mother’s husband, John Whitehouse. As much as he loved Galveston, he’d never be happy again, and he didn’t deserve happiness. He deserved to suffer and pay for his sins. It was time to go home.
On the drive back to Mont Blanc, Buckley felt the breast pocket of his shirt. The folded Barbi Benton pinup was there. He reached into his duffel. The last candle his mother lit was there. That was all he needed.
The reverend said, “No good comes to those who run from the Lord.”
“Sure,” Buckley said. “That sounds about right.”
Excerpt from
THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS
I am originally from Mont Blanc, Arkansas, where most lightning injuries and fatalities occur between May and September.
It’s hard to understand when lightning will strike. In order for it to travel from cloud to ground, it has to move through the air, which is a poor conductor. The reason lightning tends to hit tall objects is because lightning usually follows the shortest distance from cloud to ground. In the simplest terms, lightning is produced between the negative charge in a storm cloud and the positive charge on the ground. It’s like a battery, a+ and a-connecting.
When I lived in Mont Blanc, eight cows fell dead when lightning struck the metal fence they were standing against. Still, I didn’t take lightning seriously until it took my mom, who didn’t deserve to die. I think I suffer survivor’s guilt.
[15]
Go fish, 1981
Mary wanted a cigarette, but she planned to be good. Goodness was her theme. She made sandwiches for their trip, using Miracle Whip instead of mayonnaise because Rowan preferred it. This was an opportunity to work on her marriage. Her family. Her sanity. Goodness was her mantra. In the car, ankles crossed, she murmured, “Goodness.”
Rowan drove toward the coast, thinking about his beautiful yacht, a real yawl, moored at Barnacle Bob’s in Manteo. He hoped the captain he’d commissioned would be a decent sort. He thought about the open ocean, and Patricia—his Patty-Cake. His mother had been right. You don’t go off and marry some girl from Podunk. He was too young when he’d married Mary. She was too hillbilly. Any woman in her right mind would’ve demanded a divorce by now, but Mary wasn’t in her right mind.
“Should we go tomorrow?” asked Mary. Goodness playing in her head.
“Go where?”
“Sailing.”
“We’ll see.”
Mary retrieved her leather cigarette case from the glove box and lit up.
“Do you have to do that? It makes the whole car smell.” Rowan shut off the air-conditioning and rolled his window down.
“What does ‘we’ll see’ mean?” The smoke from her cigarette trailed into the backseat. Becca rolled down her window. Whiskers rested his chin on her knee.
“It means that we’ll see. It doesn’t mean anything. I have to call the marina and see if Paddy John’s around.”
“Who’s he again?”
“The captain I hired.”
“Why wouldn’t he be around? You told him we’d be there.” She should’ve taken a Valium. She puffed on her cigarette. Already she was blowing the goodness mantra. Better to be quiet. Goodness.
Rowan drove the longest route possible to Nags Head. It was one of his faults. He stopped in Bunyan, taking a picture of three old black men leaning against a cinder-block market. Inside the market, he snapped a photo of a heavyset woman manning a deep fryer. He pulled off the side of the road in Yeatesville, where a sandy-haired woman with clay-stained feet sold watermelon from a rusted pickup. Her two kids waved cardboard signs: WATERMELON FOR SALE! Cars sped past.
Rowan parked the Volvo in the gravel. “Over here, Becca. Right here.” Taking her by the shoulders, his camera around his neck, he positioned his sunny daughter in front of the truck. The watermelon woman leaned with her back against the driver’s side door, fingering her flip-flop for a rock.
Becca pushed her red sunglasses further up her nose.
“Say ‘cheese,’ Becca,” he said. “Say ‘I love watermelon.’”
“I love watermelon.�
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Rowan laughed. To the woman, he said, “Thanks! Thanks a lot,” and handed her a dollar.
The woman said, “I don’t need a dollar for you to take your kid’s picture.” She handed the bill back.
“Suit yourself.”
The Burkes’ first night at the beach, Mary unpacked. She put the sheets on the bed and drank from her silver-plated flask in the downstairs bathroom. She was thirty-four, but felt twenty-one sipping scotch, smiling at herself in the mirror. She gargled Listerine and listened to the wind whistling through the slatted gate. It was oceanfront country. She felt at home.
Becca walked Whiskers over the dune to a blanket of stars that reminded her of Grandma Edna’s farm. Digging her bare heels into the sand, she watched Whiskers chase the surf. She felt beautiful. There was no other way to describe it. She hadn’t lost the strange feeling that she was insignificant—but she felt beautiful in spite of it. The rock in her gut was gone, replaced by something warm and settling—like Thanksgiving dinner. She had substance.
Down the beach a good ways, she spotted a bonfire, the red flames leaping into the blackness. She wondered if this was what it was like to feel grown up—beautiful despite your smallness. She was a nobody when she looked up at the stars, but in their glory, nothingness was all she could hope for.
Whiskers settled beside her. He dug a trench with one paw, putting his nose there.
Give me a shooting star, Becca prayed. Come on, Grandma, I need a shooting star. Whiskers kicked sand in her hair. She waited. “Oh, come on! Tell her, Whiskers. Give us a shooting star.” That instant, a star trailed across the sky, reviving Becca’s belief in miracles. It didn’t take much.
Later, at the Seamark grocery, Mary told Becca, “You’re a very pretty girl. And talented.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Mary hadn’t complimented Becca in a long time. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” her mother said. “I just don’t tell you enough how proud I am of you. It’s not just how you look. It’s your art. I should’ve let you go to that hippie art camp.”
“There weren’t any hippies there. There aren’t hippies anywhere anymore.”
“Well, Becca, I don’t know. You young people … you just don’t know.”
“What don’t we know?” Becca pursued.
“I don’t know. I guess you know everything.”
Becca rolled her eyes.
“But I love you. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
“Are you all right to drive, Mom?”
“Shut up. I’m fine. I’m just trying to be nice.” Goodness.
“Got it.”
Pushing the shopping cart, Mary said, “I love your dad.”
“Me too. It’s a given.”
“We should buy junk,” Mary said. “I mean, we should buy all the regular stuff too, but let’s load up on ice cream and hot fudge and potato chips. I’m sick of watching my weight.”
Becca said, “Awesome! I never watch mine anyway.”
“You don’t have to.”
When they arrived back at the cottage, Mary sprayed Binaca into her mouth and practiced a smile in the rearview. “Your dad loves ice cream. I can’t tell you how many banana splits we split.” She was bright-eyed, nostalgic. “He used to say, ‘It doesn’t matter if you’re fat—you’ll never get rid of me.’” She laughed. “What a load of shit.”
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Oh, honey, I’m fine. I’m better than fine.”
“Thanks for saying that you think I’m a good artist.”
“I mean it,” Mary said. “I envy you. It’s funny, but we all want better than what we had for ourselves. I don’t know how that sounds.” She cut the Volvo’s headlights. Mary rested her forehead in her hand. Moths flitted around the driveway’s light. Looking up, she asked, “Am I a good mom?”
It was the question Becca never wanted to hear, let alone answer. She could say, No! To use Dad’s word, you’re a sot, and you spend too much time feeling sorry for yourself, but instead, skirting the question, she said, “I love you.”
“I love you too, sweetheart.” They climbed the side steps to the cottage’s back porch.
Rowan met them on the porch. He peeked into the bag. “Mint chocolate chip. My favorite.”
Becca said, “You can’t have any, Dad. Mom is going to eat the whole half gallon. It’s some kind of world record.”
“Good luck with that, Mary.”
Mary said, “Wait until you see what I got.” Setting her bags on the pine table, she pulled the current issue of Yachting Today from her grocery bag. “Pretty good, huh? I was thinking about you.”
Rowan massaged his temples. “That was good of you, Mare, but”—he raised the current issue from his chair on the deck—“it came before we left.”
“I thought you said it hadn’t come.”
“Well, it hadn’t, but then it did. It came yesterday.”
Great!
The ideal American family, they played Monopoly. Rowan owned Boardwalk and Park Place, and toward the end of the game, Mary, for no reason, moved his car to the jail square. He told her, “You know I have a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
She shrugged. Neither he nor Becca said anything about Mary’s smelly cocktails. Rowan sipped a single glass of white wine and they ate a bowl of potato chips in lieu of dinner. Becca drank her Coke through a straw, and watching her parents smiling at each other, she believed that the ocean was a magical place. She paid her father her last two fifty-dollar bills. “What about a loan?”
“Nothing doing.” He played to win.
That night, Becca opened the bedroom window. With Whiskers curled at her waist, she listened to the waves sweep the shore. Before drifting to sleep, she thought that if any place in the world could bring her parents back together, this place could.
Later, she dreamed she took flight from the windowsill. Her arms were pelican’s wings and she raised them slowly in the gusting wind. She glided out over the ocean until the soft light from the house disappeared. When the red sun crested the waves, she flew back. Whiskers was curled up on her bed, his head on her pillow. She hovered just outside. Someone had closed the screen. Let me in. She awoke in a sweat.
The next morning, they drove down Route 12. Mary’s left hand rested on Rowan’s thigh. Rowan pulled off on Pea Island. “I like this,” he said. Theirs was the only car.
Mary and Becca climbed the dune. The beach was deserted. Magnificent.
Mary yelled to Rowan, “This is the spot.”
As he unloaded the car, Becca ran toward the ocean, her flipflops spraying hot sand onto the backs of her calves. Mary trailed.
Mary said, “The ocean is about youth, hatchlings and minnows, and it’s about age, wounded seagulls, and dead fish.”
Catching up, weighted with beach blankets and picnic baskets, Rowan said, “What the hell’s gotten into you?”
“I was thinking about my mom. Once a year she brought me and Claire to this awful clapboard house five blocks from the beach. The plaster fell in patches from the ceiling. You had to jiggle the toilet handle and use the plunger if you went number two. The place had one bedroom, no air conditioning, and a screened porch riddled with holes. We’d get back to Prospect sunburned and covered in mosquito bites.”
Becca dropped the beach bag and ran for the water.
Mary continued: “Funny. It was the time of my life. Dad never came. It was just us girls, and we always got along.” Nostalgic, Mary spread her towel on the sand.
Rowan was no longer listening.
Meanwhile, Becca plunged through the breaking waves, shrieking as the water reached her waist. She knew her dad would say, “Dive under,” and she did, emerging revitalized and no longer cold. She swam back and forth, waiting for her dad’s diving entrance. Her mother never swam with them; instead, she waded just past where the waves broke. “Come on, Mom,” Becca would plead.
“No chance in hell.”
Today, Rowan dove into the water. Humming the
theme song to Jaws, he chased Becca until she couldn’t touch, grabbing her around the waist and tossing her into the air. She screamed.
Her dad said, “What if we never grow up?”
“What?” He didn’t usually talk imaginatively.
“We’ll never get old. Just like Peter Pan.”
“I’m with you.”
He bolstered her up, his hands forming a stirrup, tossing her into the waves where she couldn’t touch. Again, he hummed the Jaws theme song. Becca swam for the shore. The harder she swam, the further she drifted from shore. She kicked and paddled, shouting, “Help!” There was no lifeguard here. The waves were big. She thought about sharks and octopi. “Help!” Where had her father gone?
Peering over the lapping waves, unable to touch and treading water, she saw her mother on shore waving, her face concerned. She saw her father there too, turning to see Becca drifting further out to sea. Becca wondered if they’d fight long enough for her to drown. She flailed her arms, and knowing how to float, lay back, eyes shut, thinking that if a shark ate her, a shark ate her. It’s the fear of the thing—whatever the thing might be—that kills you. Becca could hardly see the sand over the lapping waves.
Lickety-split, her mother was past the breaking waves, paddling toward Becca. She secured one arm across Becca’s chest and one under her armpit. “You’re fine. Relax, and you’ll be able to touch in no time.” Her mother paddled and kicked. Becca floated. Her panicked breathing subsided. She said, “I’m scared.”
“This isn’t a big deal. It’s the undertow. Next time, if you feel the waves pulling you out, swim parallel to the shore.”
It’s no big deal. It’s just my life.
Around two o’clock, they ate their sandwiches. Miracle Whip again.
After his sandwich, Rowan slept. Mary read People magazine. Becca walked. She wasn’t lonely like she thought she’d be without Carrie, just in awe of her surroundings. A salty foam on her calves, she watched as sanderlings diagonally chased the surf up and back. Becca thought about her parents, about today—how there might never be a better day. When she got back to Chapel Hill, using the Woolworth acrylics Grandma Edna had sent, she’d paint this scene—at least the memory of this scene. She’d keep the ocean, sand, and sky, and when fall arrived, and the school days with it, Becca would sit behind a desk, wishing she were elsewhere, and she’d have this day. She’d come back here in her mind. The pelicans skimmed the waves. The gulls fished the surf. Becca walked until her parents disappeared from view. In the distance, she spotted something shiny.
The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors Page 13